For Arrow, re: his character Richard Gallian. (See eg.
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/14510431/ .) Any canon errors are mine.

Exploration Flight

The backpack weighed heavily on Richard's shoulders as he left home at
dawn. His breath puffed visibly and he kept his hands firmly in his
coat. Not that anyone was likely to see him, but he didn't want them to
wonder or worry or call his parents. He'd be fine.

Richard hiked out of town, which wasn't far, into the snowy woods.
Augusta, Maine on a Saturday morning in February wasn't a lively place.
He smiled as he made it away from civilization, since now he could
change in private.

Well, no; he was still out where some curious hiker might go. Or worse,
some drunken hunter who might see a hawk and... Richard shuddered. Of
all his nightmares about transforming, getting shot was high on the
list. Better to get farther out of town before trying it. The first few
times he'd been a hawk he hadn't planned ahead, at all, and it had only
been luck that kept him out of major trouble.

Once he'd gotten far enough not to be seen, his backpack felt lighter
and he quit looking suspiciously around. This was a hilly, craggy area
where only his own footsteps crunched through the snow. The question
was, where to fly? The cliff over there would be a good takeoff site. It
overlooked a steep mass of rocks that ended in a boulder pile, and the
frozen river. He'd swoop down dramatically to the ice and skim over it.

Or maybe he could hike farther and find a better place. Richard kept
walking, then made himself stop. He was putting it off; he'd been
planning to make this trip for a week and kept finding excuses. The fact
was, he didn't know if he could handle changing again. If he'd panic,
get lost, forget how to fly, or forget how to turn back. He'd been in a
holding pattern. He took off his leather gloves and flexed his fingers
in the frigid air, remembering feathers. Except for being a shifter,
there was nothing special about Richard. His fists clenched. Was that
really true, that he was just a kid otherwise? Ugh.

Richard looked down the cliff again. It wasn't all that far, and parts
of the rocks were ice-free. He put his gloves back on, dropped his
backpack, and started easing his way from the clifftop onto the next
lower rock. Easy enough, now that he wasn't lugging food and water and
other stuff. From there he looked for another step, another ledge. This
part was tricky, forcing him to sit on the stone and get his butt frozen
for a few seconds while he slid forward and down. He landed in a crouch
on some moss and frost. Now the cliff was a looming shadow above, and
the river a dull mirror below. He wasn't sure he could climb back up. Good.

Richard struggled out of his heavy coat and shoes. The cold bit into
him, especially his feet. Last time, his clothes had sort of come with
him, but he wasn't sure how far that power extended from his skin or how
much mass it could "store". For that matter he knew barely anything
about his power. What would it be like to turn himself over to
scientists to get studied and figure out how he did it? Probably
unpleasant. What he could do for now was to learn more on his own. One
day maybe everyone could find out how this form-shifting worked, and no
one would need to be scared of it.

He shut his eyes and crouched on the boulder, trying to steady his
breathing. When he'd changed before, he'd been panicked. He hoped that
wasn't a requirement. How did he change, exactly? He pulled off his
gloves again and willed his arm to shift. Nothing happened but the cold
seeping in. "Come on!" he said. He tried an increasingly silly series of
gestures, poses and magic words. There was no instruction manual.
Richard shuddered not just from the cold but from looking down again. If
he was in enough stress and danger, maybe that would trigger it. Or get
him killed.

So, he tried climbing farther down. He stumbled and wobbled on a rock,
so that he had to grab the cliff face to steady himself. It wasn't so
far to the ground now. He could probably jump down and not hurt himself
much. Like, ten feet, just enough to be scary. He was just going by
theory, here, hoping that the cold and wind and fear would help. He
steeled himself and jumped, arms wide.

In midair, his arms caught the wind. They felt like they were spreading
out, prickling all over, and his hands going numb. In that moment of
falling his entire body fizzed. His mouth and nose felt strange in
particular, and when he landed hard on his feet his toes clacked against
the ground. He rolled with the impact, sprawling forward to cushion the
blow, and landed in a bruised heap. Almost, almost! Richard laughed
bitterly. Nothing had changed, when he looked himself over, but he
wasn't much hurt either. He hadn't just imagined the change, though; he
just had quit it too soon.

He looked back up at the cliff and gulped. According to his physics
textbook, ten feet meant falling for around two-thirds of a second. He
hadn't even given his body one second to shift before it knew he was
safe again. So, from the top of the cliff... No, he wasn't that stupid.
He'd give himself a full second. He went back to the boulders and began
climbing up along them. Every touch of his wet socks and bare fingers
against snowy stone chilled him. Still, he forced himself along to the
ledge where his coat and shoes were waiting, and looked at them
enviously. Jumping from here meant more than fifteen feet down, which
was also enough to really get hurt. "Do I really want to do this?" he
asked out loud. In the absence of a wise old man who could teach him, he
had no better option.

Richard backed up against the cliff, ran forward, and jumped as high as
he could to buy an extra fraction of a second. The frigid wind roared up
around him. His arms ached, but he didn't dare look at them. The air
streamed along his face, seeming to stiffen and pull forward on it. His
legs flailed and dangled but they were getting shorter, and what felt
like minutes passed and he hadn't -- oof! Finally the ground slapped him
and he jolted to a stop.

Was that it? Had he failed again? Richard dared to look at one of his
arms and felt his head whip hard to the right like a turret, giving him
a look at a long mass of deep brown feathers. The world felt bigger, and
growing larger. He was still changing! He concentrated on what was
happening to his arms in particular, where his fingers seemed to shrink
away into bare wrists and row upon row of prickling feathers. The same
thing was happening a little slower on his left. He gave his left arm a
gentle flap and felt the whoosh of air beneath it, and the way his
muscles wanted to move in a circle, down and back and up again like an oar.

He took a tentative step and fell over. His bare feet were pale yellow
now and there were talons springing out from them. Where the hems of his
pants should've been he had pale feather tufts itchily pressing their
way out from his legs. He pushed one arm, more of a wing now, against
the ground to help right himself. Now that he was back on his feet he
was still a little unsteady, and that gave him an excuse to stretch his
wings out. Seeing his own wingspan gave him a sense of pride. The rows
of feathers all along his wings had distinct rows. He'd looked up the
anatomy of hawks furtively, as though somebody would guess about his
power by seeing him reading. Seeing the real thing was much different
than a photo! He tilted his head down and saw soft white feathers on his
chest, with flecks of brown. A dark, hooked beak ruffled and tickled
those chest feathers as he moved. He tried to touch his beak with one
wing, but had trouble moving it the way he would have used his hand.
Worse than mittens, really.

Worse? Ha! Richard's laugh came out as a screech that he'd always
thought was more of an eagle thing. He bounced up and down on his feet
and wobbled his wings as the transformation finished. The rocks he'd
just climbed looked huge now! He was so light his human self could
easily carry him on one arm, now. He walked toward the icy river and
found a spot that wasn't frozen. The rippling mirror felt like it was
pulling heat out of his face when he leaned close. He had golden eyes
and a deadly serious expression, despite feeling ready to literally jump
into the sky. Well, almost ready. When he stood up straight again (still
feeling like he was leaning forward), something brushed against the
ground. Of course; he had a tail now. He looked silly trying to
coordinate all his limbs and his tank-turret of a neck to let him get a
look at it. The tail feathers were a deep red-brown, more vivid than
most photos he'd seen, and he could twitch them. "Shake your tail
feathers!", he thought, remembering a silly song.

He turned back, waddling a bit as he tried to master walking. He'd flown
before, with a lot of difficulty; surely he could do it again. Richard
took a deep breath. Even breathing was different, like he wasn't quite
breathing out so much as in followed by in.

He ran along the short patch of dirt he was on, and pumped his wings
down and backward. The motion lifted him just enough to clear the ice,
but he dropped again and skidded, stumbled across it. That was a start.
The ice looked solid enough for the two or three pounds he weighed. He
ran again and flapped, then flapped a few more times, until he was in
the air. Headed right for the cliff! Richard screeched and dipped one
wing, which sent him spinning far off to his left. Out of control, he
slapped the air and wobbled until he could level off again. There was
clear sky ahead. He practiced keeping in the air, as level as he could,
though it still felt like he was always either falling or gliding
rapidly forward. This was no time to get airsick! He tried to master the
faint queasiness by telling himself that it was a human thing. Not
something that applied to him, not now.

He veered in circles, constantly tense as he tried to get used to
something no human ever could. Then level flight again, parallel to the
cliff. At first he flapped too fast; his natural pace seemed to be slow
and steady. He kept low to the ground in case something went wrong. To
get his stuff back, though, he had to make a... well, not a precision
landing, but to reach the right rock and not smack into it. He practiced
by swooping down to the ice again until he was inches above it, then
lowering his legs like an airplane's wheels and skidding down on them.
He felt himself about to smack his beak into the ice and paddled the air
frantically to slow down, to right himself. It worked without grace but
without hurting himself, at least.

Okay. Up to the ledge. He made another running start and gained
altitude, then marveled at how he'd done it more easily this time. Up
and around, toward the ledge... bad idea! He aborted the landing and
turned so he could come at it from the side and give himself more space.
The icy stone rushed at him, and he held out his talons. There! He
flapped furiously to tilt and slow to a stop, and wobbled nearly to the
edge before all was still again. Then a pebble skittered loose and
startled him. Good enough. His discarded clothes looked absurdly big.
Maybe he could lift them? He grabbed one glove in his left talons, kind
of liking the feel of pliant leather caught in his grip, and lifted off
again. He awkwardly grabbed the thing in both feet now and rose, higher
and higher until he was up above the whole cliff, back where his
backpack was. He dropped the glove and posed vainly. Success! He made
his way to the cliffside again, peered down, and gulped. "Come on," he
told himself. "I can do this."

He still screeched in fear as he jumped off the cliff. But when he
swooped up again and back to level flight, he made the same noise on
purpose, happily this time. It was like the best amusement park ride! He
went down again to snag his other glove without even stopping on the
rock. He made two more trips to get his shoes, though those were more
rigid and heavy. Back up at the clifftop he caught his breath and rested
his wings. The coat wasn't going to be practical to retrieve this way;
it was too big. He leaned over the edge and thought, tilting his head.
There was more to learn today.

He descended carefully to the ledge where he'd left it. He kicked it off
the edge, careful not to snag his talons in it and go tumbling along. He
swooped down to reach it back on safe ground.

He'd been able to turn back, those other times, only once he'd calmed
down. So it was voluntary, kinda, not keyed to the moon or anything. He
carefully leaned back until he was laying down with his wings spread,
making a snow angel. He shut his eyes and imagined himself stretching,
growing. A few moments later, though he wasn't sure quite when, it
really happened. His toes were reshaping on longer feet and his feathers
faded back into his body, leaving him dressed in his still-intact
clothes and laying there shivering on the frozen ground. He laughed and
said out loud, "I did it! On purpose this time!"

His transformation and his flying called for a celebration, starting
with getting warm. He struggled to put on his coat. At first he batted
at it with his hands like he'd briefly forgotten how his fingers worked,
but he got the thing on and settled it over his shoulders. Comforting,
like the feel of wings draped over his back and sides. The question was,
could he shift again while wearing it?

He crouched and recalled how he'd felt when the change happened last
time in both directions. It took a while, but he could feel his teeth
melding together and pushing out from his mouth into the hard shape of a
beak; his coat fading into the mass of his feathers. He didn't feel any
heavier for carrying this extra mass around. Still he took off
cautiously and circled a bit before heading up to the clifftop.

Soon he stood with his pile of ferried-up shoes and gloves and his
backpack, and imagined somebody coming along and thinking he'd stripped
and thrown himself off the cliff. He'd have to come and do that more
often! He looked warily around, then shifted back to human again before
really thinking about it. Once he was fully dressed again he crept close
to the edge to look down once more, but he kept his distance this time.
He might try some kind of fancy midair shifting, but, like, over a pile
of pillows or a swimming pool. Another day.

For now, he walked home with a spring in his step.

His mother was washing dishes when he got in. "You're up early for a
weekend."

Richard couldn't wipe the smile off his face. "Wanted to do some hiking.
Have we got hot chocolate?"

"I'll make some in a minute. Guess you burned off a lot of energy flying
around out there."

Richard startled. He began to feel the prickling of feathers, or maybe
just goosebumps, and had to stuff that feeling back down. "What?" She
didn't know, or so he thought.

Mom smiled. "Racing all over the woods, I mean. Just don't hurt
yourself. But I guess a boy has to pick up a few scrapes and bruises to
learn."

He'd managed not to hurt himself, much, but his arms were sure tired and
his lungs burned with fatigue. His toes still felt like they wanted to
clench and grab things. "Yeah," he said. "I'll be careful. I learned a
lot today, though. It was fun."

She mixed some cocoa powder and milk and put the mug in the microwave
for him. "Good. Now, how's that science report going?"

Richard groaned. He couldn't fly away from everything. But come to think
of it... "I needed a topic, and I've got one. I'm going to write about
hawks, and flying."

"Saw one out there?"

He perked back up with a smile. "Yeah! A red-tail!"

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. I got a good look." He grabbed the hot drink and
sipped gratefully.

"Glad it inspired you, anyway. I'm sure you're not alone in not having
started your report yet."

Richard nodded. He probably wasn't alone in being what he was, either,
or at least having the same kind of power. Somewhere out there, other
people were just figuring things out. Maybe even at his school, for all
he knew! Maybe he could drop a hint in his report and see if anyone
asked. It'd be a little scary, but totally worth trying.

He went out flying again on Sunday, too, for research purposes. There
was always more to learn!