At first, it had seemed like a nightmare that was inside of a dream: the Worthingtons were living a charmed life, and then Warren's abilities had manifested, threatening to ruin it all. If the public found out the truth, his family would be shamed and driven out of society. Warren Worthington III had felt guilty, self-conscious, and terrified. Naturally, he'd kept it secret and put it all on his shoulders. But he was starting to entertain a new idea. What if "Halo Knight" was wrong about everything else, but right about him? What if, in addition to being the scion of an old-money family, he was also some sort of chosen one? What if this was actually a dream within a dream?

It was what every red-blooded boy in America fantasized about, of course. You're living your life, and you suddenly discover that you have a special destiny, and that you're meant to save the world. All the old stories were like that. "Local boy makes good, becomes famous hero." It seemed like an impossible fantasy, and by being born a Worthington, Warren was already in an impossible fantasy. No one could be that lucky twice, could they? But...he didn't really know where his wings had come from. He'd just assumed that he was a mutant, and he'd certainly been wrong before.

Warren had a lot on his mind, today-but, from time to time, he'd let himself daydream. What if he was a magical hero like Thor, and not a random biological freak? Granted, by the end of their fight, Halo Knight seemed to have changed his mind on that subject, himself. That "false light" stuff. But, for a little while, someone had thought that he was important and had potential, and neither had anything to do with his last name. It was almost as surreal as growing wings.

Yeah, he thought that you were the key to some cosmic plan...and when you refused to kill someone, he tried to kill you. Just be happy being a freak, Warren. It's a lot simpler.

The Worthingtons' ancestral estate was located in the New England countryside, but they'd always had business interests in New York City, so they kept a residence there, as well. Father ran Worthington Industries on a day-to-day basis. He stayed in the family's (cavernous) high-rise apartment during the week, and took the train back on weekends. But Warren's school-transfer had changed things. Now that he was in New York, as well, Mother was spending more time in the city. (She also did this to get away from her own mother, who'd recently moved in and taken over the entire southern wing of their estate. Warren's grandmother was stuck in the 1930s: she knew that it was 1963, but she was convinced that "the masses" would turn on "the gentry" at any moment, and she was terrified of the Roosevelts. His parents were still trying to get her to say "staff" instead of "servants.")

Unfortunately, it wasn't one of those cool, mod New York apartments. To Warren's eye, it looked more like a museum. Their apartment contained busts of obscure historic figures, expensive paintings, and antique-style furniture that wouldn't have looked out of place in a 19th century European salon. Warren used to bring girls up here, and they were always shocked to see an apartment that had marble in it.

He let himself in, said an echoing "Hello?", and took his coat off. No one seemed to be there; he didn't see any of the maids or the executive assistant (Father had decided that "butler" was an outdated term). Warren was still in his school uniform. He'd been wearing his harness since seven-thirty that morning, and his wings were killing him, to the point that it would have hurt to change clothes. Besides, he was trying to save time. Warren was meeting Daredevil, tonight, and he had a mission to accomplish before then. He'd come up with a plan and a cover story.

Normally, something like this would have made Warren nervous-he was a barely-functional teenager, not a spy-but, after last night, he felt like he could do anything. That dogfight had cleared the cobwebs out of his head. The looping, the danger, all that oxygen blasting into his system...maybe the excitement still had him charged up, or maybe he'd made a breakthrough and become an actual superhero.

Warren draped his coat over a chair, walking through their decidedly non-humble abode. The Worthingtons were living a slightly-different species of the American Dream: one that you wouldn't see lionized in the movies or the magazines. Father had once told him that America was an aspirational country, and there wasn't anything immediately aspirational about the Worthingtons. They'd been wealthy even before they came to America. "Rags to riches" was a story that America loved; "born rich" wasn't nearly as dramatic, and it had nothing to do with the person's perseverance or moral character. Warren had seen how normal people reacted when they found out that he was an heir. "Lucky you," and a mixture of envy and suspicion. In the Worthingtons' circles, Old Money was king, and New Money was looked down on. In the rest of America, though, New Money was heroic, and Old Money was this weird quasi-British holdover. If a modern-day aristocrat was in a story, he was probably the villain.

Warren's parents weren't like his grandmother. They might have dressed like it was still the fifties, but they were worldly people, and they held surprisingly modern attitudes. Father constantly told him that you couldn't succeed if you didn't understand the times you lived in. Warren wanted to understand what it was like out there-and he wanted to experience it for himself-but his wings had gotten in the way. He'd always hated the kids that tried the "poor little rich boy" act; he knew how fortunate he was. But, if he was going to use his powers to help people, he needed to understand them. His wealth and his wings were making him stranger, not more normal.

The day had flown by. After his meeting with Daredevil, Warren had gone back to the school, slept like a rock, and barely made it to class on time. Everyone had been talking about Angel. The cops had released a statement about the attempted robbery last night, saying that he and Daredevil had foiled it, and some helicopter crew had seen his dogfight with Halo Knight. "He might look like an angel, but he flies like a fighter pilot!" His classmates had gone crazy. The morning paper had said something like, "Daredevil and 'Angel' Team Up to Battle Crime." Later in the day, the window-washer he'd saved had come forward, talking about his experience with "the angel." But people he'd never even met had come forward, as well. One woman insisted that he'd saved her from an alien and then kissed her.

Yesterday, Warren would have been thrilled; people finally knew that he was a superhero. Today, he didn't even care, because he had bigger things on his mind. How were they going to stop Halo Knight? Was he a mutant or something similar, or was Halo Knight actually right about that part? There were times when he did feel like a legendary hero, someone sent to save everyone, but there were also times when he felt like a sheltered kid that was in over his head.

The truth is probably somewhere in-between...but that's a pretty broad area. Whatever you are, though, you need to hold up your end. Daredevil is counting on you not to screw this up. He can't fly, but Halo Knight can, and that gives you a job to do. You fight him when he's in the air, and you try to bring him back down to earth.

Watching Daredevil fight...Warren had never felt so useless and inadequate. For another new superhero, he seemed like an old hand. And he had purpose. He was out to save Hell's Kitchen, and you could sense how driven he was. Halo Knight was the same way. He was probably crazy, but, he had a mission, and he was determined to carry it out. What did Warren have? Yeah, he wanted to help people...but, in terms of goals, that was as generic as it got. It sounded like something a beauty-pageant contestant would say.

So you don't know who you are, or what you want to do. You're a teenager. You're not supposed to know that, yet. Maybe Daredevil can help. If you're really going to do this, you need to know how to fight, and that seems to be his specialty. Maybe he'll take you on as his sidekick. The new superheroes don't have those, but the old ones did, right? Cap had Bucky, the original Human Torch had Toro, and Namor had...uh...well, Namor was just a jerk. It felt really good to be around another superhero. I've been dealing with all of this by myself, without anybody to talk to. I could use a friend. And the best part is, he doesn't care that I'm a mutant. That's amazing!

Warren continued exploring their apartment, looking for his father. In the past, coming to the city (and this apartment) had felt like an adventure-an exciting break from his normal life. Now, the rest of his life was the adventure, and this apartment was the only normal place he had left. When he was here, the idea that he was Angel seemed impossible. It felt like a fantasy that he'd constructed in his head. The apartment was the same, and his parents were the same, but he was different, even if no one else knew it.

Father was on the second floor of their apartment, in the smaller living room. The primary living room was on the first floor; it was exclusively used for entertaining. This one was much more private. It was set further back, connecting to their bedrooms, the library, and his father's study. Father was sitting in his favorite chair and reading a magazine.

When Warren saw him, he felt the usual urge, the one that had been eating at him for the last year. He desperately wanted to tell him everything and ask for help. Old-money families, the kind that had centuries-old fortunes and treasure chests of political influence...if the children or grandchildren ran into problems, the temptation to use those resources was always there. Some of the boys at school were that way. They'd get arrested, or they'd get into trouble with a girl, and a week later, it was like it never happened. Father looked down on that. "Do things that add to what we have, not subtract from it." Father could have used the Worthington name to get out of serving in the war, but he'd enlisted in the Navy the day after Pearl Harbor, and a battlefield promotion resulted in him commanding a ship. He'd sunk several enemy vessels and earned multiple medals. Warren's Uncle Burt, on the other hand...Father was always having to deal with his latest fiasco.

Warren never would have disappointed his father by asking for that kind of help. But, even if he'd done just that, it wouldn't have changed anything. He'd finally encountered a situation that his family couldn't help him with. (That wasn't true of his wings; he was pretty sure that, if he told Father about them, Father would find a trustworthy surgeon and secretly have them removed.) Halo Knight was dangerous, and all the money in the world wouldn't stop him. Warren was scared by that. Until now, he'd always known that the "family option" was there, even if he never planned on using it. His security blanket had gone up in smoke.

No, they can't get me out of this mess...but maybe they can help in another way.

He walked across the room, and Father looked up, saw him, and smiled. Like Warren, he had the Worthington look. Wavy blond hair (though his was thinner than it used to be), blue eyes, aristocratic cheekbones. A thin, well-kept mustache made him look like the patrician he was. Father stood up, creating a shadow in the syrupy fall-evening light, and he put down his magazine. It was the latest issue of Now, debating whether or not Blue Marvel should have retired.

"Warren! What are you doing home, son?"

"I just needed to pick up a few things," Warren said, trying to sound as casual as he could. "Some books, a sweater..."

"Well, I'm glad to see you," Father said. He took a step toward Warren, getting ready to hug him-and Warren flinched, stopping in his tracks. His father didn't visibly react. Instead, he simply smiled and patted him on the arm.

His classmates' fathers tended to be distant and uninterested, but Warren Worthington, Jr. was different. He ran one of the biggest companies in the world, but he always made time for his son. Warren hadn't been shipped off to boarding school at an early age. His parents had been greatly involved in his life, and they hadn't sent him away until he was ready. They wanted him to learn some independence (and not end up like Uncle Burt). Over the last year, both of his parents had been looking at him differently, seeming to suspect that something was going on. But his grades were always good, and he never got in trouble.

Warren was burning with self-hatred. He would have killed for a hug, right now...but, with his wings stuffed under his clothes, it was out of the question. Thanks to his "powers," he'd been flinching away from his parents for the last few months. They probably thought he didn't love them or something. You may be getting better at being a superhero, but you're getting worse at being a son.

Father sat back down, and Warren joined him, sitting in the chair across from him. "It's just me, tonight. Your mother went to some political meeting, Tom is out with his fiancée, and Lucia is babysitting her grandchildren. I was supposed to go to a hospital fundraiser at the Barrington Arms, but I decided to just send them a check."

Tom was their butler; Lucia was their maid. "Please tell everyone I said hi."

"So, how are you liking your new school?"

"It's fine," Warren said, hoping to make his life sound as uneventful as possible.

"Well, I hope that they pay more attention to detail than your previous school. Letting a fire break out like that...frankly, they're lucky that they didn't get sued."

"How are things at the office?"

"About the same," Father said. "That Stark boy is a real thorn in our side. He's coming up with breakthrough after breakthrough, and he isn't even thirty, yet."

Worthington Industries was involved in a number of different economic sectors, including real estate, publishing, manufacturing, engineering, and aviation. Aviation in particular was really booming. There was a lot of excitement there: the idea of commercial flight was still pretty sci-fi, and it was common to see people getting autographs from passenger-jet pilots. But Worthington Industries was involved in something even more cutting-edge than that. Two years ago, Warren's parents had been celebrating about some secretive business deal, but they wouldn't tell him what it was. He later heard them whispering about the "space contract." That was why Warren was here-he suspected that his father had high-level contacts in the space program, and if "Halo Knight" was really connected to them, he might know.

He just mentioned Tony Stark, so this is the best segue you're going to get. Be careful.

"You should hire your own superhero," Warren said, grinning.

"I wish I could," Father said. He seemed to be happy to see Warren smile. "But, right now, there aren't that many to choose from. In the forties, there were a lot more."

"Actually, there's another new super-person out there, but I think he's a criminal." Warren once again tried to sound as casual as possible. He took a page from James Dean-style Method acting, utilizing his personal experiences. He'd had a thousand normal, routine conversations with his father, and he tried to make it sound like one of them.

"Is it that fellow with wings? They weren't sure about him, at first, but they're thinking that he's a hero, now. You know, back in my day, there was anoth-"

Warren coughed. "Uh, no, it's the one in the silver suit. He looks like a spaceman or a test pilot."

His father shrugged, saying that he didn't sound familiar.

Careful, careful, careful. "I've heard a lot of kids talking about him. They say that he can fly, and that he can shoot these energy rings that mess with gravity. They make things crash down to the ground or fly up in the air."

Warren Worthington, Jr. was a man who prized self-control. He knew how to keep his emotions hidden. Father was much more open than Warren's grandfather had been, but, when it came to business, he utilized the same poker-face strategy. Warren could tell the difference. At home, he was warm and friendly, and at the office, he was guarded and unreadable. That switch had just taken place now. His facial expression remained the same, but Warren saw his hands squeezing the chair's armrests.

When Father finally spoke, his voice sounded normal, but he was uncharacteristically dismissive. "That's interesting."

Oh my god, it worked! I was right! Judging by his father's (admittedly muted) reaction, Warren was pretty sure that, yeah, Halo Knight really was part of the space program. So he hadn't been lying about knowing powerful men, anyway. They were a step closer to figuring out who he really was.

"Anyway, I should grab my stuff," Warren said. He needed to get back to school, so he could pretend to go to bed, sneak out, and meet Daredevil.

"I'll fix you a snack before you go. I need to make a call, first, though," Father said absentmindedly.

When his father wasn't looking, Warren glanced at the clock. "Sure. Thanks, that sounds good." He probably had time for a quick snack. He'd need the extra energy, anyway. (Warren briefly tried to imagine any of his classmates' fathers doing something in the kitchen-or even being able to find one-and he chuckled.)

Father walked out of the living room, heading for the master bedroom. He closed curtains as he went. Warren headed for his room, as well, though it wasn't really his room at all. His actual bedroom was back at their country estate; this was more like his dorm room, a place that just happened to have some of his stuff in it.

Warren saw his father glance over his shoulder...and that was when he stopped thinking like Warren Worthington III and started thinking like Angel. You told him about Halo Knight, and now he needs to make some mystery phone call. Yeah, there may be a connection, there, master detective.

The master bedroom was in a hallway off of the living room. Father was lingering by its door, but he hadn't shut it, yet. He seemed to be waiting for Warren to go into his room, which was on the other side of the living room. Warren got a crazy idea. He walked down the hallway to his own bedroom, turned the corner, and took off his jacket, shirt, and harness. Warren tossed them into his room. His wings stretched out-after having them pinned against his back all day, it was an incredible relief. Then, he loudly slammed the door shut, making sure his father would hear it. Warren backtracked and stuck his head around the corner.

His father was still in the doorway, but his back was turned. Warren flew into the living room, silently gliding, and he flipped around and gripped the room's high ceiling. When Father glanced into the living room, he naturally kept his gaze low. This part of the apartment seemed to be empty. He nodded to himself, went into the bedroom, and shut the door. Once it was shut, Warren glided to the floor. He crept down the hallway and put his ear against the door.

At first, Warren couldn't hear much. The door was thick, and the master bedroom phone was on the nightstand, which was at the other end of the (huge) room. He really focused, and he started to pick up bits and pieces. His father asked to be connected to the "business liaison." Then, thirty seconds later, he recited a seemingly-random series of letters and numbers. There was another short period of silence. Out of nowhere, his father started ranting into the phone.

Warren heard "Why wasn't I informed?" and "What kind of shop are you running over there?" After that, there was the usual start-and-stop phone-arguing, consisting of short, angry bursts. Things like "No, no, listen-" and "Come on!" Out of context, they were meaningless. But, as the conversation went on, Father calmed down, and Warren picked up full sentences.

"Of course I'm angry-I had to find out about this from my son. Every teenager in the city probably knows, but, apparently, you can't find time to call your main contractor."

"He 'escaped?' You told me that he was a volunteer, so why would he 'escape?' "

"Well, even if that's true, it doesn't matter. You have to get him back. Without him, we'll have to go back to rocket propulsion, and that's an awkward way to do things."

"No, it's a little too late to talk to them about how they're going to handle it."

"As crazy as all of this is, at the end of the day, it's just a business deal. And business deals have two ends. I've handled my end, and now you need to handle yours."

Father was silent for a good minute.

"I'm sorry, but, that is simply unacceptable. Security risk or not, we need him t-"

More silence, his father hitting or kicking something, and his father sighing much louder than usual.

"I see. I see."

"So, we go back to the drawing board. America does that better than anyone. Obviously, I'm extremely unhappy, and I'll be communicating that to the appropriate parties. But I'm not going to let your screw-up get in the way of my work."

"I will say this, though. I'm not the kind of old soldier that goes around lecturing people about security. I was good in the war, but I wasn't the best, and I'd never claim to know more than the current men. I may not fully understand the security end of all this, but I understand the economic end very well. The public isn't ready to find out about mutants. If that happens, we could be looking at the second major stock market crash in forty years."

Warren's breath caught in his throat. Wait, he's a mutant, too?

"Listen to me. A few superheroes, monsters, and criminals running around New York is one thing. But if it could be anyone? Your neighbor, your spouse? We know that the rate has gone up since the atomic explosions, so what if people stop having kids, because they're afraid they'll be mutants? Thanks to Communism, the country is already paranoid...and you aren't exactly making it better. We're on the razor's edge as it is. I know it, you know it, and Kennedy knows it. We're reaching for the stars, but we've got World War III in the back of our mind. You need to speed up your 'psy-ops' or whatever they're called."

"No, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Of course you're getting them ready. All those cheap science-fiction movies set after nuclear wars, where the people are freaks, or have powers. At least some of those have to be you. You're getting them used to the idea, and that's wise. But you need to move more quickly. If it gets out too soon, if-"

Warren had heard enough. He flew across the living room, rushed into his bedroom, and shut the door (quietly, this time). Warren squeezed into his harness, trying to fight off the panic that had crept into his mind. He'd never been interested in politics, but, apparently, his mere existence was political. And radical, and dangerous. It was every teenager's worst nightmare. He just wanted to fit in and be normal, but Father had made mutants sound like walking atomic bombs. They were capable of destabilizing the old order and throwing everything into chaos.

Daredevil was wrong: even if Halo Knight is just after us, he could still hurt other people. It won't be enough just to stop him. We have to keep the source of his powers a secret, too, or we'll have mass-panic on our hands. We already have race riots, so why not mutant riots? People taking to the streets and demanding that the government does something about them. About...us...

Warren felt poisoned, somehow. Infected. Before, he'd been doing this to help people, and it hadn't been about him at all. But he had a personal interest in things, now. And it felt a little wrong. Superheroes were supposed to be selfless, they didn't benefit from their actions.

I need to focus on Halo Knight. If I'm distracted by this other stuff, I could screw up and get killed, or get Daredevil killed. Come on, Warren. Don't let this get to you.

He was fully dressed, now, and he sat at his desk, trying to act as normal as possible. Warren abruptly realized that he'd entered a new frontier. Before, being a Worthington had always been the defining factor in his life. Now, though...whether he was a mutant or some out-there magic messiah, that was the most important thing. His family was his past, and Angel was his future. Warren wondered how long it would take him to get used to such a crazy idea.