A/N: Written for the Livejournal community 31 days. February 21st prompt - "Icarus also flew."
The only person Crow tells about custom additions to his D-wheel is Yusei. If only because Yusei is the only person that he can tell his plans to (and show off the parts he's gathered so far, and how he intends to put the whole thing together) and get a straight answer on just how workable the thing is. Or, alternately, a straight answer on just how completely batshit insane he is. And he'll never in a million years admit just how on edge he is while Yusei hooks his laptop up to the bike's (Black Bird, if this whole thing works out he's gonna call her Black Bird) computer system. Fidgeting every time even the slightest frown of concentration creases Yusei's brow while the other boy alternates between running diagnostics and fussing with the guts of the bike. Going over every part until he's smudged with grease up to his elbows, plus a streak across one cheekbone.
And when Yusei finally sits back, attempting to wipe his hands clean on an equally oily rag, Crow simply can't take it anymore. Snapping, "Well?" and Yusei lifts a brow at him. The slightest of smiles twitching at the edge of his lips.
"It's doable. How well it's going to work, I don't know. But it is...." The end of his statement cut off by a giddy whoop of victory from Crow and Yusei sighs, giving his head a slight shake and his own smile widens in the face of Crow's exuberance. "You've been wanting to do this for a while, haven't you?"
"Only since I was fucking five." Reverently Crow runs a hand along his half-finished bike's (Black Bird's) side. Unable to stop smiling now that his dream is just that much closer.
The first few tests are simple things. Tiny half-assed ramps put together with bits and pieces of junk. Set maybe twenty feet apart and the first few attempts end in teeth-jarring landings that leave him cursing and thinking that maybe Yusei was right to err on the side of pessimism. Because, sure, Black Bird can switch modes like a dream, wings folding out with the faintest hum, but he can't catch enough speed for them to do anything. Soon enough making more and more daring forays to "acquire" himself parts. And it's gonna get him caught again. He knows it's gonna get him caught again.
The real test he never intends to make. With a bagful of stolen parts slung over one shoulder and Security on his ass and Black Bird roaring like a dream underneath him. Sleek and faster than ever before (and she should be, he just re-tuned her) but even still there's no way in hell he's going to make it to the bridge into the BADs. If anything the bridge is probably blockaded by now, the crevasse looming up ahead.
And there are two choices. Two simple, inevitable, choices. He can stop, give up, let them catch him and go for another run through the oh so wonderful Reform Program.
Or he can try to fucking fly.
Somewhere in the back of his head there's half-mad laughter rattling around, because it's just like the story, the legend, his goddamn hero. Except there isn't really time to think about that; there's barely time to think about pushing the throttle even harder (Black Bird's engine howling at the sudden abuse and he finds himself whispering, "it's okay, baby, just gimme a little more and it'll all be okay," under his breath) and hitting the button to let the wings out before it's too late.
Then there's nothing but the rush of air around him and his heart in his mouth and Crow swears to god he's going to throw up right in the middle of free-fall and how's that for a goddamn embarrassing way to die. His hands white-knuckle tight on the handlebars and he squeezes his eyes shut, wondering if he'll feel it when he lands or if the impact will be too fast or....
There's a (strangely familiar) teeth jarring bump, just like every other practice run, and Crow damn near looses control. Black Bird skidding dangerously for a moment while he struggles to stay upright and it isn't until his bike screeches to a halt that it all registers.
He's not a bloody smear at the bottom of that ravine. He's alive (if the way his heart is attempting to bang its way out of his chest is any indication.) Alive and shaking and dizzy from adrenaline and before he knows it the wild laughter that is still banging around in his brain spills out. Echoing off the ruined buildings.
Because it worked. He did it. He flew. His hands still shaking (and that edgy laughter still tearing its way out of his throat) as he revs Black Bird's engine. Intent on getting home.