(no subject)

[wingedman]

who: Sam & others
what: late April/early May catch-all
when: see above
where: around the city
warnings: none yet, will edit if applicable

Getting superpowers is the last thing Sam expects, but early one morning, he's woken up not by a noise, but by a feeling in his mind. (And, okay, by the sound of wings beating against his window.) Outside is the largest damn bird he's ever seen, a white gyrfalcon easily the size of a hawk. It cocks its head, looking quizzically at him before hopping in through the open window.

:You.:

Yep, Sam definitely hears that in his head. And while he knows the other Sam has a psychic bird, he's never shown the first sign of any sort of a rapport with his feathered friends. "Me?"

:Everything else, quiet. I hear you, come find bondmate. Strange place, not-home, need mind-friend to hunt with.: Images come along with the words, images and feelings - the confusion of being in a city, a familiarity with wilds and deep forests, the desire for someone to share his mind with.

(Does everything talk around here? Sam wonders for a moment.)

"Do you have a name?"

:Name? Hatched outside the Vale, never had a name.:

He thinks about calling him Redwing, but that would just be confusing, not to mention inaccurate. "Right. Well, we'll have to think about that, then." Not that he has any idea what to name a talking bird. Or how to feed him - although he's probably capable of hunting for himself. Sam's seen enough wildlife here, not to mention past the Perimeter, that it's pretty safe to assume there's plenty of food for a bird. (Maybe he can ask Bucky to bring in some smaller game.)

Right now, Sam just sinks back in bed with a sigh. He really doesn't know how to cope with this kind of thing.

--

open prompts:

i
It's early in the morning, and instead of jogging, Sam finds himself at one of the city's open markets. The bird (still unnamed) can hunt for himself, but he likes to have meat around for him, just in case. And he knows damn well he can't just go to a butcher's and buy it; it's got to be fresh. Which is why he's got a couple of packages under one arm; one of them happens to be leaking animal blood through the white paper and onto the sidewalk as he heads back home.

Sam pauses at a stall with fresh baked goods - he's not passing up the opportunity for cooking ingredients, either - and leans in to look at some pastries. "What do you think?" He asks the opinion of a fellow shopper; maybe they've tried the food before, or maybe they've got a thing for pastries. It never hurts to get a second opinion.

ii
Sam's alone in the gym - or so he thinks - when he tugs off his tank top and lets a pair of wings slide out of his back. There's a metal frame at the top of the wings, made from a light alloy; the wings themselves appear to be made of light, a rich, transparent ruby red. Sam's not flying with them at the moment; instead, he continues his sparring routine. It's important to get a feel for them even on the ground, to know how having them extended affects his combat - same way he'd practiced with the jetpack. (Which he hasn't abandoned completely; the harness is in a corner, and the discarded tank top appears to be sweaty enough that it should be obvious that he's worked out with the extra weight on his back, too.)

He hears a noise and swivels on the balls of his feet mid-strike, and the wings fold into his back again. "Sorry, I thought I was alone in here."

[ooc: Character-specific closed starters to come in the comments! In case you're curious, Sam has acquired a Tayledras bondbird (basically a psychic bird) and bird telepathy, plus a nifty new pair of bionic wings.

I'm also totally open to firefly prompts, but would like to discuss them first! Drop me a pm or a plurk if you're interested.]

Comments

for Wanda

[wingedman]

"All right, hold on, we gotta work something out," he tells the bird, who seems content to dig furrows into the back of his desk chair with long, sharp talons. (God, does he need to look into getting a perch? Does the bird want to sleep inside?)

Sam pulls a tank top on and runs upstairs, knocking on the door of Wanda's room. "Hey, Wanda, we got a bit of a situation here - well, I do. I need you to bring the mouse pope down to my room whenever you're decent."

Although he's not actually sure she's awake - but it's better to do this sooner, rather than later. He doesn't want the bird to get any ideas.

[divulsion]

Wanda is awake. Sort of. The mice had been celebrating long into the evening, marking the occasion during which they had killed a vicious snake a block down from the house. Wanda had been surprised to see them methodically skinning the snake and roasting chunks of the meat on a tiny fire on the back porch while others had begun dividing the skin.

Their celebrations and cheering and singing hadn't really finished until two in the morning.

She comes to the door, bed head and all, wrapped up in a robe.

"Sam, what's wrong?" she asks, brows drawn together. She can feel the stress coming off of him but she can't for the life of her guess what's happening.

[wingedman]

Sam opens his mouth, almost starts to speak, then realizes he can't actually put what's going on right now into words. "It's a long story," he says instead.

(A long story that encompasses about five minutes of his life.)

"I'll explain everything, just bring her to my room, okay?"

[divulsion]

"Okay, I'll be there soon," she says, then closes the door.

Wanda slips on a pair of slippers (they're bunny slippers which amuses Sam to no end) and then ducks down to the closet to get the attention of the mice. Politely, she requests the presence of the Mouse Priestess, letting her climb onto her hand before taking her with her.

The other mice, at Wanda's request, stay behind while she heads downstairs to Sam's room.

She comes to his door and knocks, brows furrowed.

"Sam, what's going on?"

i

[toolatetochangethename]

Oh, hell yeah, Scott has a thing for pastries. Really anything other than prison food and ramen (dude, four ex cons in an apartment? Not exactly haute cuisine) is his jam.

"Get the blueberry ones. You know, all those antioxidants and health stuff that you're probably into." Because you're probably like that.

[wingedman]

"I'm not sure if they're still healthy when they're in pastry," Sam jokes. (He is into health stuff, but he also has a sweet tooth - he just works out enough to balance it out.) "You kinda lose some of the benefits when you add sugar and butter into the mix."

[toolatetochangethename]

"You say that like sugar and butter are bad things." Dude, they are core components in waffles, and waffles are the bomb. "Besides, live a little. All work and no play and all that." You don't want to be a dull boy, do you, Sam?

for 616 Tony

[wingedman]

"Probably best to go outside," Sam offers as he leads Tony through the house, grabbing a platter of caramel fudge brownies on their way through the kitchen. "Otherwise there won't be enough room for the whole wingspan."

Not that he's showing off, but...okay, he's totally showing off. You know what they say about guys with big wingspans, after all.

Once they're outside, he passes the brownies over to Tony and peels off his shirt, stretching out on the grass. The wings unfurl from his back and ignite (not entirely unlike a lightsaber, except silent), spreading out to their full extension, a brilliant scarlet against the rich green of the grass.

"Do your worst, but if you break it, you bought it," he cautions him. "And pass me a brownie."

[amelioraate]

When Sam told him about the wings, it was really no surprise that Tony wanted to get his hands on them. Well, metaphorically. Mostly. I mean, c'mon, he was incredibly interested in what this place could do in terms of technology, especially when he didn't see obvious uses of it everywhere in this place, even when it was clear that it was a thing.

So, Tony follows Sam outside, half a brownie in his mouth (hot damn they are good, he is stealing some to squirrel away thank you) as he watches Sam strip down, wings flaring to life. And, well, they are fucking impressive wings, Tony can already tell that the engineering of them is incredible, and the fact that they are seamlessly integrated with Sam's biology is also impressive.

Moving to kneel next to him, Tony finishes his brownie and puts the plate within reach of Sam, eyes alight with amusement.

"I'm not going to break anything, wow, have you met me? I only make things better and--- oooh, I can totally get behind the projection field that these are giving off. Hell, it could be used as a jumping point to expandable shielding for you and a few others."

[wingedman]

"I have met you," he retorts, "and that's why I'm telling you not to break anything." But he says it with a teasing grin, propping his chin on one hand. Even if he did break anything, he'd probably manage to improve it while fixing it. That's just the kind of guy Tony Stark is, in every universe.

Sam snags a brownie and munches on it while Tony talks, listening to the genius's enthusiasm. It's endearing, really, and he finds himself smiling. "I could get behind that," he agrees. "They don't work quite the same way as the jetpack - those wings I can fold in front of me and use as shielding, but these aren't hinged like that. So anything you can do with that would be great." Sure, he's got tactical gear to protect him, but that isn't as bulletproof as he'd like.

for Michael

[wingedman]

Not too long after they return from the mission, Sam shows up at the office Michael shares with Tony at the end of the day. This isn't an uncommon occurrence - he drops by from time to time to chat with them and keep an eye on what's happening, and maybe to deliver food to make sure that they eat while being geniuses. (Also, whenever the breakroom runs out of coffee, this is usually the only place to find caffeine. Sam has his priorities.)

But this time, his goal is a little different: Sam remembers his promises, and he keeps them. "I still owe you a drink," he points out to Michael with a smile. "If you're up for it?"

[prisonking]

"If I'm up for it." Michael takes a look around the office. There's no shortage of work to be done. There never is. Every solution brings a new problem. Michael's desk is piled high with books, papers and pieces of scrap metal marked with small notations.

He's tired. He always is. Most nights, he works until dinner and heads back to the communal living quarters after he's grabbed something to eat. His social life is more or less in the same state as the wall: in constant disrepair.

It feels like a lot of effort to be around people. Saying no would be easy, and it would be safe, but Sam isn't just people. One way or another, Sam always manages to bring a smile to his face, and maybe Michel he needs that more than he needs another quiet night inside, and alone. There's plenty of time to be an introvert on another day.

"Yeah, I'm up for it. One drink." He grabs his jacket, pushing away from his desk and heading towards the door before he can change his mind.

[wingedman]

Judging by the state of the office, the two of them are reaching a point where someone needs to pry them out before they go insane or have a breakdown, and Sam's apparently that person, at least for Michael. He'll let someone else take care of Tony. Sure, there's plenty of work to be done, but Sam knows how important it is to take care of yourself, too. Even if that means letting something go till tomorrow so you can go out and have a beer.

"Good man." Sam grins brightly at him. "I could use some company tonight - and hell, if you ever manage to pry yourself away from that desk, you're more than welcome to come over to my place for dinner sometime." Anytime, really. Sam and Wanda both tend to cook for a crowd.

[prisonking]

"Sure, and I can stop anytime I want, by the way." Michael throws a smirk back over his shoulder, along with a wave to Tony.

The halls are more or less empty. Only the singles and the workaholics are left in the building. Michael falls into both categories, and he rarely leaves before it's dark. He actually squints into the sun once they step outside, shielding his eyes to look at Sam.

"Sam Wilson needs company? That's hard to believe. I thought you had this whole town in your phone book."

for Stephen

[wingedman]

"Does he look magic to you?" Sam gestures to the bird, who's sitting on a tree branch in his yard. He doesn't know if Stephen can even tell whether something's magical, but he's the Sorcerer Supreme, so he imagines it sort of comes with the territory. "Cause I don't know about your world, but psychic birds don't just...appear out of nowhere."

:Not magic.: The bird's voice sounds testy in his head, as if they've gone over this multiple times. (They have, but Sam just wants to check with an expert. What does a bird know about magic?)

"I keep sort of...feeling other birds, too," he continues. "Like. Around the edges of my mind. I know they're there - not many of them, not unless I leave the city. I haven't tried to talk to any of them yet, though." In case he makes his psychic bird jealous, which is a sentence he'd never thought he'd actually utter, and yet, here he is. If anyone's going to understand the situation, or at least not bat an eyelash at it, it's probably Stephen Strange.

[suckstobestrange]

He wasn't privy to the communication- but the bird certainly looked annoyed at the question which just earned a faint chuckle from Stephen as he settled hands on his hips with a lift of a brow.

But then Sam was continuing so he withheld any commentary, attention shifting more to him at the moment.

"It sounds to me like whatever this is, it's not him, but you. I mean, if it was just your new friend here who was the source of it, you wouldn't be feeling all those other birds, right?" Usually anyways. It made sense to him, anyways.

[wingedman]

"Okay, but have you ever seen a falcon this big before?" Although, Sam realizes, Stephen might not be familiar with birds. Sam doesn't have that much first-hand experience with them, either, but he knows that the markings on his feathers and the shape of his wings make him some sort of falcon, even though he's easily the size of a hawk.

(He's going to get a lot of first-hand experience with birds in the future, he suspects suddenly.)

"And he speaks in sentences." Sort of, but he wouldn't really expect birds to communicate in English at all.

[suckstobestrange]

"Not a normal falcon, but for all we know this could be a native species or something." He's not a bird aficionado like some he knows, but he's been around long enough to see the general gamut. "I'm getting a bead on something. Not enough to say for sure if you're the source or he is, or if it's a spell of some form, but there's magic of some sort in the mix."

Not that it helped much, but it was more information than Sam had started with.

"English? Hm. Might just be how the link works; translating bird thoughts into a form that you can understand. I imagine if you were to see what he was getting from you it'd be the reverse."

i

[getjackedup]

[Tolemi is currently picking up ideas for new pastries to try at the restaurant. He's not sure about these ones, but he's keeping an open mind. When the guy next to him asks him the question he stops and looks at him before sliding his eyes back over the various selections.]

Don't try the ones with the flower press on the end. Too much of something that is worst cinnamon or the sugariest chili powder ever.

[His nose burns just leaning towards them.]

[wingedman]

That is a weird combination.

[Sam makes a face at the thought. Why would you ruin perfectly good pastries like that? He's almost tempted to see if the mice like them, but you don't mess around with buying baked goods for rodents.]

They sure like their spicy foods here - and I'm all for spice, don't get me wrong, but there's a point that crosses the line between flavor and heat, you know? Too much just drowns everything else out.

[getjackedup]

Spicy, sugary, saucy, you name it they have it somewhere around here in excess. Shouldn't be surprised, but I am.

[Not that different from his own world, but at least there he knows what to avoid. Here it's been trial by olfactory glands.]

If you want anything worth while the fluffy bun shapes ones have a filling that smells like pineapple cream cheese. Or something like it.

[wingedman]

[He studies the pastries for a moment, then gestures for the stall's owner to package some up.]

The mice might like those.

[Yes, mice. Sam's life is weird. (The mice, admittedly, usually like anything remotely related to pastry, so they'll be more than happy with the selection.)]

I'm Sam, by the way.

ii

[fingerstripes]

Dick's been holding himself in his upside position more by accident than design, watching those wings unfold with something hedging close to stunned fascination. And it hits him at once just how rude that actually is, now that the guy's noticed him.

"No, don't let me stop you."

He lets go of the bar and drops with a acrobatic little twist. He has the courtesy to look a little abashed.

"I can come back if I'm underfoot. Saw the door was open."

[wingedman]

Sam twists his head to see where the voice is coming from, spotting Dick just before he drops to the ground. It's a nice landing, and he's impressed - even more impressed by the fact that he's just been hanging up there for who knows how long. That, as Sam knows, takes some well-developed upper body strength.

"Man, if I didn't even see you till now, there's no way you're underfoot. You're more than welcome to stay - room's big enough for the both of us."

[fingerstripes]

"Looks like you could use the space more than I can."

He says it with a half-sheepish grin, but then he returns to the bar with a light-footed flip. He's here to practice form.

"Just give me a shout out if you need more room."