A/N: Nothing much this time. I've got to hurry and post this before I have to run. :) Enjoy! Thanks for all your comments!

Chapter Six: Up close and personal

October 28, 2006
Sera

"So how's this project of yours coming along?" Dylan slouched on my tiny, beat-up loveseat, a hand-me-down from my parents that had seen much better days. We often laughed at its hideous olive green fabric, the rips in the cushions, the beer stains scattered here and there. That couch had character.

"Mmmm?" I murmured, only half-listening. I was studying the front page of the Daily Post – ON ANGEL'S WINGS! screamed the top headline, along with a fuzzy photo of a dazed-looking woman, apparently just moments after being saved by New York City's new local superhero. It was an interesting twist on a topic that had been at the forefront of my mind lately – mutants, genetics, and the sticky, unclear issue of right and wrong. Here was another person who was using his unnatural genetic 'gift' for good, much like the clawed man. It was again a direct contradiction to what I'd been taught about mutants. I couldn't help but wonder what was going through their minds – what would possess someone to risk exposing themselves to the public in order to save others? Did they appreciate their mutation, or was it a burden? Would they have rather been born 'normal', like the genetic diagnosis promised? Or would they be fiercely opposed and proud of their 'abilities'?

So much to think about. What I wouldn't give to talk personally with one of these mutants and get some answers… but the clawed man hadn't shown up at the bar since that night (not to mention his disposition had never lent me to believe that he was much of a talker, anyway), and the Avenging Angel… well, one never knew when or where he would show up, and his identity, obviously, was meant to remain a mystery.

"Your project," Dylan repeated patiently. I looked up then, tossing the newspaper down. His long legs dangling over the side, and he was draped bonelessly across the ratty cushions. He should have a model, in my opinion – what with the dark, perfectly mussed hair, pouty lips, and soulful eyes. He even moved like one. Most young guys lounging on a couch looked like a messy pile of dirty clothes and skinny limbs. Dylan, however, was always graceful and fluid, even when relaxing. "You know, the one you said you had to work on with that Worthington guy."

I slumped in the floor, cracking open a Bud Light. It was Saturday night, and I'd gotten the evening off from work. I'd originally wanted to go out with Dylan and Randi, hit a few of the clubs downtown, but two things had stopped me – my lack of sufficient funds, and sheer fatigue. I'd worked every night this week, taken two midterms, completed a fifteen-page research paper for Business Writing, and met with Jonathan and (sometimes) Warren whenever I could fit it in. Busy? Just a little. So instead of heading out, Dylan had offered to come keep me and my supply of beer company for the evening – an affordable means of entertainment – while Randi had accepted a date from one of the chefs at Le Deauville.

"It sucks," I said bluntly. "And that's putting it mildly."

"Oh?" he asked, lifting his own can and taking a long sip. Amazing – he was elegant even when drinking beer. He didn't guzzle or swill it like most guys. "What's wrong?"

"Where do I begin?" I asked wryly. "We're arguing a point I don't agree with… when we can get him to actually come to meetings, Warren barely speaks… he and Jonathan hate each other… and Dr. Marcus is no help whatsoever." I shrugged, leaning onto my side on one elbow. "I'll be glad when December's come and gone."

To say that Warren was difficult was a massive understatement. Granted, the guy was incredibly intelligent, I could give him that. He got excellent grades, provided us with a lot of useful research material, and actually had a way of developing a compelling argument for such a difficult subject. But that was all stuff done on his own – whenever it came to actually collaborating as a group, he was a mule. Ornery, stubborn, and infuriating. He showed up late to meetings (sometimes not at all), he sat in stony silence much of the time, and when he did speak, it was usually a clipped, surly response to something Jonathan said. I couldn't figure out what his problem was. Could it be a matter of arrogance? That maybe he thought his millions in the bank made him 'better' than us? Or that because he was so smart, doing this project was below him?

Jonathan tended to lean towards the former, while I leaned towards the latter. I didn't think his money had anything to do with it – after all, he never so much as mentioned it. He dressed like any other college bum, in ratty jeans and loose, faded t-shirts. There was absolutely nothing flashy about his outward appearance – well, except for the incredibly hot little sports car I'd seen him pull up in before meeting at the library one evening, but I'd have never known it was his if we hadn't arrived at the same time.

So, I disagreed with Jonathan – and personally, I harbored the secret thought that maybe he was indirectly jealous of Warren's wealth; that being the reason why he brought up the issue so often. But as for Warren himself, I had decided that he just felt he was smart enough to do it on his own, and he didn't want any help. Simple as that. Maybe he was a control freak; someone who liked to be in charge.

Although… that didn't add up, either, because it made me wonder why he never tried to order either of us around. In fact, he just sat back and waited for directions… and then occasionally followed them. Ugh. I had no idea. People always said women were the more complicated of the sexes, but I wasn't so sure that was true.

"They hate each other?" Dylan asked. He raised one thick eyebrow in a perfect sharp arch. "Why?"

I rolled my eyes. "They both have dicks. Too much testosterone for one room, I guess." Dylan laughed loudly, delighting in my unusual crudeness. I tossed my head back and downed nearly half the beer in one drag. "You should hear the snippy little things they say. The way they glare at each other. It's absolutely ridiculous. I mean, they're grown men... well, close enough, anyway." I smiled in spite of my irritation and laughed a little. "But this is like high school. Remember me telling you about Tom Coleman and John Caudill?"

Dylan pursed his lips for a moment, then stood up and strolled to the kitchen to get another beer. "Were those the guys who practically destroyed your classroom that one time?" he called back to me. I heard the fridge door open, and the sounds of him rustling around inside.

"Yeah," I replied. "Hey, will you bring me one of those ice cream sandwiches from the freezer? Thanks." When he walked back to the couch, ice cream in hand, I happily took it from him and continued. "Yeah. They were always talking smack, but nobody thought either of them were actually gonna do anything about it, you know? Because they were all talk and no action. But then one day, it's like Tom just snapped… went off, threw the first punch… and he and John broke two chairs, a desk, and tore down the window blinds in the process of 'settling' their differences." I shook my head at the memory. It had been one of the more terrifying – and entertaining, if I was to be shamefully honest – days of my short teaching career. "I could totally picture Warren doing that. He's so stonefaced; it's probably all simmering there below the surface…"

"Probably," Dylan agreed merrily. "But at least the fireworks, when they come, should be entertaining."

"Yeah, I guess," I muttered. I bit into my ice cream, chewing slowly. We were both silent for a minute, save for the faint sounds of sirens outside and the occasional thumping clatter of my upstairs neighbor. I'd grown used to those types of noises – when I'd first moved in, every tiny creak and pop caused me to nearly jump out of my skin. Nowadays, I'd grown so accustomed to the mild noise pollution that was fairly sure I could probably sleep through a hurricane without waking up.

"So, this Jonathan…" Dylan dragged his name out slowly, in dramatic fashion. "He's keen on you, yes?"

I smiled at his use of the word 'keen', which sounded so antiquated and old-fashioned. "Well…" It was an uncomfortable subject with me. I liked Jonathan – liked him quite a bit, as a matter of fact – but I was hesitant to pursue anything with him just yet. There were a lot of issues in the way. "He actually asked me out tonight, but… I don't know."

"Well, you turned him down, obviously," Dylan said. "Or you wouldn't be here with me."

"Yeah. I just… I don't know if I'm ready for that just yet. Besides, we're working together and we have two classes together… I just think it might be better after this semester's over, you know?" I downed the last of my beer, hiccupping loudly when the bitter liquid nearly went down the wrong pipe. "I don't want things to get uncomfortable if something goes wrong. I mean, that would be just my luck. I'd have to work with two pissed-off boys instead of just one."

"The more, the merrier," Dylan supplied, smiling lazily. He struggled to a sitting position and held his can up, as if making a toast. "That's what I say, anyway. And pissed-off boys can be kind of sexy." He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "I think it's kind of like the 'hard-to-get' thing. You make someone mad, then you have to really work to win them back. It's like a game."

"A game?" I repeated. "How old are you, again?"

"Oh, lighten up, Sera. You need to have a little more play in your life. Have fun. Get laid if you need to – no, wait, I take that back. Get laid, period. If this guy's as cute and great as you say he is, go for it. Not all relationships have to be serious."

He said it in a joking tone, but I knew he was also chiding me in his own gentle way. And he had a point, I supposed, although he'd veered a bit from our original topic. After all, I was the one always saying I was actually going to have a little bit of fun this go-round. And it wasn't like I was some virginal young girl pledging to save herself until marriage. Nick and I had taken care of that before we were even out of high school.

"I know," I agreed, not wanting to delve further into this conversation. "Have fun, right. And yes, sex is fun." I snickered, suddenly feeling very juvenile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do." He collapsed back onto the couch and grinned again. "Don't worry, pretty soon it'll be second nature. I had to tell myself the same thing when we first moved up here."

I nodded thoughtfully. Dylan wasn't any promiscuous by any means, but he'd had his share of boyfriends. I guessed his philosophy was the result of being raised in a town where homosexuality was automatically equated with a one-way ticket to hell. When he'd first told his parents he was gay, they'd gone through a number of steps – despair, anger, denial, and rejection. Moving to New York had been his saving grace – here, he could at least find kindred souls in the mass of millions, although the cost had been his relationship with his mother and father. Not exactly a fair deal.

And there… there in itself was a whole other side of the story. Dylan was gay; he believed that he'd been born gay and thus had never had any choice in the matter. Was that something that could – or should – be 'prevented' before birth? Or again, was it better to just let nature run its course?

"Okay… I'm gonna get serious for a minute. This is going on something of a tangent, but since we've been talking about my debate and while I'm thinking about it, let me ask you this…" I formed the sentence slowly, trying to articulate my question just right. It was something of a difficult task, as I'd already gone through three beers. Better to ask now before my brain cells became incapable of absorbing useful information.

"Let's say there was a 'homosexual' gene…" I continued. "Just for argument's sake. And say your parents could have eliminated it from the get-go. You would have been straight from the very beginning. Would you have wanted that? Would it have made your life easier?"

Dylan paused, taking a few moments to think over the question. He had an endearing habit of tugging on his ear whenever he was deep in thought, and I watched as he fiddled with the gold stud in his left lobe.

"No and yes, respectively," he said. "Would it have made my life easier? Hell, yeah. No doubt about that. But would I want that? No. Think of the people I never would have met…" He shook his head vehemently. "I think everyone's meant to be born as they were. For better or worse."

I curled my legs up underneath me and clasped my hands in my lap. He mirrored my thoughts exactly, and that was my problem – finding someone who could at least show me a reasonable argument otherwise. How was I ever supposed to argue for PGD when I couldn't really find any way to reconcile it in my own mind?

"Yeah," I said softly. "Yeah. I agree."

xxxxx

October 20, 2006

"Sera? Sera?" The phone crackled, and I stood up, hoping (in vain, of course) to get a better signal. My cell phone provider wasn't exactly top of the line, but it was all I could afford. Which unfortunately meant that my conversations were often cut short or altogether completely unintelligible. Jonathan was learning that the hard way.

"Hang on…" I was at the Walter Doran Memorial Library, hanging out in the lobby as I waited for Jonathan and Warren to show up. We were meeting yet again to compare speech notes – we'd finally decided on speaking order, so our arguments had to be presented in a logical manner. I was going first and providing the intro, which I actually thought was a relief – I could get the whole thing over with. Then, Jonathan would go into depth about the pros of PGD, and Warren would give the rebuttal speech. His was actually the hardest, as it would require the most extemporaneous speaking, but he'd offered to do it. I'd been floored, but had eagerly agreed without a single complaint – my philosophy was 'better him than me.' Jonathan, however, had started to make a nasty comment – more than likely just to goad Warren – but I'd swiftly kicked him in the shins under the table and put an end to it.

I scurried outside, thinking that maybe being out in the open would help matters. "Okay," I said. "Can you hear me?"

"Barely… but it'll have to do. Look, Sera, I'm really sorry… but I can't make it tonight. My car's got a flat. I'm out on Sixth right now trying to fix it, but it's gonna take awhile…"

"What?" I felt an odd rush of panic. I'd spoken to Warren alone before, of course, but sitting down with him for an extended period of time was not something I'd experienced. Nor was it something I particularly wanted to experience. I hated awkward conversations, and he was certainly the king of those… "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." His voice was sympathetic and sincere, but I still felt a slight dig of irritation all the same. Was he really being serious? Or was this just a ploy to get back at me for turning him down Saturday night? He knew how awful my evening would be…

I quickly dismissed the thought, however, realizing that the city was making me too paranoid for my own good. "Well, okay," I said slowly. "Get it fixed and be careful..."

"Yeah. You be careful, too." He chuckled, the static buzzing throughout. "Don't let him get to you."

"I'll be fine. I'll see you in class." I flipped the phone shut and sighed. Wandering back into the library lobby, I collapsed on one of the benches and pulled out my notes and the day's newspaper, which I'd brought for our meeting. There was a short blurb in the World News section which I'd found particularly interesting – a write-up talking about a so-called 'cure' for mutations. Which could possibly be relevant to our argument – except, instead of science taking a preemptive action before birth, it was a post-puberty way to 'fix' mutants. Was that a better idea? To maybe let the person decide for him or herself whether they wanted to be 'cured'?

I tapped my foot against the tile floor, waiting impatiently.

It's ten after six already. Maybe he won't show at all, and I can just go home…

"Hey."

I shifted my eyes up, first looking at a pair of Nike sneakers and jeans. I inwardly sighed again – looked like I wasn't off the hook, after all – and peered up at Warren.

"Hey, Warren," I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could. I would continue to be nice to him in person, no matter what. That had been Dylan's advice to me, when I'd complained ad nauseam about his attitude. The whole 'kill him with kindness' strategy, I supposed. I offered him a sweet smile. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He shifted his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked almost childish, especially with the big, thick straps of his backpack hanging from each shoulder. His blonde curls were a little askew, as if he'd just come in from fighting a strong wind.

"Well," I said. "Jonathan won't be here. He had an emergency come up…"

"What a shame." One side of his mouth curled into a smirk for the briefest of seconds – so quick that I was sure he thought I didn't notice. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.

"So it's just you and me tonight," I continued. "Shall we find a table and get started?"

"Sure."

I crammed my stuff back into my bag and stood up. The study carrels and tables were upstairs, so I headed for the nearest stairwell. Warren followed behind me, his shoes squeaking against the tile floor.

xxxxx

"…so that's the plan. In a nutshell, just explaining a little about PGD… its background, history, what it means for parents." I shifted a little in my seat, scooting closer to Warren. There were other people studying, so we were trying to keep our voices as low as possible. I was actually having trouble hearing him – he was naturally a soft-spoken person, despite his often hard-edged words.

I noticed, however, that for every inch closer I moved to him, he discreetly scooted about the same distance away. I was almost offended. I'd heard of people needing their personal space before, but this was borderline ridiculous.

"Okay," he said. "And then what? Are you going to start in on the pros?"

I wrinkled my nose. "No. I'll let Jonathan's part do all that work. I just want to introduce it and let them know what's coming. And…" I reached into my bag and pulled out the newspaper. "I found something interesting today that I could also bring up." I unfurled the newspaper on the table, smoothing it out and pointing to the news blurb. "Have you heard anything about this 'cure' for mutants?"

He flinched, his expression pulling into a grimace. It was super-short, just as the smirk had been earlier, and if I hadn't been looking directly at him when I'd asked the question, I would have missed it. "Yeah," he finally said. "I have."

"I mean, I just saw this here, I hadn't heard anything about it. Do you know anything? How it works, or anything like that?"

His mouth opened slightly, and he didn't look at me, but rather behind my shoulder. The lack of eye contact gave his expression an unfocused, bewildered appearance. He seemed to be struggling with what to say, as if he was trying to remember something. I just waited patiently, studying him. He had blue eyes. I'd known that for awhile, obviously, but this was the closest I'd been to him, the first time I'd been able to truly look. They were a pale, icy shade, a perfect match for his chilly demeanor.

"It's a shot that controls, or maybe just kills off, the X-gene," he said. "That's all I know."

"Like an allergy shot or something? Weird," I mused. "Are they going to sell this here? Or maybe give it out for people who need or want it, like they do with birth control?"

He finally met my eyes. "That's all I know," he repeated, his voice rising a little. Some students nearby turned to glare at us, and I held my fingers to my lips, shushing him.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Anyway, I thought that it was an interesting bit of info. And it adds a new spin on things. Something we need to keep in mind, especially you, because the other side could bring it up and you'd have to talk about it in the rebuttal."

He sighed, dropping his head forward and running one hand through his hair. His hair was thick, but the curls weren't unruly. I imagined that if he let it grow out it would just be wavy, rather than the crazy spring curls I'd seen on some guys. His sleeve dipped down when he lifted his arm, and I noticed that he had a bandage wrapped around his wrist.

"Hey, what happened to your wrist?" I asked.

He looked startled, immediately sitting up straight. Confusion flitted across his face for a moment before he saw that I was pointing to his left hand. "Just a scratch," he mumbled. "Ran into a door frame. Now what were you saying?"

A door frame? Hard enough to warrant a big bandage on your arm?

I leaned forward. "The questions that could come up if the other side talks about the cure. Like, is it better to 'fix' things before they happen, or after they happen, thus letting the person have a choice in the matter?" I stopped, grimacing. "Of course, it doesn't really make a difference when it comes to the argument about whether mutations should count as a real 'problem' or not. But I guess that's a whole other argument altogether."

He rolled his head to one side and slumped back into the chair. Warren, like Dylan, didn't look like a slob when he slouched. But unlike Dylan, he didn't look particularly graceful, either. He just looked… invisible, if that made sense. Someone you could easily walk by without ever noticing. How was it that someone with such high-profile parents could be so indiscernible? It seemed he'd perfected the art of not being noticed. If I'd never heard his name the first day of class, I doubted I would have even realized he existed.

"You don't think they're a problem?" he asked after a minute.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, growing up, I was always told that they were… but now, I don't know."

"What changed your mind?" He was intently gazing at me, and I realized that for the first time ever, he seemed interested in the conversation at hand.

"Well…" Whether it was because his arch nemesis wasn't here, or whether he was simply interested in the topic, I didn't know. But I decided to follow his line of thought and see where it led, all the same. "I work at this bar, McCarthy's… and one night, we weren't busy at all, so my manager ran down the street to get some dinner. I was there alone. And…" I paused, shuddering at the memory. "This guy came in and robbed me. He had a gun. But before he could get away with anything… or before he could shoot me, for that matter… one of the guys in the bar came up and… and stopped him." I held out both hands, closing them into fists. "He had… he had claws. Three on each hand. They came out of his knuckles, right here..."

Warren blinked. "Claws," he repeated. He didn't look shocked, actually, which kind of surprised me. But then, he'd grown up in New York, so I guessed maybe he'd had a little more experience with mutants than I had.

"Yeah… but they were like… metal. It looked like he had gigantic ginsu knives sticking out of his hands… but anyway, needless to say, he put an end to the whole thing… the guy with the gun looked about as scared as I was… but my manager came back, and he thought the clawed guy was just threatening someone in the bar. It was madness. But yeah… the guy just retracted them back into his hands after that, just like it was nothing…" I shook my head in wonderment, recalling the metallic swoosh those claws had made going in and out. "I mean, he possibly saved my life."

"And then what happened?" He sat up a little straighter, and I knew he was actually engrossed, eager to hear more. I nearly fell out of my chair.

Is this for real? Warren, is that you?

"I… I don't know the details. I passed out," I admittedly sheepishly. "The guy trying to rob me was arrested, and my manager threw the clawed guy out of the bar because he has a 'no-mutant' policy… ironic, huh? He used to come in at least once a week and order Molson Black Ices. But I haven't seen him since."

"Typical," Warren said.

"But unfair. I never even got to thank him." I glanced at the paper then, and pulled out another section – the local news. Folding it flat, I smacked it down on the table for effect. "And, of course, this guy." I pointed to the latest article about the 'Angel': THE ANGEL AVENGES THE BIG APPLE AGAIN! God, those people had a crazy love for alliteration. "How can anyone argue that he's a problem? All he's doing is saving people's lives…"

Warren's eyes slowly wandered over to the paper, but his head remained still, facing me. I tapped the Angel article, but he didn't move to read it. "Hmph," he said.

"Besides, having claws is one thing…" I continued, going full-speed ahead. "I can see how people would be scared of that… I mean, he did scare me, but it's just because I was so shocked and overwhelmed by the moment, anyway… but the Angel? He's got wings, for heaven's sake… how is that going to hurt anyone?"

Warren raised one eyebrow, looking for a moment like he might laugh. "You'd be surprised," he said cryptically.

I chuckled. Standard stubbornness from Warren – he liked to argue over the silliest things, though usually with Jonathan and not me. "What, is he going to flap someone to death? Smother them with feathers?" I stopped, considering some other possibilities. "Well, I guess he could drop someone from the sky, but beyond that, I just don't see the threat."

"I see." He finally moved, shifting in his seat – it was starting to creep me out, how eerily still he'd been sitting – and rested his elbow on the table. I expected him to say something further, but he didn't elaborate. Behind him came a loud crash when a girl dropped a heavy textbook on the floor. I jerked, startled, but he didn't react at all.

I reached up to scratch my neck, feeling very awkward. "So, yeah. There's your reasons. I think being up here in the city, and maybe being introduced to it has kind of made me think that my elders weren't always right, you know? It wouldn't be the first time." I paused. "What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Your opinion. Do you think they're a problem?"

He looked uncomfortable now that the tables were turned and I was asking him questions. What was his deal? We'd been doing fine all evening, he hadn't seemed too discomfited since he'd arrived; he'd even opened up a bit and started conversing like a normal human being there for a minute… God, he was so frustrating. How was he ever going to be a decent successor to his father if he didn't learn how to act around other people?

I smiled at him encouragingly, hoping to put him a little more at ease.

"I don't know," he mumbled. I repressed the urge to sigh.

"Well, I grew up in a small town, and I'd never come across a mutant in my life until I came to New York," I said. "But you grew up here, right? Do you know any? Or do you have any experience with them?"

"No," he said shortly. "Not personally. I've just read a lot about them." His tone changed with those last few words, making it clear he was done with conversation. Therefore, I wasn't surprised to hear the next thing out of his mouth. Warren was master of random, turnabout dialogue, plus he was always looking for an excuse to leave. "What time is it?"

I twisted my wrist, checking my watch. My eyes widened a little. "It's seven-thirty," I said, surprised. Damn, had we been there that long? Didn't seem like it.

He swept up his papers, straightening them up and tossing them into his backpack. "I should go," he said. "I've got… I've got work to do."

"Yeah, same here." I shook my head as I gathered my things. I couldn't even be upset – I'd gotten too used to his weirdness to take too much offense at his eagerness to leave. Besides, he had a point – I hadn't intended to stay so long, either, and I had other errands to attend to before the evening was over.

I threw my bag over one shoulder and followed to leave – he was practically halfway out of the library by the time I'd stood, so I quickened my steps to catch. My heels clicked loudly on the smooth, polished floors as I ran, and I cringed when the sound reverberated around the spacious indoors. I got a reproachful look from the security desk supervisor as I scurried by, so I gave him a hangdog grin of apology.

I caught up with Warren just as we reached the doors to the outside. As we stepped into the cooler air, I wrapped my coat snugly around me, cinching it at the waist. He shrugged into a long trench coat, and without acknowledging me, began walking towards the parking lot. I didn't own a car anymore, so the subway was my main method of transportation and it was about five minutes in the opposite direction. I took a few half-hearted steps that way before stopping.

"Goodnight, Warren," I said, calling to him as he swiftly strode towards his car. My Appalachian country-girl manners wouldn't let me leave without at least attempting a proper farewell. "Thanks for coming."

For a minute, I thought he didn't hear, or maybe he was just choosing to ignore me. But before I could shrug and move on, he stopped, turning halfway and slowly looking over his shoulder. He met my eyes, and I noticed an unguardedness that hadn't been there earlier.

"Yeah," he said. "No problem. Thank you." With that, he promptly turned again and resumed the trek to his car. Effectively leaving me standing, open-mouthed, at yet another of his strange changes of disposition. Thanking me? For what? Doing my job?

I snorted a little, taking long, labored strides towards the subway terminal. What a strange, strange boy. I had the distinct feeling that I know him for the rest of my life and still never truly be able to figure him out.

xxxxx

November 2, 2006

Despite his still-erratic behavior, I felt I'd made a real breakthrough with Warren. I wasn't sure exactly what I'd done or how, but after the time we'd met alone at the library, he wasn't quite as frosty to me. He still treated Jonathan like dirt, but responded politely to my questions and offered me help whenever I needed it.

I even caught him smiling once. During one of our meetings, I'd made a really awful, corny joke about the Gap Baby store really being a Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis clinic ('designer babies', get it? Yeah, it was terrible). Jonathan had groaned, but Warren had actually laughed at the terribleness of it, though he made the effort not to be noticed.

It was surprising how much of a difference that simple gesture made – normally, he was a good-looking guy, but cold and standoffish. Beautiful in an untouchable, Ken-doll type of way. The smile had softened his hard eyes, lightened his face. I'd thought about telling him he should do it more often, but decided against it. He didn't seem the type who would appreciate such a comment.

"How was your Halloween?" Jonathan asked. We were at Café Eva again – it was one off-campus place that all three of us could actually agree on. The library was only open until ten o'clock, which I thought was completely ridiculous, so anytime we had to meet late we came here. Warren hadn't arrived yet, which wasn't surprising. I'd learned not to hold my breath when it came to his attendance.

"It was good," I said, grinning. "We went to Club 141 for their 'Monster Mash Bash'. I ate too much, drank too much, and then got felt up while I was dancing with a guy dressed as Fozzie Bear. Good times all around."

Jonathan raised a dark eyebrow. "Well, that explains why you weren't in class Wednesday. Hangover?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." I groaned. "Felt like my head was splitting open."

"Been there. Not pretty." He sipped on his coke, and I could tell by the way his brow was furrowed that he was about to change his line of thinking. "What about your meeting the other night?" he asked casually, gently stirring the straw in his cup. "How'd that go?"

"With Warren?" I glanced around surreptitiously, as if I expected him to be behind me, eavesdropping. "It was fine."

"Really," Jonathan said, his voice dry.

"Yeah, really. He was fine. He was in a decent mood, overall. No trouble." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, staring down at the table. For some reason, I suddenly felt bad talking about Warren when he wasn't here. I'd had no problem ranting and raving about his attitude in the past, but I was beginning to feel a little guilty about it now.

"A good mood, huh? Must have just checked his stock prices," Jonathan muttered under his breath.

I gave him an annoyed look, but ignored that comment. "We just talked about what we planned on saying, and I brought up the cure issue, and then we talked about it briefly."

"The cure, huh?" He smiled. Jonathan had made it clear that he thought mutants were the bottom-feeders of the earth. Whenever he saw the Angel's picture in the paper he tended to throw it down in disgust and declare that he couldn't believe anyone would trust a creature like that. So judging from his reaction, I guessed that he thought the cure was a dandy idea. "I saw something about that on the news last night. Did he give you any inside information about it?"

"Inside information?" I repeated. "What? No…"

His eyebrow shot up again. "No?"

"No. Why do you say that?"

Jonathan snorted, causing the couple at the table next to us to look up in curiosity. "Oh, maybe because his father is one of the financiers…"

"What?" my jaw dropped. "He never mentioned that…"

"Figures," he muttered. "Yeah, saw it on the news. He and a few other private citizens donated millions to the lab to fund it. Apparently it's been going on for years."

"You're serious," I said, dumbfounded. "Now why wouldn't he have told me that?"

"Why does he do anything that he does?" Jonathan said, anger tinting his words. "Why does he not show up half the time? Why does he never contribute anything? Why does he act like the world revolves around him?"

He's not that bad, Jonathan, calm down…

I sighed, rubbing my forehead. Jonathan never needed an excuse to tear down the guy's character, but Warren, for his part, gave him ample opportunity. And even I was bugged that he hadn't so much as mentioned that he had a 'connection' to the cure… I mean, he probably could get us some behind-the-scenes information on it… and even if he couldn't, why keep it a secret?

"Well, I don't think he's gonna show tonight," I said finally, wishing to move away from this conversation and on to something more productive. It was just after ten o'clock and I was exhausted. "Let's go ahead and start."

xxxxx

The walk to the subway from Café Eva was fairly short and well-lit, but I had a few qualms about going it alone (I'd learned that naiveté was no excuse in this city). I strode as briskly as possible, clutching my tiny bottle of mace and wishing that I'd taken Jonathan up on his offer to walk me to the station.

The regular lights of the city were normally so bright that they washed out the stars of the sky, but tonight there was a full moon and it shone brightly overhead. It hung low; a giant, white disc in the sky. I briefly looked up, taking in the dizzying contradiction of nighttime and blinding luminosity. Back home, where streetlights were nearly non-existent, nights were dark, dotted only with the moon and the faint twinkling of stars. I much preferred the black stillness and the rhythmic sound of crickets breaking the silence of the early-early morning. Bright nights were phenomena I'd yet to get used to.

And then, just before I turned away, something caught my eye. I did a double-take, not believing what I was seeing.

Flying across the backdrop of the moon, just like E.T. in the movie, was a tiny figure, sailing rapidly across the night sky. Too large to be a bird, too small to be any type of aircraft. It disappeared behind a skyscraper a moment later, lost to the night again. The Angel, Avenging the Big Apple Again?

And then I grinned, wide-eyed, suddenly feeling a little safer.