A/N: Hello again! I'm updating this story with breakneck speed right now (I'm generally known for being kind of slow, haha). Here is chapter three, which goes back to Warren's point of view. Next chapter is where it starts getting interesting, as Warren and Sera will finally be properly introduced and all that.

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter. Katemary77 is right on the money -- I always like to bring in the OC and establish her as a character before bringing in any romantic subplot. Which is kind of slow going, if you're an impatient sort (like I often am), but hopefully it will make the overall story read much better. :)

Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 3: A Double Life

September 15, 2006
Warren

I never thought I'd be known for anything other than being a Worthington.

Although I supposed my new identity didn't really count, since it had to be kept a secret. To the rest of the world, I was still only known as the rich Worthington kid; though in my mind, I'd become something else – a hero, of sorts. A guy who did good things… most of the time, anyway. My alter ego wasn't exactly respected (more often that not, feared), but I found that didn't matter much. I'd never really been respected before, anyway, not by a public that refused to believe that the affluent were capable of earning their own rewards.

I sat on the couch, quietly chewing on a grilled portabella sandwich. The six o'clock news was on, so rather than eating dinner in the kitchen, I'd come to the living room to finish my meal. I watched, rapt, while the solemn local news anchor reported the latest grand adventures of the individual they'd dubbed the "Avenging Angel" – me.

"…no one knows where this person came from or his true identity, but the common theory is that he is a mutant. Those who he has rescued have all confirmed that the wings are organic, dispelling the myth of an invented, man-made flying mechanism…"

My mouth curled up in a smirk when they cut to a bit of stock footage, a grainy, shaky shot taken by a local amateur who'd just happened to have a camera on him at the time. You had to look closely, but up in the top right corner you could see a small, dark speck, intermittently floating and diving through the air. The date in the corner read 07/30/06, well over a month ago. I remembered that day. From high above, I'd seen a young girl being dragged towards a van by several burly, dirty men. A kidnapping. I'd put a stop to that quickly. Turns out wings make a very effective weapon, when used correctly. I'd heard urban legends about a swan's wings having the strength and toughness to break a human's arms – so imagine what kind of damage the strength and toughness of a full-grown man's wings could inflict.

"Most recently, witnesses say the Angel rescued a couple trapped on the Bronx Zoo's Skyride last night. The ride malfunctioned, leaving Daniel Carlson and Lisa Parker stranded at the highest above the city for more than ten hours while rescue teams attempted to figure out a way to safely retrieve them..."

I frowned, stuffing the last of the sandwich into my mouth. I'd rescued that couple last night, though judging from their reactions I'd have been better off leaving them strung up there. They'd both recoiled in horror when I'd flown up to the hanging cab; the woman hid her face and shrieked while the man called me a 'half-eagle freak'. I'd thought about correcting him, seeing how my wing structure more resembled a hawk's than an eagle's, after all. But instead, I'd just shrugged and told the man that if they didn't want my help, I was fine leaving them up there. And that I hoped they enjoyed looking at the trees and park underneath for another ten hours while the rescue squad fumbled around with the fire truck ladders some more.

And at that, the woman had raised her head and looked at me with dismay. "No fucking way," she'd said. "Get me off of this thing." And that was that. I'd flown them down one at a time. And they didn't even say thank you. Ungrateful bastards.

"In other news, the campaigns for midterm elections are now in full swing, and…" Grabbing the remote, I flipped off the news and stood up. The sun was going down; it would be time to fly soon.

xxxxx

I was having an off night. Ever have those days when you feel incredibly sluggish? Where you're completely unable to function?

As I soared above the city, I couldn't seem to catch my stride. My arms were sore, my back ached, and the bottom half of my wings were burning with the exertion. No matter how much I stretched or attempted to work out the soreness, my muscles remained tight. I'd only been out and about for twenty minutes, but I was ready to go home and call it a night.

I'll bet this is because of that asshole yesterday, I thought. Holding the women in my rescues was never much of a problem. However, the man in the hanging cab – the one who'd called me a half-eagle freak – had been an extremely stocky, thick guy. I was sure that he weighed more than three hundred pounds at least, easily the largest person I'd had to save so far. I'd carried him down with only a little strain, which was surprising, but I was certainly feeling the after-effects of lifting that much weight today. I scowled, irritated that my efforts had gone unthanked and caused me further discomfort. Plus, he was wearing too much cologne. No wonder she wanted down so badly, I don't think I could have stood one hour in that close of a proximity to him, much less ten…

I swooped down to the nearest rooftop to rest. I was soaked in sweat, and the cool breeze that fluttered through felt heavenly against my chest and sides.

I yanked off my mask, running my fingers over my damp hair. Once I'd decided to continue this 'hobby', the issue of identity concealment had come up. I'd lucked out with the fire, since I'd had the hat and my features had been covered with soot. But for other outings, I'd taken one of the workout shirts that I'd usually worn to fly, cut it up, and fashioned a mask to wear over my eyes and forehead. It served two purposes – one to cover my face, obviously, and another to keep my hair back. I'd decided to ditch the hat, realizing that the combination of a black hat and mask would make me look even creepier; like a criminal about to rob a bank. Instead, the mask had been cut high enough to push my hairline back a bit – so the blonde hair was exposed (giving more credence, of course, to the 'Angel' name I'd been given), but out of my face.

The mask, combined with the black shirt and pants I wore on my excursions, gave me an appearance that was more renegade than savior. It was all pretty ridiculous-looking, truth be told, but I had no real choice.

I walked to the edge of the roof, placing my hands on the cool concrete ledge, lost in thought. Maybe my bad night was that guy's fault, or maybe I was just a little burned out. It was possible. My life had become so much busier in recent months, with the addition of three things – my regular Angel escapades, classes and study time, and my father's business dinners.

The latter was a joint idea from my parents, propositioned one evening when I'd gone home for a visit. Every couple of weekends, I would attend these soirees with them and observe the way business (i.e., 'schmoozing') was conducted in the 'real world'. Or at least, that was the pitch my mother had given to it. In reality, I knew it was going to serve several purposes. One being that it would get me out of the house and into some sort of social circle, and two being that the wealthy attendants of these dinners usually brought along their daughters to mix and mingle and mate. I was no fool. My mother wanted grandchildren, and since I obviously wasn't in any hurry to remedy that situation, she wasn't above using her famous name to help the process along. God, if she only knew.

This coming weekend held one of those dinners in store, and I wasn't looking forward to it in the least. I'd agreed to do them mainly to ease her concern about me, but the evenings were painfully boring and a test of my patience. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed good (vegetarian) cuisine, fine wine, and even listening to a well-spoken conversation or debate amongst intellectuals. However, the dinners generally lacked all of that (except for the wine), and each time I was forced to sit and be polite to spoiled airheads who fancied themselves to be someone of importance.

And there looked to be no end in sight – after all, business was my life. Sweet talking and feigning interest in uninteresting people would be a big part of my job. Granted, the parade of WASPs could probably be stopped if I had a girlfriend, but still…

I should just tell my parents that I'm gay, I thought sourly. That would probably go over better than telling them I'm a mutant.

Great. I was getting an aching head to go along with my aching body.

In the distance, I heard the faint sounds of sirens wailing. Normally, I used those warnings as a guide, leading me to people in need. But tonight, I was too tired and cranky for any acts of heroism. Taking a deep breath, I lifted myself onto the ledge and jumped. Without bothering to put my mask back on, I headed away from the sirens, towards home.

xxxxx

I'd underestimated college. I'd thought it would be easier to deal with than high school – after all, I only had to go on campus for a few hours a day before returning back to the solitude of my apartment. I had figured hiding the wings for a few classes would be nothing compared to hiding them almost 24-7 at AllCott.

What I hadn't counted on, however, was all the attention, from students and professors alike. The first week had been the worst – in class after class, one roll call after another, I'd had to deal with the stares and questioning glances of my classmates. I had hoped that their curiosity would waver with time; that eventually I could blend in and become invisible again, but so far it wasn't happening. College was a new beginning, and there were thousands of students on campus who had no clue of my sullen past. People kept trying to come up to me, talk to me, get to know me. Especially the girls – they were a fierce, determined lot. I'd been asked out to lunches, dinners, movies, plays, concerts, and even once received a blatant proposal from a particularly bold young woman who promised a raunchy evening consisting of "you, me, a bottle of honey and one hell of a mess." I'd been tempted to acquiesce to her, just to see if she'd follow through.

"Warren?" I looked up from my desk, realizing I'd stopped paying attention to Dr. Marcus several minutes ago. "Can you tell me what altruism is?"

And that was another thing. In most of my classes, the professors were happy to simply give the lecture and get on with it. But not Dr. Marcus, oh, no. He had this thing about 'class participation' that drove me mad. I could pretty much bank on having to speak up and answer a question in every Ethics class, which in turn gave the rest of the students an excuse to turn around and watch me.

I cleared my throat. I'd discovered it was best to just give the shortest, most concise answer possible and let him move on. "Selfless concern for others," I said.

He nodded. "Mmm-hmmm. Contrasted with egoism, which is what, Deidre?"

"Doing something that only serves yourself," the girl replied. Then she turned her head, met my eyes, and gave me a wink. Deidre was a buxom strawberry blonde who had coyly asked me to dinner at Abuelo's last week. I'd replied no, that I was busy, hoping she'd take the hint. However, it appeared as though she hadn't. Shit.

I averted my eyes, instead pulling out a slip of paper and scribbling on it, as if I was taking notes. Dr. Marcus had launched into a discussion concerning the terms he'd just had everyone define, and I knew I was in for a slow forty-five minutes. I suppressed a yawn, wondering if the man ever got tired of just talking. Whatever happened to handing out assignments and quizzes? Every class, he insisted on having discussions, debates, conversations, symposiums… I closed my eyes, mind drifting elsewhere.

A little while later, I checked my watch and saw that there was only five minutes left of class. I was getting quite good at zoning out for large periods of time, which I figured probably wasn't a positive trend.

"But I don't know, I think you can argue that altruism doesn't really exist," spoke up a girl with dark brown hair, startling me back from oblivion. I blinked, trying to piece together what the class had been discussing. Altruism and egoism, right.

"No, Sera? Why not?" Dr. Marcus leaned against the front of his desk, giving her an encouraging smile. She was in the next row and several seats in front of me, so I couldn't see her face.

"Because… think about it. Is it possible to ever do something that truly only ever serves another?" She paused, leaning back in her chair and holding her arms up in a questioning fashion. Her hair was long and stick-straight; it touched the desktop of the guy who was sitting behind her. If I was him, that would've driven me nuts. "You always get something out of helping others."

I frowned. I didn't think I agreed with that. After all, what was I gaining, really, with my job as a rescuer? I didn't get paid, plenty of people thought the Angel was a sick freak, and it wasn't like anyone had asked me to do it in the first place. I'd simply chosen to do it because I had the means and I was capable of helping others.

Apparently, a few in the class disagreed, as well. "What about people who donate to charity?" countered a guy sitting in the corner. "Like anonymous donations? That way, they can't get anything in return."

"What about Mother Teresa or other people like that?" asked another girl.

"What about little random acts of kindness? Like holding the door open for someone, or helping them pick up papers that have scattered all over the floor?"

The dark-haired girl, Sera, held up her hand. "I never said that you have to get material things out of helping others," she said. Her voice was husky and heavily-accented. She must have been from the south. "Sometimes rewards are intangible. The donation to charity? The donor could probably get a tax write-off. Mother Teresa and others of her ilk are working for God – thus, their reward is Heaven and eternal life, since that's what they believe. And as for random acts of kindness – well, don't you think it makes someone feel good to help? Isn't that what people always say, when asked why they choose to do anything for others, such as community service? That essentially, it gives them the warm fuzzies? That sense of comfort and accomplishment can be considered its own reward."

I felt my face burn, remembering the drug-like rush of exhilaration and pride I'd enjoyed after saving the girl from the dorm fire. How I'd decided right then to use my mutation to serve that purpose. And how every time I came home after saving someone, I found it a little easier to sleep at night. It was true, I sought out that feeling. So much for fancying myself an unselfish hero; she had a point. Damn her.

"And in that sense, that can be an argument for the 'myth' of altruism." Sera laughed, shrugging her shoulders as she finished her point. She glanced around at the classmates who'd protested, and I caught a glimpse of her profile, which was lit up with a grin. "But, you know, it's just a theory."

Dr. Marcus clapped his hands together. "Excellent discussion, that's what I like to hear. And I'd love to keep this topic going, but we're out of time today…" He beckoned to the ancient white clock in the back of the classroom. "…so have a good weekend, everyone. And remember that next week we're starting the debate project, so you'll need to pick your partners by next Wednesday."

As the class filed out, I sighed inwardly. Things were decidedly not looking up. I wasn't sure yet how I would get out of doing that group project – spending lots of one-on-one time with others wasn't something I was too keen on – but I had a few days to figure it out. I lowered my head, staring at the floor as I followed the mass of students out into the hall.

"Warren? Warren?" I heard the voice behind me, recognizing it as one of the girls who'd spoken up a few times during the discussion... the girl, who, as I'd predicted, hadn't been able to get the hint the first time around. Deidre, who had a voice that sounded like a cross between Minnie Mouse and Fran Drescher. "Hey, Warren, wait up, I want to ask you something…"

God, not again. Not today. Not right now. I just want to go home. Ignoring her pleas, I lengthened my strides and exited the building as quickly as possible.

xxxxx

I don't mind wearing suits. In fact, I actually like them, even now with the wings. Growing up, I'd always admired the way my father looked in his tailored, pinstriped Gucci business attire. It was such a sharp contrast to the sweats and t-shirts he wore when lounging around at home. In that casual wear, he was just Dad, the simple, outdoorsy man who taught me to ride a bike and used to fly kites with me in our backyard. In the suit, he was Warren Worthington, Jr., a tough, no-nonsense businessman who commanded a small army of corporate drones and took no bullshit. The transformation was comparable to that of Clark Kent and Superman, and I'd often wondered if I'd be able to do the same. If I'd be able to project that image of cool, controlled confidence.

As I slid on my sleek, black Versace jacket, I decided I had my answer. An Italian designer's craft could work wonders on any man; or mutant, for that matter. Appraising my reflection in the mirror, I nodded slowly, adjusting my tie and collar. In this lavish get-up, with my wings tightly tucked away under my crisp white shirt and the fine fabric of the jacket, I felt almost normal. And that was a good thing – if I had to go and be miserable for several hours, I figured I might as try and enjoy the small positives of the situation.

After a final once-over in the mirror, I flipped off the bathroom light and headed downstairs. I grabbed the keys to the Spyder from the kitchen counter and sent a quick, frantic prayer to God, asking Him to help me make it through another exasperating Saturday night.

xxxxx

"Ah, Mr. Foster… I don't believe you've met my son. Warren, this is Elliott Foster, co-founder of Initech Designs. Elliott, this is Warren the third."

I plastered on my best facsimile of a smile and held out my hand for a shake. We were downtown in the exclusive LaFayette Club, waiting for dinner to be served. My mother had wandered off to chat with some women she recognized from previous outings, so my father had taken the opportunity to introduce me to some of his peers.

The peer in question, Elliott Foster, gripped my proffered hand tightly. He was a thin, wiry man, with a balding crown and sleek black-rimmed glasses. "Good to meet you, Warren," he said in a deep voice that belied his appearance. "I hear you're every bit as brilliant as your father."

"I can only hope," I replied easily. It might have sounded odd to many, but socializing with older people in this context wasn't nearly as difficult as doing so with people my own age. Maybe it was because I'd been informally 'trained', I guess you could say, in the art of smooth talking with older generations. It was a little like acting – you pretended to care about what the other person was saying, then responded accordingly. Everyone knew their roles, and when to enter or leave a scene. I could handle the predictability and familiarity of it. People my age, on the other hand, were capricious. Volatile.

"Yes, Warren got into Sydney Williams on a full scholarship," my father said with pride. He was standing close to me, and put his hand lightly on my shoulder for the briefest second. I managed not to flinch, knowing that the moment wouldn't last long. Unlike his wife, Warren Jr. wasn't a touchy-feely kind of guy. He preferred to show his affection in other ways. "Didn't even need any help from us," he continued. "His motivation amazes even me, Elliott – you know when I was his age, I was always distracted by other things, like parties and girls… took awhile for me to get my act together and get serious. But Warren here, he's a real go-getter."

It was intended to be a compliment – and the way he was talking me up made me a little suspicious, really – but hearing those words made me feel awful. I was abnormal, and he knew it, though he'd never mentioned it directly (leaving that task to my mother, I assumed). But in true business fashion, he'd taken a negative – my anti-social behavior – and dressed it up in the guise of 'hard work' and 'dedication' to my studies. Which was, interestingly enough, the same pitch I'd given to him back in high school. The apple never falls far from the tree, indeed.

I gripped the glass of wine in my hand, worried for a second that I might unwittingly smash the fragile crystal between my fingertips. I turned my head for a moment, staring wistfully out of the glass windows that doubled as the outside walls of the room. The sun was still out, barely, washing the cityscape with a faint gold hue. Was it bad that I would have much preferred to be out there basking in the glow of the fading sun than in the glow of my father's pride? I stretched my neck, squirming a little. The bandages wound around my torso were beginning to feel a little too tight.

The evening's halfway over… come on, you can handle this. I took a long sip of my Chteau Latour Pauillac before I spoke again. "Well," I finally said, "I guess I just find it easier to stay focused on a goal and get it done."

Mr. Foster nodded vigorously, in evident approval. "That's good to hear, and that kind of attitude will serve you well in this industry." He paused, giving my father a meaningful look before turning back to me. "But you know, you should always make time for a little fun, especially when you're young…"

I held my glass still, mid-sip. I recognized that tone. "That is true," my father agreed readily, not helping matters any. I frantically glanced around, eager to make eye contact with anyone, looking for an escape. I knew what was coming next.

"Warren," Mr. Foster said, holding out his arm. He gave me a sly smile, and I sensed some unspoken connection between him and my father. I'd been set up. "Why don't you come with me for a second? There's someone I'd like to introduce you to…"

Oh, fuck me.

xxxxx

Julianna Foster was nineteen, heartbreakingly gorgeous, an avid tennis player, and an aspiring pediatrician. She had just started her second year at Stanford, where she was a member of the Upsilon chapter of Delta Gamma. In her spare time, she liked to read, watch Humphrey Bogart movies, and cook. And as the youngest of Elliott Foster's three daughters, she was the only one unmarried and single.

And fortunately for me, she resented being put up for sale by her parents just as much as I did.

I knew all this because Elliott Foster had introduced me to his youngest and then quickly disappeared, content that the two of us would hit it off. We had made some awkward, forced small talk for a few minutes, and when it was announced that dinner was ready, walked together into the formal dining room. The light was dim in the room, as the crystal chandeliers above didn't give off much to begin with, and the dark-blue and gold scheme seemed to absorb what little was there. I had no problem seeing, of course, but I wondered if the other patrons did.

I'd planned to leave Julianna behind and go sit with my parents. But when I met my mother's eyes and noticed the way they lit up at seeing me with a beautiful young woman, I'd resigned myself to sitting with her for the meal. And it wasn't that she was bland, or boring, or annoying. Not by far – of all the girls I'd been introduced to in this fashion, she was perhaps the most tolerable option. That is, if I were capable of having options. But it was embarrassing to be thrust in her face in such an obvious manner.

And she made it clear that she felt the same towards me. She had quickly established right up-front that she was not interested in any form or fashion. She already had a boyfriend back at Stanford, a writer, whom her parents didn't approve of. They'd been dating for well over a year, but her father was still convinced she'd 'see the light' and ditch him.

"But let's humor them this evening," she'd said when we'd sat down at the end of one long table. "I have the feeling it will take some of the heat off your back as much as it will mine."

I'd agreed, and we sat on opposite sides of the table, keeping a respectable distance while listening to the conversations all around us. Julianna and I were on the tail end, but bookending us on the other side was another couple that I didn't recognize. The woman had sleek salt-and-pepper hair pulled tightly into a bun, and judging by the unnatural smoothness of her skin, had undergone several cosmetic surgeries. The man was on the chubby side, with an obvious toupee and an ill-fitting jacket. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Richard Donnelly, owners of the husband-and-wife partnership law firm bearing their names.

Dinner was a choice between filet mignon or grilled salmon with saffron rice. Not exactly vegetarian-friendly, but I made it by on the meat-free side dishes: the roasted new potatoes, steamed vegetable medley, and Caesar salad. I ate slowly, letting my stomach fill up. I got a few curious glances when I pushed the meat aside and ate around it, but no one commented.

Later on in the evening, when the men's stomachs were full of food and wine, and their heads full of self-important bravado, the conversation became a little more loose. At our table, the discussion bounced back forth between menial subjects like sports and films, to graver topics concerning politics and societal issues. I marginally paid attention for the most part, until the dialogue switched to a matter that struck a little too close to home for me.

"Have you heard of this geneticist from India? Dr. Kavita Rao, I believe is her name…" Mrs. Donnelly leaned back in her chair, holding her wine glass close to her face and swirling it in a small circle. She was the type who liked attention, I'd gathered. Her exaggerated body language and mannerisms said it all. I looked up at her, sticking a bit of zucchini in my mouth. "I was reading about her in Newsweek magazine. Supposedly, she's invented a cure for mutations."

I choked.

Julianna gave me an odd look. "Are you okay, Warren?" she asked. I hastily grabbed my water glass and took a long draw.

"Fine, I'm fine. Sorry, it was just… spicier than I expected," I offered. I gave Mrs. Donnelly a tight-lipped smile. "And I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said."

"Oh, I was just saying that this Dr. Rao claims she's invented a cure for mutants. A serum, administered by injection," she said. "It's not been approved, I hear, but apparently very close."

"About time," sniffed her husband, shaking out his napkin and folding it beside his empty plate. "I'd have thought science would have come up with a solution to that problem ages ago."

I ignored him. A cure? I took a deep breath, straining to maintain my composure. I had to set my water down; my hands had begun shaking uncontrollably, making the ice tinkle against the glass.

"Oh?" I said. "What… what does this serum do, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know the specifics," Mrs. Donnelly replied. "Something to do with negating the X-gene. It's supposed to remove any physical or mental manifestation permanently." She smiled then, an odd sort of smirk that chilled me. I set my hands in my lap, clasping them tightly together. "Whatever the method, I imagine this cure will be in high demand."

Julianna visibly shivered, setting her fork at an angle on her plate to indicate she was finished. She tossed a long red lock of hair behind her shoulder, sitting up straight. "I hope so," she said, watching casually as a waiter swooped in to collect her dishes.

I looked at her with dismay, unable to control my next question. "Why?" I asked, the word popping out before I'd had time to censor it. I'd actually kind of liked Julianna, she'd seemed like a girl with a decent head on her shoulders, at least. A part of me felt betrayed by her disdain, even though I knew I should have expected it.

"Why?" She met my gaze unwaveringly. "Because those people… those creatures are dangerous," she said. "My sister and her husband had their house destroyed last year in a mass attack on her neighborhood… this mutant, he… he created this huge tremor, like an earthquake, and split every house in the area along the faultline…"

"One broke into my father's home," spoke up a man who'd been sitting on the other side of Mr. Donnelly, and apparently listening in on our conversation. "And stole twenty-thousand dollars in bonds along with my mother's diamond necklaces. He had this… this gigantic, long tongue, like a frog, and they said that he was climbing on the walls…"

I stared down at the pristine white tablecloth while the rest of them recounted every encounter – or near-encounter – they'd had with mutants. Burglary. Attempted rape. Assault. Destruction of private property. The list went on and on, and the more they talked about it, the more vicious they became in their hatred of mutantkind. I wanted to protest, to remind them that humans did those exact same things every day… and I knew that for a fucking fact, because I personally saw it myself. What was the difference between a human with a loaded gun and a mutant who could control bolts of electricity, for example? A weapon was a weapon, regardless of how it was procured…

I waited and waited for someone to bring up a positive, to mention a mutant that had helped them or someone they knew in some way – or hell, even a mention of the do-gooder Avenging Angel who was featured in a highlight reel on the news every week – but none came. I'd always known mutants were disliked and looked down upon as freaks, but this level of unbridled animosity was shocking. Somewhere along the line, these people had equated mutations with evil, and nothing would sway their set opinions.

But I was a mutant, and despite acting like a jerk in the name of self-preservation, I wasn't a bad guy. And surely there had to be others out there just like me, hiding because of fear. I felt a well of despair inside; my wings again felt heavy and oppressive against my back. If they'd known who – what – they were talking to, they probably would have lynched me right there.

I wanted to go home. Immediately.

"So, yes," Mrs. Donnelly spoke up again after several long minutes of mutant-bashing. "This cure, if it works, will be a Godsend."

Yes, I suppose it will, for people like you…

I closed my eyes.

…and perhaps for me, as well…

Discrimination aside, my mind reeled with the idea that I could one day soon have the option of being normal. Amputation I'd completely dismissed, but this 'cure' sounded more like… well, a treatment, not an alteration. I could get rid of my wings, become the active, enthusiastic young man I used to be, repair my life…

But would I? Could I? I'd gotten used to flying, loved it, in fact… and I liked helping people, regardless of whether it was for an altruistic or egoist reason (damn that girl from class). I suddenly wasn't so sure if I could bring myself to go back…

"Cure?" A new voice entered the conversation, and I turned immediately. My father stood behind me, an easygoing smile on his face. He met my eyes and winked, leaning down. "Just thought I'd check on you two, see what was happening on this end of the table," he murmured in my ear.

"We're fine, thanks," I mumbled. Another lie.

"We're discussing this alleged mutant cure," Julianna said. "Have you heard of it, Mr. Worthington?"

My father stepped forward and stood beside me. "Heard of it?" he repeated. "Of course. We've donated quite a large sum to Dr. Rao's labs in the past few years to help fund the research."

I sharply sucked in my breath, unable to hide my shock. "What? You have? When?"

My father nodded, his face grave. I wasn't sure if it was the lighting in the room, or the angle with which I was looking at him, but he appeared older to me all of a sudden. I'd never noticed the small jowls forming around his neckline, or the wrinkles back by his temples. His hair had gone gray years ago, but it seemed starker tonight, more severe.

"Yeah," he said casually, as if that was common knowledge. "You were away at school when we made the decision, Warren, so that's probably why you weren't aware." He looked up again, addressing the rest of the table. "We felt it was an important cause. Science has been working on a solution to the mutant problem for years, but Dr. Rao's lab was the first to really make headway on the answer."

"Oh," I whispered. I was away at school, becoming a mutant, while you were funneling money to some quack doctor in India to eliminate mutants… the irony wasn't even amusing. Not in the least. I'd always known my parents would have been horrified at having a mutant for a son, but this new bit of knowledge was like the final nail in the proverbial coffin. My mother and father didn't just dislike mutants, they hated them. Enough to donate large sums of money to further their demise.

He put his hand on my shoulder again, and his words echoed in my mind: mutant problem. Solution. Important cause. This time, I couldn't help it – I twitched and pulled away. He didn't seem to notice. "I've been told they're planning to market it here, when testing is finished and it's approved," he said to the table. "Sooner rather than later."

My tablemates let out a hearty exclamation of relief at that news. My father stayed and chatted for a few moments longer, thankfully switching the subject, but I couldn't even muster the energy to act like I cared anymore. When a waiter arrived with a dessert tray, he excused himself back to his own table, giving me an approving wink as he left. I didn't acknowledge it, instead watching the waiter slide rich creations of cake and custard onto the table for each diner.

"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked. "Tonight, we have traditional French crème brulee or a moist, tart Raspberry Liqueur cake…"

"No, thanks," I said, holding up my hand. The waiter bowed and moved on to another table.

"You're not getting anything?" Julianna asked, incredulous. "Oh, you should at least taste this, Warren, it's so decadent…" She sliced off a bit of her custard and held it up, beckoning me to try.

I gently pushed the fork away. I swallowed, feeling more depressed than I had in quite some time. Mutant problem. Solution. Important cause.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm not hungry."