And the Angel betrayed the Team (Revised)

Sebastian Shaw snapped back to reality, momentarily disoriented by the subtle shift in the room. The repositioning of the X-men caught him off guard, but his gaze immediately locked onto me, where I stood with my hand pressed firmly against my nose. Blood had already stained my chin, mouth, and clothes in a vivid streak of red, which I tried to hide. For a brief moment, Shaw's mind, not noticing the blood on me, flitted to a ridiculous thought: Had I forgotten to shower? He discarded it almost immediately. Focus, Shaw. Focus.

Under the weight of my watchful gaze, Shaw resisted the urge to use the energy he'd absorbed to form anything flashy—no glowing orbs or absurd holographic unicorns. Perhaps it was his strange way of proving me wrong. Whatever the case, Shaw was always composed under pressure. His eyes scanned the room, cold and calculating before his low, dangerous drawl sliced through the silence.

"Where's the telepath?"

Azazel's voice cut through the tension like a razor. "He's not here. Seems he's gone out."

Shaw clicked his tongue, irritation lacing the sound. It was the exasperation of someone realizing the last move in a game had been made without them. What a waste of time. He let out a disappointed sigh, almost theatrical, as though someone had swiped his last bottle of vintage whiskey.

"Hmm," Shaw mused, his tone dripping with mock sadness, "that's unfortunate."

With an exaggerated flourish, Shaw tore off his helmet—an iconic piece that, in time, would be repurposed by none other than Magneto himself. He held it under his arm like a prized accessory, the nonchalance of a model flaunting the latest in mutant fashion. Shaw flashed his signature smile, the one that suggested he was on the verge of revealing some profound truth, some piece of wisdom too complex for others to understand.

"Don't worry," he reassured them, his voice smooth as freshly buffed silver. "I won't hurt you."

He paused for effect, the air thick with expectation.

"In fact…" he continued, drawing out the words with calculated precision, "you've harmed my companion here, but…" His gaze slid sideways to Riptide, whose face still bore the swollen purple imprint of my handiwork—looking like an overripe tomato. Shaw's lips twitched, a barely concealed smirk forming. "Given the… commotion we caused, your reaction is understandable. Forgivable, even."

Shaw stepped closer, handing the helmet to Riptide, who stood simmering with barely contained rage. The poor guy didn't even get the courtesy of an apology—just a glance that clearly communicated one message: You're handling this. And handle it he did, silently glaring with the ferocity of a pressure cooker about to blow.

Meanwhile, Shaw thrived in the tension, basking in the discomfort he cultivated so effortlessly. "We," he said, emphasizing the word, "are not so different, you and I." His gaze swept the room, sharp as a butcher inspecting cuts of meat. "The time for hiding is over. We've made our grand entrance, haven't we?"

A chuckle rumbled in Shaw's chest, a low, amused sound as though he found the situation utterly delightful. "And when humanity realizes the threat our abilities pose to their precious dominance, we will face a choice."

He let the silence linger, suffocating, before continuing.

"Will we allow ourselves to be enslaved and hunted, or will we turn the tables and seize control of this world?"

To anyone with even a shred of common sense, Shaw's rhetoric screamed megalomania dressed in delusions of grandeur. But in 1962, the notion of mutants rising up against their oppressors carried a disturbing appeal. For these individuals, abandoned and rejected by humanity, the sting of being the underdog was all too familiar. Charles had painted Shaw as the villain, a warmonger eager to ignite World War III. The narrative was clear: We're not like humans; we're better. We just need to claim what's rightfully ours.

Shaw let the weight of his words settle in the room, watching the room's occupants for any sign of affirmation. When none came, his smile flickered, barely noticeable.

"Of course," he said, his tone now edged with frost, "you could cower. Side with the humans who ostracize and oppress you." His voice dropped, the finality of his words hanging heavy in the air. "But make no mistake, that choice would brand you my enemy."

The word enemy fell like a bomb, freezing the already stifling air. Shaw leaned in, his presence overwhelming, his every movement designed to make sure no one could escape the gravity of his next words.

"So, choose. Submit and remain slaves, or join me and become the architects of a new world order."

...

I watched the scene unfold with the detached amusement of someone who'd long ago grown numb to grandiose speeches from smooth-talking, power-hungry psychopaths. Shaw had an undeniable skill—charisma seemed to radiate from him, practically glowing. He was the kind of man who could sell sand in the desert, a master of manipulation wrapped in an aura of confidence. But to me, his words were nothing more than hollow promises, the kind you'd expect from a con artist squeezing the last drop out of a desperate mark before disappearing into the night. I wasn't buying it. Men like him were all charm, no substance—predators preying on the desperate and vulnerable as if they were moths drawn to a flame. It was almost laughable. Almost.

Not everyone shared my skepticism. Across the room, Angel—winged, beautiful, and carrying her own scars—shifted in her seat, her body language subtly betraying her inner turmoil. If my resilience had been forged in the fires of a war-torn universe, hers had been shaped in something darker—pain that didn't fade with time or tears. Before she'd met Charles Xavier or Erik Lehnsherr, Angel had been a dancer. Not the kind of graceful ballerina people romanticized, but a performer in a high-end club where the rich and powerful could indulge their every whim. To survive, she'd endured it all—the objectification, the dehumanization. It was a tragic story for anyone, but for someone with wings—unique, striking, impossible to ignore—it was even crueler. Her wings weren't just a part of her; they were a flashing sign screaming freak.

She had clung to hope when she first heard about Professor X's dream—a sanctuary for mutants, a place where her wings wouldn't be exploited or measured solely for their usefulness in a fight. But now? Now she was stuck in a crumbling mansion with other outcasts, under the constant gaze of government agents who might as well have stamped Property of the U.S. Government on their clipboards. Angel's disillusionment had settled in slowly but surely, her mental eye-roll almost audible every time someone mentioned "acceptance."

"I'd rather be ogled in a bar," she'd told Raven once, bitterness sharp in her tone, "than paraded around as some circus animal."

Then Shaw arrived, striding onto the scene with the polished confidence of a villain who knew exactly how to command attention. His voice was smooth, rich with charm, yet edged with a predatory sharpness for those who listened closely. "Or perhaps," he purred, his words dripping with ambition, "you could rise above them all. A queen, maybe? Or even a princess in the new world we'll build."

His gaze brushed over me briefly, so fleeting it might have seemed dismissive, but there was something in it—a challenge, perhaps, or a flicker of curiosity. Whatever it was, I refused to react. Not a flinch, not a glance. Men like him were a dime a dozen, their snake-oil charm painfully familiar. I scoffed quietly and turned away, dismissing him as easily as an unwanted commercial. His hand lingered in the air, a silent invitation, but this time his charm found no purchase.

Angel, though—poor Angel—was another story. Shaw's promises of power, control, and a world where her wings wouldn't be a spectacle struck a nerve. It was the kind of offer that could intoxicate someone who had spent their life scraping by. Tentatively, her fingers brushed his hand. The hesitation was brief as if she were standing on the edge of a high dive, but it was enough. Then, with sudden resolve, she gripped his hand firmly. Just like that, the decision was made.

Darwin's voice cut through the tension, heavy with disbelief and hurt. "You can't be serious." The fragile bond of shared struggle between him and Angel cracked, splintering under the weight of her choice. Watching her walk toward Shaw felt like watching a trusted friend turn their back for good.

Angel turned to face the group, her voice steady but with a sharpness that couldn't be missed. "He's right. We don't belong here. Leaving isn't weakness—it's a chance for something better." Her gaze swept the room, lingering long enough for the weight of her words to settle. She didn't expect applause, but the lack of response stung. With one last glance, she turned back to Shaw, her grip tightening on his hand as they walked out together.

The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that pressed in from all sides, making it hard to breathe. Shaw didn't need to force anyone's hand; his persuasion was a quiet pull, insidious and persistent. If not for his deep-seated racism and insatiable hunger for power, he might have been the kind of leader people could rally behind. Instead, he was just another predator cloaked in charisma and promises. But isn't that what villains are? They wouldn't get far if they couldn't sell the dream.

...

Frustration gnawed at Darwin. His body jerked forward, driven by the instinct to chase after Angel, to stop her from walking out with Shaw and his crew. But Alex was there, quick as ever, planting a firm hand on his chest, a human firewall against his well-meaning but reckless impulse.

"Hold it, fuzzball," Alex said, her tone firm but layered with sympathy. "She made her choice."

"But we can't just let her walk out the door with those creeps!" Darwin's voice cracked with anger, raw and desperate. "She's our teammate!"

Alex's sigh was long, weighted. "She was our teammate," she corrected gently, her eyes softening. "Even if you could reach her, what then? Did you see what happened to Tempestas? Her blasts were useless against them. Your power's bio-adaptation, right? It won't rewrite physics and make you bulletproof."

For once, Darwin was silent, the edge of his anger dulled by the hard truth. Alex's practicality was irrefutable. He glanced at me, eyes wide, as if expecting me to back him up. I met his gaze with a grim nod, offering what little comfort I could.

"Yeah," I said, my voice flat, drained of emotion. "Shaw absorbs energy. My lightning, your adaptation, Banshee's sonic blasts—none of it works against him. A straight-up brawl? We're out of our league."

The truth was cold, biting, and heavy. We were powerful, sure, but against Shaw? A walking energy sponge? Our abilities might as well have been pebbles against a tank.

Darwin clenched his fists, the helplessness in his posture making my stomach twist. He was supposed to be the protector, the adaptable one. But here, in the face of something he couldn't change, his greatest strength felt useless. His frustration simmered, but there was nothing left to do but watch, bitterness choking us as Angel left with Shaw. We were powerless to stop her.

Minutes later, Shaw hit the ground. Swaggering one moment, bleeding from every possible opening the next, collapsing faster than a poorly assembled IKEA shelf. If Darwin and Alex had been there, they would've relished the drama, maybe even cracked a smile. But they weren't. And I was too busy watching the aftermath to gloat.

The kicker? Azazel. Normally, the picture of calm and smug confidence, appeared beside Shaw with a face that screamed, Nope, not today! Realizing the situation was spiraling faster than he could teleport, Azazel did the only logical thing—he teleported Shaw out, a fragile package barely holding together.

Angel? She was left standing there, wings sagging, the weight of reality crashing down on her. Maybe she'd expected a pep talk, maybe a "Welcome to the club" moment. Instead, she got nothing—just the cold shoulder from Shaw's crew. His self-proclaimed "princess" had been benched, forgotten. The silence that followed was thick with awkwardness.

Me? I was already drafting my victory speech, at least mentally. Sure, I was exhausted, bleeding as though I'd just left a bar fight, but watching Shaw eat dirt? Absolutely priceless. "Ants really can take down an elephant," I muttered, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Who needs a big stick when you've got brains and a solid plan?"

The room was slowly starting to settle, the tension easing just enough for Raven to approach. Her expression was a careful mix of worry and curiosity, her eyes scanning the blood on my face before her gaze lifted to meet mine. "Are you alright? You're bleeding."

I wiped my face absently, my hand coming back red. Whoops. "Oh, this?" I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "A nosebleed. Happens when I get excited."

Raven's eyes narrowed, unimpressed. "It looks more like someone punched you."

"You should've seen the other guy," I quipped, the casualness of my tone more for my benefit than hers.

Raven didn't argue. Instead, she gently took my arm, her voice soft but firm. "Come on. You need to rest. You're overdoing it."

For a moment, I felt the walls crack—a tiny fracture, but it was enough. I looked at her, and for once, there was no sarcasm, no biting wit. "Thanks, Raven," I said quietly, my voice softer than usual. I hugged her back, and it wasn't the usual stiff, awkward gesture. It was real, brief, but real.

...

The room felt emptier, even with the others still there. The weight of Angel's departure hung heavy, like the aftermath of a storm that had just moved on, leaving everyone standing in the wreckage. I could almost hear the subtle shift in the air, a collective exhale from the group, though no one voiced it. Some were too busy with their own thoughts, while others simply didn't know what to say.

Darwin was still processing, his gaze distant, the frustration from earlier now mixed with guilt. He had been the first to try to stop Angel, the one to rush forward with the conviction that he could fix it, could save her. But now, he was left standing there, helpless, his power—the very thing that made him so valuable—feeling useless in the face of Shaw's overwhelming control. His hands clenched at his sides, but there was no more energy in him to act. Darwin was emotionally spent, the weight of his own inadequacies pressing down on him. And though his eyes flickered toward the door Angel had walked through, he didn't move. No point.

Havoc stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, his jaw tight. He was the last person to give in to emotions, but the tension was starting to fray at the edges of his usual composure. He glanced at the others, at Sean in particular, the unspoken question in his gaze clear—What now? But Sean was somewhere between shock and disbelief, still stuck in the aftershock of the whole encounter. Havoc couldn't bring himself to talk. Not yet. He wasn't sure what to say anymore, especially not after the way Angel had just turned her back on them. The bitterness in his gut wasn't something he was accustomed to, but it burned through him anyway.

Sean—Banshee—was sitting, leaning against a table, his hands resting on his knees. His voice was a quiet hum, barely more than a murmur. "I thought we had her," he said, almost to himself. There was no malice in his words, just the kind of sad realization that came with losing someone to a cause you couldn't control. A mix of disappointment and self-doubt. Sean had tried. He'd tried to be the encouraging, optimistic one, but after seeing Angel walk out, after seeing Shaw pull her away with such ease, the cracks were starting to show. It wasn't the first time they'd lost someone, but this felt different. She hadn't just left them—she'd chosen him. Them. Shaw.

And Raven… Raven had always been the quiet one, the observer. But even she couldn't hide the sharpness in her gaze, the tension in her posture. It was a subtle thing, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn't paying attention, but it was there. Her concern for Sarah was genuine, but it wasn't the only thing eating at her. She had always had an affinity for feeling out other people's emotions, and right now, she could feel the weight of everyone else's dissatisfaction, their internal conflict. It wasn't something she wanted to carry, but she did anyway. She could almost taste the hopelessness in the room, and she hated it. She hated seeing her friends, her team, torn apart by someone like Shaw. They had all fought so hard to be accepted, to find a place where they didn't have to hide, but Shaw had a way of twisting that, using it against them as a weapon. Raven had fought it herself, even if no one else could see the strain it took. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold on to the idea of belonging.

"Do you think she'll come back?" Sean asked, his voice cracking with uncertainty. He didn't need to clarify who he was talking about. They all knew. Angel's wings had carried her out of their lives, leaving them with nothing but the bitter taste of abandonment.

Raven's gaze flickered toward the door. She didn't say anything, but the hesitation in her silence spoke volumes. There was hope buried in there somewhere, but it was fading fast.

Darwin broke the silence, though his voice was still thick with doubt. "Maybe she'll come to her senses."

"Or maybe she won't," Havoc muttered. "We can't keep holding on to the idea that we can save everyone."

The words hit harder than intended, but he wasn't wrong. It wasn't that they didn't want to help; it was that sometimes, people had to make their own choices—even if it meant walking away.

The tension in the room shifted as Raven took a slow breath, her voice softer than the moment called for. "We all have our breaking points," she said, her eyes lingering on the door Angel had walked through. "And sometimes, they don't come back."

The quiet that followed felt like it lasted an eternity, stretching out as the thin line of hope severed when Angel chose Shaw. In the silence, the weight of the situation hung heavier than words ever could. There was nothing left to do but watch, waiting to see how much more of themselves they were willing to lose before they started to break, too.

...

Back in my room, I collapsed onto the bed, boneless and drained. "Today was a win," I murmured to myself. "But stopping time? Yeah, not doing that again. That stunt drained me faster than an iPhone running 50 apps." I let out a slow breath, exhaustion settling over me like an unwelcome blanket. "If there was another fight… it wouldn't have been pretty." 

I let my mind wander as I idly inspected one of the two bipyramids still lodged inside my body—the presumed culprits for stranding me in this reality. 'It's not about the amount of Temporal Energy,' I thought, exhaling slowly. 'I barely used any. So why such a strain on my body?' 

I had manipulated time and space before. Minor shifts hadn't been a big deal in the past—even without an angel or demon. It had been second nature, effortless even. Why was it so difficult now? Why had it drained me more than I'd expected? And why did Time and space manipulation require more than my will, I didn't need any type of energy to command lightning, water, or any other element. 

"That reminds me..." The thought lingered in my mind, clinging like a shadow. "I need to keep working on those skills I used to have... from when I possessed Zaphkiel and Lucifugus."

Then my mind wandered to tonight's gain. The nanites had never been about outright eliminating Shaw, Riptide, and Azazel. That would've made the future she knew collapse. For now, I was satisfied with securing their blood to study their abilities. 

However, the train of thought trailed off as sleep began to tug at me. My mind, spinning with plans, questions, and exhaustion, finally surrendered to the weight of the night.