FM May Topic: Sunset
Sunsets are so beautiful that they almost seem as if we were looking through the gates of Heaven. - Sir John Lubbock
Warren knows that his wings aren’t the world’s most useful mutation. He’s gained more useful powers over the years - temporary metal wings that shot paralyzing quills at his enemies, blood that now heals himself and others. Those are the combat mutations, the ones that help him do what he needs to do to save the world alongside his teammates and friends. As a generic “flying guy,” he isn’t special. He’s met dozens of people who can fly, some of whom are even better at it than he is. They’re stronger, or they can maneuver in tighter corners, or they can fly to great heights without suffering from the cold, or they can hover in midair with minimal effort. His original mutation granted him some strength, a bit of enhanced eyesight, but nothing that sets him apart, like Ms. Marvel’s invulnerability or the Falcon’s connection with Redwing or Jean’s infinitely useful telekinesis.
But what the others don’t understand - what they can’t understand - is the way it feels to fly on your own power, on wings that are attached to your body by flesh and tendons and blood vessels and bone. They don’t know what it means to glide on warm thermals, to experience the pressure of air pushing against every bone and feather, to feel the ache in your shoulder blades when you’ve flown for too long. They don’t know the joy of flying that comes from having flight itself inside of you, the instincts and the nerve endings and the powerful compulsion to soar into the open air, into the sunset, into Heaven to join the choir of angels.
Warren’s wings are a part of him, an essential part of his mind, his life, and his very existence. And that’s something no one - not his fellow X-Men, not his fellow flyers, and certainly not the staff at the hospital that arranged their first amputation, years ago - can ever truly understand.
Warren knows that his wings aren’t the world’s most useful mutation. He’s gained more useful powers over the years - temporary metal wings that shot paralyzing quills at his enemies, blood that now heals himself and others. Those are the combat mutations, the ones that help him do what he needs to do to save the world alongside his teammates and friends. As a generic “flying guy,” he isn’t special. He’s met dozens of people who can fly, some of whom are even better at it than he is. They’re stronger, or they can maneuver in tighter corners, or they can fly to great heights without suffering from the cold, or they can hover in midair with minimal effort. His original mutation granted him some strength, a bit of enhanced eyesight, but nothing that sets him apart, like Ms. Marvel’s invulnerability or the Falcon’s connection with Redwing or Jean’s infinitely useful telekinesis.
But what the others don’t understand - what they can’t understand - is the way it feels to fly on your own power, on wings that are attached to your body by flesh and tendons and blood vessels and bone. They don’t know what it means to glide on warm thermals, to experience the pressure of air pushing against every bone and feather, to feel the ache in your shoulder blades when you’ve flown for too long. They don’t know the joy of flying that comes from having flight itself inside of you, the instincts and the nerve endings and the powerful compulsion to soar into the open air, into the sunset, into Heaven to join the choir of angels.
Warren’s wings are a part of him, an essential part of his mind, his life, and his very existence. And that’s something no one - not his fellow X-Men, not his fellow flyers, and certainly not the staff at the hospital that arranged their first amputation, years ago - can ever truly understand.