Warren was pretty sure that he'd gotten someone else's miracle by mistake.

If some desperate, devout person had gotten these wings-someone that was just barely scraping by, someone that strongly believed in that stuff-they probably would have been ecstatic. They would have viewed it as a sign. "Look, here's something amazing, now don't lose hope." But that wasn't Warren's situation. He was the scion of one of the Northeast's most powerful and historic families, and he'd never been particularly interested in religion. Warren had been comfortable and happy. Then, one day, his upper back felt like it was trying to give birth, and a "miracle" was threatening to destroy his life.

The wings had started small. They'd first appeared a year ago, when he was fifteen. But, as each month went by, they got bigger and bigger. Warren barely managed to keep them a secret. He needed a way to hide them, and he actually managed to come up with something. His parents had never taught him anything practical-they had people that fixed things and built things for them-but his late grandfather had dabbled in leather-working. The Worthingtons had started out as landed gentry; the closest thing that America had to aristocrats. In the olden days, they'd had a ton of horses, and Worthington men knew how to make their own saddles. His grandfather had taught him just enough to build a sort of wing-harness. Warren was already capable of flattening the wings against his back, and the harness squashed them down even flatter. It left him with a barely-noticeable bump on his back. He was incredibly self-conscious about it, but no one had ever said anything.

It hurt, of course, and it was beyond awkward. But at least he could go out in public. Warren still had nightmares about his last night without the harness, when he realized that his wings were finally too big to hide. He'd stayed up all night in his private dorm room, desperately trying to remember what his grandfather had taught him, and hoping and praying that he could finish the harness before it was time for class. Warren had pulled it off with minutes to spare.

His alarm clock rang, and he rolled over and turned it off. Warren always slept with his wings free-the harness felt like a straitjacket. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his head. That one crook had nearly punched him right in the face. His suit was on the floor, and he stuffed it (and his guns) into the locked trunk that he hid under his bed. The gun-belt that he'd made was holding up pretty well. His suit was decent, but it didn't have pockets, let alone a place for him to holster his guns.

Showering with wings: always an adventure. If he wanted to get them dry, he really had to shake them, and that got water everywhere. The Worthington name had gotten him a private dorm room with its own bathroom. Warren used a second towel to keep the water from splattering all over the ceiling, draping one end over the curtain rod and holding up the other end with his hands. It got soaked every time.

After his shower, Warren engaged in a morning habit, checking every inch of his body. What if he changed in other noticeable ways? Feathers coming out of his skin, a beak, or something even crazier? Luckily, nothing was different. He got dressed, looked at himself in the mirror, and obsessed over his back-bulge. Warren found himself thinking about the old Squadron Supreme comics he used to read. In those, the hero's secret identity was always the exact opposite of how he really was. But Warren looked like an angel. Blond hair, blue eyes. He had a distant, aloof quality to him, and he seemed a little too perfect to be human. If they only knew.

He grabbed his backpack and stepped into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind him. Future captains of industry were sleepily shuffling around. Warren was the new kid, and he was the only student that rated a solo room, so he received more than his fair share of angry, suspicious looks.

He'd been back in New York for all of a month. Before that, he'd gone to a private school in New Hampshire. That was where his wings had first appeared. To hide them, he'd been forced to act like the arrogant SOB that everyone thought he was, putting his foot down and insisting on a private dorm room. It hadn't won him any friends. But, a month and a half ago, a middle-of-the-night fire had broken out in the dorms. Warren had been in the school's theater, rummaging around backstage-he wanted to have a backup harness, so he'd been looking for more leather. When he stuck his head out the door, he could hear people screaming for help. The fire department would be there in minutes, he was sure, but how many would die before then?

Warren had done something crazy. He'd pulled out an honest-to-god angel costume, complete with a long blond wig, and somehow squeezed into the thing. When his wings popped out, they tore through the thing's back. He'd felt like he was wearing a hospital gown. Warren had flown out there, grabbed some of the kids that hated him, and put them down on the ground. He hadn't worn a mask, but none of them recognized him. The smoke had helped, as had the combination of blinding flames and midnight darkness...but it was the wings that really did the trick. They were looking at them, not him.

No one died in that fire. For one night, Warren had felt like a hero, as opposed to a freak. He'd thought about all the new superheroes that were appearing. According to his father, there hadn't been that many around since the war. Warren Worthington, Jr. had said that, if they were showing up, it was because the world needed them, just like last time. The youngest Worthington knew what he had to do. He'd transferred to a school in New York City, found a costume, and gone to work.

Warren walked through the halls of his new school. Prestigious private academies were usually located in secluded, out-of-the way places, but this one was right in the middle of Manhattan. It reminded Warren of some of the hotels that he'd stayed in. Lots of brass, leather, and expensive hardwood. Since they didn't have any exterior grounds, everything was indoors...but it never felt cramped. They had restaurant-sized rec rooms, and there was a pair of tennis courts on the roof. All of the dorms and classrooms were part of the same huge building. From the outside, the building looked like a towering library that the general public wasn't allowed into.

All of the usual rich-kid types were there. There were the earnest, neurotic ones, who were desperate to live up to the family name. They were usually old-money. The new-money ones were a little more casual, a little more rock-and-roll. Quite a few of them were from out west. Their fathers had just recently struck it rich, and the boys weren't really used to being part of the upper crust; they viewed kids like Warren as aliens. All that focus on "stuffy" manners and bearing. Some of the students were just killing time until they took over their fathers' empires, and there were two different kinds of them. One was miserable, hating the whole thing and wishing for a different life, and one viewed their high school/college years as an extended party, their last chance to have fun before adulthood clamped down on them.

Warren wasn't any of those types. Not anymore, at least.

He walked past the other boys, who were talking about grades, or sex, or expectations, or just furtively popping pills in the corner. Some of them stopped talking and glared when he went by. Warren stared straight ahead of him, holding his head high. You're normal, you're normal, you're normal.

When he thought about the woman he'd saved, he felt more confident. When he thought about the silver-and-black man, though, he could feel fear gnawing at the base of his neck.

It was just some crazy science-criminal. The stuff that he said about darkness coming for me, and my 'greatest enemy'...it doesn't mean anything. Those guys are always looking for a hero to fight, he was just trying to get you to attack him. Sooner or later, he'll try that with Iron Man or somebody, and he'll get the stuffing kicked out of him. People like that are a little too advanced for you, at this point. You're still figuring out how to deal with muggers. Let the older heroes handle him, and then you'll get the next one.

Warren went into his World History class and sat in the back. He always sat down carefully-he was sure that everybody could hear his wings crinkling. They were really killing him, today. The harness worked, but it was painful, and he was still learning to grin and bear it. Warren generally tried to stand and sit with his back to the wall. If some idiot tried to shove him from behind, his back was bound to feel strange. (And it was sort of ironic: here he was, learning how to be successful, but he was going to have to spend the rest of his life avoiding back-slaps.)

It was early, and there were only a few people at their desks. They glared back at him. Warren found it safest to keep to himself, and the other boys assumed that he was doing it because he thought he was better than them. A year ago, they would have been right, but Warren had changed. He knew what it felt like to be an outsider, now. And what it was like to have real problems. Forget "Which incredibly attractive heiress will I go out with next?", he was now dealing with "How can I avoid being cast out as a freak?"

I've never felt so isolated. So alone. Being Angel is a blast, but I wish I had someone to talk to about all this.

Warren was still trying to figure out what he was. In addition to textbooks and notebooks, his backpack contained a few books on mythology and religion. The Worthingtons were twice-a-year churchgoers at best, so Warren hadn't known much about the subject...but he had wings, so he figured that he needed to research angels. The Nephilim had intrigued him. "Sons of God" who mated with human women and produced powerful offspring; some thought that the Nephilim might have been angels. And then there was the scientific explanation. Sometimes, generals and powerful politicians would come to visit his father, and he'd heard a certain word whispered. "Mutant." The frightened, disgusted tone of voice they said it in...it was the same way people said "Communist" or "homosexual." There were always witch-hunts going on. If Warren wasn't careful, he'd end up getting dissected or something.

He squirmed in his seat-he'd been hurrying, this morning, and he hadn't put his harness on quite right. It was even more uncomfortable than usual. Suddenly, a voice said, "These things are awful, aren't they?"

A dark-haired kid sat next to him. His own school uniform was incredibly wrinkled, and he kept trying to get his jacket straight.

"I think I've figured out their evil plan," the kid said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If we actually had comfortable clothes on, we'd be more likely to sleep through class. So, to make sure we stay awake for all this boring crap, they stuff us into uniforms that are trying to strangle us."

"You're probably right," Warren said. He extended his hand the way that his father had taught him, smiled, and said, "I'm Warren."

"I know," the kid said, shaking his hand. "Everybody knows who you are."

Not quite, Warren thought.

"I'm Jacob Cohen-but everybody calls me Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake."

"Likewise. So, Warren Worthington III...how are you liking the academy so far, Third?"

"It's fine."

"...in other words, you hate it, just like the rest of us."

Warren chuckled.

The classroom was starting to fill up, and Warren and Jake were receiving suspicious looks. Warren, of course, was the "snooty" new kid, and Jake was one of the few Jewish kids at their school. In the (surprisingly recent) past, people like Jake hadn't been allowed in at all. Warren had grown up in the New York area; his father had a lot of Jewish friends, and Warren had been friends with their kids. But many of the other students came from out-of-state. Being around Jewish people was a new experience, for them.

Jake reached into his backpack, quickly glanced around, and pulled out a scrapbook. Warren thought that he might have pictures from dirty magazines in there...instead, there were newspaper articles about superheroes.

"I collect capes. Here, check it out." Jake slipped him the scrapbook.

Warren was impressed: he had everyone. The Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, Iron Man, Thor, the Hulk, Daredevil, and even Ant-Man and the Wasp. There were a few yellowing articles about the '50s Captain America, as well-not the real one, but the replacement. Then, at the very end, there was a "MAYBE?" section. It contained a pair of articles about the "winged man" flying around Manhattan.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it? They tell us to put ties on, comb our hair, and act like everything's the same...but there's a revolution going on, out there. I don't know, I guess they're just hoping we won't notice. I mean, come on, it's 1963, and most of these teachers are still stuck in the fifties. They might as well be teaching us to be part of the thriving horse-drawn carriage industry. I like reading about ancient history, but there's history happening right outside our windows. The heroes, the Beatles, the social changes: it's all the same thing."

"A revolution, huh?"

"Yeah, and if you listen to people like my great-uncle, it's been going on for decades. He says that you can't have the Swinging Sixties without the Roaring Twenties. According to him, World War I really changed how people thought. A ton of people decided that the war wasn't worth it. It's one thing when the kids are skeptical of authority, but if the adults get that way..."

Warren was tempted to ask him what he thought about the winged man. Instead, he said, "You have a lot of pictures of Invisible Girl in here."

Jake sighed, snatching the scrapbook back. "Yeah, I know, I'm a hypocrite. I'm pretty cynical, so I should probably be going out with some sarcastic artist chick from the Village. Instead, I like the blonde, bubbly girls. Opposites attract, right?"

Warren wondered what his opposite was, now: he had a dark secret that would scare off husband-hunting blueboods, but he was probably still too much of a golden boy to attract the girls that went for tortured James Dean types.

Apparently eager to change the subject, Jake said, "I'm being serious, I think we're right on the cusp of something huge. Not just one revolution, but a whole series of them, maybe."

"Do you think the heroes will start it?"

"No, and they don't need to. Their mere existence is enough to change things. They're walking, talking proof that we don't know everything about the world, and that some changes are too big to be controlled."

Their history professor finally wandered in. The class quieted down, and Warren thought about what Jake had said. He saw the dark, angry way that the other boys looked at Jake, and he also thought about what he'd seen cops do to black people. If it was like this now, how many revolutions would it take before someone like him was accepted?

The history lecture was incredibly dry. Like Jake, Warren actually enjoyed learning about ancient civilizations, but they were stuck with 19th century British economic history, today. He wondered what school was like for non-wealthy students; the classes were probably rowdier, but at least they could pass the time by looking at girls.

Warren stared out the window. He'd never been much of an outdoorsman-he didn't like hunting or camping-but, ever since he'd started flying, he found that he hated being stuck indoors. The sky was part of nature, wasn't it? Warren was starting to have two lives; the one in the air, and the one on the ground. The former was pure and fun and breathtaking; the latter increasingly felt petty and ridiculous. Warren found it harder and harder to come back down. He had to trick himself into doing it, almost.

As usual, their professor took off around the forty-minute mark...he couldn't make it through an entire period without a cigarette break. The professor halfheartedly told them to "keep studying" and shot out the door. A moment later, one of the other boys produced an expensive new gadget: a small transistor radio. Half the class urged him to find a rock and roll station, and the other half wanted to hear superhero news. This guy was apparently a big Fantastic Four fan. It took a few minutes, but he eventually found a news station that was talking about the heroes: apparently, Spider-Man had just beaten the new menace known as Sandman. Everyone was impressed with Spider-Man...and the radio, too.

"They say that Iron Man's armor is transistor-powered, but I think that's CIA disinformation," Jake said. "Transistors don't actually 'power' anyth-"

The announcer had changed topics, talking about the winged man that had "attacked" some people early that morning. Warren nearly banged his desk with his knees. Luckily, everyone was listening to the radio, and no one seemed to notice his reaction.

No, come on...that woman I saved, she didn't tell the cops that those guys were chasing her? And that newsvendor probably claimed I hurt him on purpose. God, why am I even doing this? Maybe I should let the older heroes handle stuff. The other guys are more powerful than I am, or geniuses, or both. All I can do is fly.

"Wait, a guy with wings?" somebody said. "Like an angel?"

"My old man thinks it means the world is ending," another person put in.

"Isn't that in the Bible?" a third boy said. "The Mark of the Beast, or whatever it is? Couldn't it be wings? And the devil used to be an angel, right?"

Great...they're acting like my wings are some kind of sign, but even I don't know what they mean.

Warren expected them to get into a heated debate about the Avenging Angel (not that anyone knew his codename, aside from the crazy guy), and he braced himself, getting ready to keep his mouth shut. But it didn't happen. They wanted to hear about the bigger-name heroes, not him. Jake didn't say anything about it, but he looked at the "winged man" section of his scrapbook, regarding it doubtfully.

It isn't fair! They don't know what really happened-they weren't there. They weren't...uh...

Warren suddenly realized that he didn't know what really happened, either. He'd assumed that the men were trying to mug her-or something worse-but they didn't quite look like muggers. They'd been wearing workman-style coveralls, which could have been a disguise, and they'd clearly been waiting for her to come out of that building. When she saw them, she ran before they even made a move.

What if it wasn't a random mugging attempt? They were waiting for her, and she immediately knew that something was up. Did they target her? You should have stuck around...you should have gotten their license plate number, called the cops, and told them what happened. It's one thing to scare off a few opportunity-driven robbers. But if they're really after her, they'll be back.

Warren didn't know if he wanted to keep doing this-or if he even should keep doing it. Maybe he needed to leave this stuff for the more mature, qualified people. But, either way, he needed to clean up his mess. The Avenging Angel would be returning to the scene of the crime, tonight.