Warren's wings make him the easiest original X-Man to recognize from across a page. They also make an injury painfully specific. When the wings are damaged, the ability that mos…

Warren's wings make him the easiest original X-Man to recognize from across a page. They also make an injury painfully specific. When the wings are damaged, the ability that most visibly defines him is the thing he cannot count on. In X-Men #27, he goes after his friends anyway. He is too weak to fly, so he takes a car. At the Puppet Master's hideout, the decisive act is getting the controlling doll away from the villain and breaking it. Warren doesn't need a spectacular aerial maneuver to save the people inside. That scene gives his loyalty some weight. The wealthy, handsome teammate could easily remain an assortment of advantages. Here, his body is failing him, and he still chooses to make himself useful. A different kind of loyalty opens #49. Warren visits the closed mansion because the place still matters to him. The other X-Men aren't there, Xavier is believed dead, and the building feels like the remains of a life that has ended. He goes in anyway and discovers Cerebro registering a new emergency. His return becomes the first step in bringing the team together again. There is no formal command from their teacher to make it happen. Warren notices that something is wrong and reaches for his friends. The late-1960s stories also give him impatience, romantic jealousy and the confidence to charge toward a threat before he has quite understood it. Those traits keep him from turning into a purely noble symbol with feathers attached. Warren is at his most interesting here when flight is only part of the answer. A wounded man driving to help and an old student checking an empty house both tell us something about him that another elegant landing would leave out.