"Angel: Requiem For The Champions"

He sat on the balcony, overlooking a city that he once dreamed himself a part of. The wind was from the south, and it rippled through his wings, spreading them behind him. Warren Worthington III stepped back and walked from his perch.

"This lousy place never was worth the money I paid for it," he muttered as he walked into what once was his bedroom. The place was a shambles, and had been for years.

"Heroes for the common man. What the Hell was I thinking of?"

"Los Angeles is a nice city," he thought, "but the Champions were just a bad idea. A bad idea at a bad time. Not enough super-heroes in Los Angeles to get the support of the people. Of course, it probably didn't help that we got attacked and beaten up at one of our own press conferences."

Bobby and I were just looking for something to do after the X-Men, Warren thought as he continued his flashlight tour of the former Champions building. We just felt so...out of place. Xavier had all of the new team to deal with. I had money, we had free time, it seemed like a good idea at the time. We had been part of a super-hero team since we were teenagers. It was all we had ever known.

Warren entered a hallway, and looked down at the remnants of the omnium steel door that littered the hallway. "I guess I should have cleaned up after that last fight Bobby and I had with Rampage," he thought. "And why was Spider-Man there?" He no longer remembered. It seemed like three lifetimes ago.

The hallway opened into the meeting area, and Warren sat at the head chair as he did so long ago. He silently unscrewed the top on the thermos he had brought, and poured himself a cup.

"To us," he announced to no one. "To the Champions. Heroes for the common man." His cup raised in tribute, and then...

"Don't move!"

Warren's eyes narrowed in the flashlight beam, as he tried to see who his midnight companion was.

"Emmitt?"

"Yeah?" the flashlight lowered. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Warren. The Angel? Mr. Worthington? I used to own this building? About twenty years ago?"

"Mr. Worthington? Oh, sorry, sir," the elderly black man said as he lowered the flashlight and peered over his thick glasses. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm still security here, and I saw somebody on one of the cameras. How've you been?"

"Emmitt, let's just say I've been good, bad, and all over. How about you? I never expected to still see you here."

Emmitt walked up to Warren, and sat in one of the oversized chairs. "To tell you the truth, sir, this is my last night. I'm retiring today with fifty years of service. I was hoping I wouldn't have to pull my mace on somebody on my last night."

"Me too," Warren laughed. He looked at Emmitt, and chuckled to himself at the strange juxtaposition of the seventy-year old man sitting in a chair that once held an Olympian God. "I just came back because it's sort of a special night for me. It was twenty years ago that I founded the Champions." And eighteen years ago that I disbanded them, he thought.

"Oh, well. Happy Anniversary."

"Thanks. I kind of came up here to drink a little toast to our old friends. You want a sip?"

"Oh, no sir, I couldn't," Emmitt said. "Not on the job."

"Oh, come on. It's your last night. You can tell your grandkids you drank with a superhero."

Emmitt held out his hand, and took the cup from Warren. He first took a sip, then downed the cup. "Smooth," he blurted. "You always could afford the good stuff, Mr. Worthington."

"Tonight, Emmitt, call me Warren." He got up and spread his wings, tiredly stretching to full extension. "I was going to take one last swing through this place before I left. Would you like a guided tour?"

-- Continued On Page 2