Fourty-Two really had no idea what to do with himself, and he absolutely hated labels. Since being sacrificially and ceremonially re-assigned as a genie by The Boss, it felt particularly strange to even refer to himself as a demon anymore. The normal technicalities did exist, and at least he'd gotten to write the binding contract agreement (in his own blood, no less!) with his own version of old, tired rules, but calling himself a 'genie' just seemed old-fashioned.

"Djinn, maybe? Nah," he muttered to himself. Honestly, it wasn't something he wanted to ponder at all. As The Boss' first ever accidental non-malicious demon, he'd been assigned to a position where he could potentially cause at least a little mischief, with the stipulation that he had one wish to grant per day, and he absolutely had to grant it.

Oh, sure, there were other rules. The whole 'twist the words of these mere mortals, blah, blah, blah' thing, but Forty-Two wasn't sure he was cut out for that sort of career. He kind of liked 'em, after all. These humans were awfully interesting, so he could understand - to an extent - what The Boss wanted with their souls. But Forty-Two really just liked to watch them going on with their lives.

It was why he ended up taking the form he did. Looking into the dark glass window of a music store, he studied the reflection of a boy in his early teens. Sandy hair, blue eyes. The Boss approved of this particular appearance because it would catch the mortals off their guard. He looked so innocent, after all. Forty-Two just liked it because he kind of wanted to be innocent. Studying himself, he smiled. How could anyone possibly look into his eyes and see an immortal, indestructible agent of Lucifer himself?

It was getting on in the evening, and he really needed to find someone to grant a wish to. Certainly he didn't want to fail on his very first day. Who knew what The Boss would do to him if he did? Therefore, when a young man walked out of the same music shop where Forty-Two admired his reflection, the young genie turned and followed after him.

"Hey! You, with the hat!"

The man looked over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. Forty-Two stopped just behind him, looking way up into his quarry's dark eyes. "Hey, Mister."

"Hey, yourself, kid." The man smiled a little, turning fully around. "What're you doin' out here in the dark?" After a pause, he added. "Don't you know you ain't supposed to talk to strangers?"

"Oh. Well, what's your name?"

"It's Mike. Yours?"

"Forty-Two."

Mike removed the green wool hat, scratching the back of his head, peering down at the boy with confusion. "That's like a nickname or somethin'?"

The genie shook his head. "It's not either. That's my name."

The young man rolled his eyes, pulled that hat back onto his head, and started walking again. "Don't have time for games, kid. I gotta get home. And you should, too. It's late."

"Wait up, Mister! I— I got somethin' to tell you!" Forty-Two ran after him for a few steps, holding out his hand.

Mike stopped again, only to look over his shoulder. "Make it quick."

"I'm a genie! And I'm supposed to grant you a wish!"

Mike closed his eyes, sighed, and continued walking. "If you're a genie, I'm a Texas prairie chicken. Now git on home and quit talkin' to strangers."

"Wonder if that counts," the genie wondered to himself.

—-

Later that night, Michael felt weird.

It wasn't anything particular, just a sort of crawling feeling, starting in his feet and running through his bones all the way up to his head. He scratched at his temple, shifting in the chair as he read over want ads in the newspaper. Unfortunately, the music store wasn't going to pan out. Maybe his frustrations were finally getting to him, and they'd decided to give him panic attacks. After all, they needed money badly, given the fact that they'd been getting so few gigs lately, which hardly covered the cost of living.

Without having really read any words, he flipped to the next page, then dropped the paper and scratched at his hands. Something definitely didn't feel right.

"You okay?" Peter asked. "You've been fidgety all night."

"Might be gettin' sick," Mike muttered. He licked his lips. They felt dry.

"Oh," Peter replied. "Well, I'll make up some soup or somethin'."

Although Mike nodded, he really didn't want to see what kind of soup Peter would come up with, given the ingredients they had in the fridge. Mustard grape-jam chowder? Chocolate pudding-mayonnaise surprise? Too distracted to protest, Mike ran a hand through his hair, stopping when he felt something odd. When he pulled it out, it hurt.

In his hand was a single black feather.

"Didja go to the craft store?" Peter asked. "Was hopin' to get some beads and stuff to— "

Mike shook his head, getting to his feet. He licked his lips again, which were feeling less dry and more… solid? "Nah, I went to the music store. Tried to get a job, but he wanted someone more clean-cut. My hair was too long… Is it warm in here?"

As Mike walked past them, Micky and Davy stood from the kitchen table, leaving their game of cards behind as they watched Mike pace the floor. They looked at each other and shrugged.

He thought it may have been his imagination at first, but his hair felt softer, almost downy. Then he realized that the strands of his hair did actually seem to be fusing into feathers, and he pulled his hand back as if it were burned. "Guys, something's happening to me. I think I— " He continued talking, but eventually registered that the sound he was hearing wasn't his voice at all.

Micky took Mike by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. "…did you just hoot at me?"

Davy added, "His eyes are orange."

It wasn't long before Peter stood in front of him, as well, confused.

"Did I?" he asked. He tried to recall the sound he'd been making. Despite his attempt at saying words, he could honestly say that his voice did sound like a hoot of some kind. Dazed, he nodded weakly.

Feeling downright hot now, Mike brushed his hand across his forehead, which, by now, also seemed to be a little feathery. The other guys were backing away from him; in the moment he caught their glances, he could tell they were at least a little disturbed, if not completely freaked out by what was happening. Feeling unbalanced, he propped himself against the nearest wall with one hand as he noticed that he really didn't have fingers to speak of anymore… Actually, it looked like he was carrying around a fan made out of feathers, but he got the distinct impression that the fan was attached. To that end, his hand simply slid off the wall, and he stumbled, as if drunk, into it.

"I don't know what's…" he managed, but immediately stopped when he realized that he no longer had any teeth. Or maybe he did - he couldn't quite tell if he was running his tongue over his teeth or his lips. Wincing as his now-feathered shoulder rubbed up against the plaster, he righted himself again, standing, but only barely balanced. "H— hulp— " he managed, although by that point, his throat didn't seem capable of forming anymore words.

He wanted to ask the others if he was getting shorter, but the question was answered for him when he realized that he was looking up at Davy.

Now at the edge of panic, he tried to turn toward the door so he could run away, but not only was he completely unbalanced at this point, but his clothes had become a hindrance. His half-twist only succeeded in tangling him completely, and as he fell to the floor, his shirt completely engulfed him, leaving him in relative darkness. He couldn't help flailing around in a blind panic for some time, but clarity finally returned, and, worn out, he ceased his struggles.

Stunned and completely lost, Mike sat inside his clothing for quite awhile. Judging by the billowy cloth around him, he'd become very small. This must have been a dream. It had to be.

It felt like many minutes passed before he heard Peter's soft, questioning voice close by. "Mike? Michael? Are you in there?"

Someone was pulling at the cloth.

He answered, but the vocal response was an odd sort of chitter. Eventually, Peter worked the collar of the shirt over him, and Mike found himself staring up at his friends. Way up.

And they all stared right back down at him, eyes wide. They looked at each other, and Michael, though a little wobbly, got to his feet.

"He's so cute," Micky said.

Despondent, Mike stretched out what were supposed to be his arms, which were, of course, no longer arms. He glanced back and forth at them, trying to process the fact that he wasn't observing an animal, but himself. Black feathers. Black feathers. Texas prairie chickens weren't black. As he looked at the rest of himself, he discovered that instead of the usual barred pattern, his feathers were the same shade of near-black as his hair was. Furthermore, as he studied himself, he caught a glimpse of his feet, craning his neck so he could get a better view. Chicken feet. Little chicken feet, with wicked-looking talons.

He really wasn't hip to being a chicken. Why couldn't he have said something like 'if you're a genie, I'm a Bengal tiger'?

"Lookit, 'e's even got green spots on 'im the same color as his hat," Davy said, with a laugh. Mike looked up at him, attempting to glare at the Englishman's grin, but he couldn't really make his face work how he wanted it to. So he narrowed his eyes as much as he could, enough so that the expression vanished from his bandmate's face. "Think he remembers who we are?"

"Yeah, probably," Micky said. "Look at that look he's givin' you."

Peter was the only one not smiling. Leaning down to Mike's eye level, he asked, "Are you all right, Mike?"

Mike bobbed his head once. He attempted to say that he was as well as could be expected, but all he could do was hoot again. Micky and Davy chuckled.

"Don't laugh, guys," Peter said, then added, "He says he's as well as can be expected."

Three pairs of eyes stared at him. It was finally Micky who asked, "You talk to animals?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, of course."

"Well, y'never told us," Davy said. "How were we s'posed to know?"

Peter shrugged. "It never came up. Besides. It's usually stuff like, 'feed me,' or 'pet me.' Not really interesting. But, you know, if Mike's a chicken, I'm sure this'll come in handy."

((Who talks to animals?)) Mike asked, incredulously.

Micky pointed to him. "There! There, what'd he say?"

"Well, he just wants to know who talks to animals." Beaming, Peter pointed to his chest. "I do."

Despite having wings instead of hands, Mike reached up to rub his face. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. It was a very small comfort that he could be understood, but the question was, how the heck was he going to fix this mess? Apparently the kid he'd run into really was what he claimed. ((The kid I met. He was tryin' to prove something,)) he chittered, waiting for Peter to translate. ((We gotta go find him. He was outside Fort Street Music.))

"Some kid did this?" Micky asked, after Peter translated.

((He said he was a genie. His name's Forty-Two.))

Peter relayed this.

"Well, that explains everything then, don't it?" Davy said sarcastically, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

"Forty-Two," Micky muttered.

((Yeah, I dunno, man,)) Mike said. ((I thought he was playin' with me, so I… Well, I went and said somethin' stupid. Now here I am.))

"You think he'd still be in that area?" Davy asked.

((I told 'im to go home. But if he's some kinda genie…)) He paused, waiting for Peter to catch up with his translation. ((He may not have a home to go back to.))

"Worth a try?" Micky asked.

Davy and Peter nodded.

Micky reached for Mike, and before the musician-turned-chicken could protest, he found himself in the drummer's arms, tucked in the crook of one elbow. After kicking his feet a bit and finding that Micky wasn't letting go, he sighed and settled down.

Mike looked up, fluffing up his feathers involuntarily when he saw the grin on Micky's face. Well. At least being carried was probably a much more efficient way to travel.

Didn't mean he had to be happy about it.