Feathers. Dark, sleek feathers were pushing through the fabric of his black undershirt, unfurling from his shoulder blades in a slow, wet rustle. They stretched, catching the dim light, flexing like they’d always belonged there.

Sam was clinging to the ceiling, arms and legs splayed, his eyes wide with panic.

He crept forward three steps, then launched himself at a Hydra soldier with a thunderous—

—which sent the soldier flying into a bank of computer monitors with a crash, alerting every other guard in the room.

She crossed the room in three impossible strides—faster than anyone could track—and dropped two Hydra agents with single, brutal strikes before their weapons cleared their holsters.

A murder of crows had descended through a broken vent, perched on the exposed pipes above him. One landed on his shoulder. He didn't flinch.

The crows cawed in unison. Somewhere deeper in the compound, something howled.

A Hydra agent sat on the floor next to him, staring at his own feet, which were now encased in two blocks of yellow cheddar.

He raised a hand—and a blue-white repulsor blast fired from his palm, punching a hole through the ceiling.