we have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone, of course they aren't pretty, nothing holy ever is • brenna twohy

It isn’t a question that goes without considerable thought, the inevitable that rests on his shoulders with a weight much like that of the wings perched on his back: What happens when the world finds out?

It goes beyond inevitable recognition as someone other than the youthful New York socialite-turned-military man who had swept up the reins of his family’s company after avoiding it; the former Air Force pilot with little to speak of in the business world besides a number of powerful connections thanks to the generations that had come before him; and the husband-to-be of San Francisco’s own Supergirl, something that, while not kept secret, still seems exist on a welcome personal plane of friends and family than in the pages of tabloids and social media networks like a life left behind in the Big Apple.

It goes beyond being the figurehead of a multi-billion dollar military manufacturer, a vote of confidence granted to the Public Relations team of Warren Enterprises in the quick-to-action firefighting campaign to come off the broadcasts from Battleworld; and it goes beyond the impact sure to be found in a government who might not have been so unfamiliar with the fact super powered individuals lived among them, but were chomping at the bit to push their own agendas where they could with mutants in their ranks. It is something that speaks of very little good when found in the shadows of Warren’s memories, resting in a time and place that seemed defined by widespread fear and hated of that which they didn’t understand or simply didn’t care to, and it had lost Warren everything.

No, it had everything to do with the implication that came with a visage only growing more and more religious as time went on, something born not of long laid Protestant belief or Catholic faith or Judaic tenets and practice as he was taking his time and making an effort to learn and understand for the nuptials to come; but of his own twisted existence in a world that both loved and revered something as holy an angel, but that had seen the dark side of ascension just as well.

And he too had seen it - in himself and in the Death Flight and the Choir born of his own wings, shelter to the Apocalypse Stand that, when cut from his own flesh, had only ever born malicious, evil things, bringing upon the Earth destruction and death - the very Rapture - even if there hadn’t been Horsemen to do it for him.

It existed in becoming a figure - and idol - of something far more powerful than even homo superior considered themselves at one time; a venerable being of such holy prestige, not worshipped, but recognized as some sign of otherworldly existence that wasn’t the Cheyarafim or the Neyaphem, neither Seraphim in close proximity to the throne in such holy fire as he might have once felt through the Black Vortex or those burning endlessly in the depth of Hell, exalted in a way that sparked such fanaticism to see him a product of God himself or an abomination forged by the Devil as a way to trick mankind against such long laid belief; because what angel would be such a purveyor of death and war? What angel would make his millions off weapons of destruction, the very same that saw such used on both sides - not always as a legal acquisition, but something dug up from the rubble of past defeat? What angel sought mortal exaltation through death?

The answer had been too easy: This one.

The one that had been called many things in his life on both sides of fences that had, over a years time, had smashed together in such a way where the lines were no longer so laid out in the sand. The one that had served the community as a mutant, willing and able to help those who could not help themselves only to be turned on by said community, cast off as a freak, something inhuman, not of their own despite the lineage that spoke volumes of humanity as homo sapiens defined. The one that had funneled his money into ways and means of keeping his team together while hoping to improve public opinion only to have it turned and twisted and slid out from underneath him as readily as the Marauders had stolen his wings - a repetitive pattern no matter how he had picked up and been picked up along the way.

Though no life lived, he could still feel it - the prick of needles into the backs of others when the Purifiers had built their Choir out of his very flesh, wings torn off through manipulation of one of their own - Wolfsbane, one of the new Mutants and one of the first who had been brought to Xavier’s when the Institute was still considered young, the one they saved, the reason why they risked their lives, the ones - her and the generations of mutants to follow - they died for; and just as she had committed such atrocities found in broken hollow bone and surgical bites into flesh, so had he on the manipulations of another who knew well enough just what scourge they could be on everyone, and had used it to their advantage.

And he had slaughtered them all.

The Angel Gabriel. The Angel Michael. The Angel Daniel. None were really what they were believed to be: Servants of Purifiers, anointed in the eyes of God to clean the plague of mutant-kind from the planet through mechanisms acquired from that born of the Devil, the servant of Satan himself, the Angel of Death come in mutant form for such a day - The Day - of reckoning as had befallen The Choir. Though holy in form, surely they hadn’t been holy in creation, manipulated just as well by evils beyond them and twisted until it had sealed their fate; and their Angel of Death, their mutant beneficiary of blood and techno-organic metal through no willingness of his own, of disease meant to bring about the end of humankind, had no triumph stand over their corpses as he did a fall.

Who was he to bring that onto the world? A culmination of what could have been, what perhaps should have been, and the twisted vestigial mission of being synonymous with the end of the world? Was he one to be believed in? Or was he what the Purifiers and their Choir had claimed in the name of the Almighty who saw no reason to strike them down prior to such manifested hatred and fear as mankind exhibited?

But, as it had come many times in one life and far more in another, there was always some iota of possibility that things wouldn’t have been so bad as history suggested; that even such a being as an angel fallen from grace could be welcomed with open arms into the fold of existence, granted some means of divine favor through a sword unused and such capacity to see the world as it truly was: Not a rotten husk of what mankind had made it, but something in bloom to something new despite the destruction that seemed to envelope it now.

And that was hope.

And that was why the Blue Lantern Ring had chosen him.