@magnctismus
Warren was possibly having one of the exhilarating nights of his life since arriving in New York after strategically ( and spontaneously ) pursing the underground mutant night life of the sleepless, chaotic city. He may not have known anyone, but it didn’t stop him from mingling with a whole host of social circles, mutants and humans alike, feeling particularly more welcome than he was in Germany. Though some were apprehensive at first, Warren could warm up a crowd after a shot or two. Four drinks later, he was skipping through packed bars, catching the last hours of a ear-splitting concert, making out with a strange tattooed girl, stealing a pair of sunglasses and discussing morality and death with a barman. In the later hours, he scored some more drinks, went to three more clubs and found himself sipping yet another drink in a tattoo parlour while the artist used the intricate blades of his wings as a reference.
Eventually he was forcibly thrown out for being too aggressive, swearing too much and smashing his glass. Warren was left to stagger down the empty street, intoxicated beyond reason and overwhelmed with the heady liquor he’d consumed throughout the night. It wasn’t until his vision blurred and knees felt weak when he began to consider he’d gone too far this time–– despite enjoying most of the night. A palm reached out for the cold brick of a wall to support himself, stopping to wait for his head to stop spinning. Warren took a few more uncoordinated steps down a side street, utterly oblivious to his surroundings until he collapsed onto the sidewalk.
