Bird rested back from the keyboard and settled into a comfortable puffy state. Another successful tweet. Humans were so laughably gullible; they retweeted everything and replied to him with serious consideration, as if he always said the truth. He could tell them he was next in line to become the CEO of Starbucks, and they'd believe it. Many people had already placed orders for his first book. This convinced him that an announced public appearance, after all these years, might finally be an appropriate development for him.
Unbeknownst to his fans, he was not actually American. He was born and raised in Britain. He missed European breads, but it couldn't be helped; America had its own delicious types of bread, too, and Bird needed to eat them.
Because of his origin, he wouldn't be able to blend in with American robins. Their feathers had completely different patterns. So far no one had caught him in public, signified by the crowds of people and photographers that failed to notice him, but someone was bound to unravel him one day. Regardless of the fact that not a single human being had ever questioned his profile photo, an obvious source of identification. He attributed this to his captivating greatness and brilliance.
Bird typed out an email to Goose: his friend and fellow celebrity, Hostile Goose. He was a kindred spirit in birdkind, and he promised to help Bird one day when Bird came to control the planet as its rightful ruler. Bird wanted to meet Goose offline to further their plan and consolidate trust.
Goose replied with a meeting place. A high profile place, for a high profile meeting: New York Times Square.
Bird prided himself on his navigation skills. He didn't need to ask for help from anyone. A loyal fan might provide it -- and indeed, whenever he stopped to rest on the floor of a town, the occasional human paused to acknowledge him with a glance, as if speechless -- but circumstances necessitate that he maintain his image of a flawless leader.
Bird flew high in the sky, watching over the bushes and buildings below him. The earth belonged to him. It was only right that he monitor the ground as he flew, even if he had little experience with traveling through or above forests. He only knew the comfortable life of a bird guarded by the fortification of human buildings. The life of a star.
He saw a small house sparrow hopping from branch to branch with a speed of urgency, and Bird took interest and descended.
"Need help?" Bird asked.
"I can't find my baby!" Sparrow shrieked. "She's never been out of the nest before. She only hatched a week ago!"
Bird responded with a reassuring nod. "Where was she?"
"Up this tree in the nest!" Sparrow gestured with a wing.
Bird advised her to search the forest floor, and he split to search separately. Chicks usually cried for food all the time until they fledged and gained independence, so he listened for the loud cries in the relatively quiet and peaceful forest. He focused even more on scouting with his eyes.
There wasn't a baby bird to be heard. He could only hear the calls of adults in the branches. Undeterred, he continued on, dropping the audial attention completely.
Bird noticed a chubby cloud of downy feathers underneath the hollow half of a log. He approached and stuck his head inside.
The chick didn't make a noise. She stared back at him, and the unruly mess of feathers failed to cooperate with the image of her unwavering, innocent eyes.
He encouraged her out and nudged her back to the parent. The whole time she stayed quiet, even as her mother screeched and rushed to greet her.
"Where did you go?! I spent hours looking for you! I was worried!" She cooed and set to preen the baby's head feathers.
"She didn't cry," Bird reported.
"I know. My baby," Sparrow said as she paused and gathered her wings around her chick, "she doesn't make any noise. I don't know why. I think she's a late bloomer."
Bird gave another nod and left.
New York City welcomed Bird with plenty of heartening surprises. Crumbs everywhere, flocks of pigeons pooping on people, and buildings full of suitable alcoves for nests and places to rest; Bird approved. He also appreciated the tables of unsuspecting people outside of restaurants, prone and perfect for birds to divebomb and steal food from.
Bird perched on a street light, right above traffic. Cars crowded the streets and congested so much traffic that drivers honked their horns and yelled at each other. Bird reveled in the confirmation of what he already knew; birds were superior. They didn't need anything to fly, and they didn't make such ridiculous messes.
A pigeon landed next to him. Neither of them said anything. Bird was very comfortable sitting beside other birds, and everyone shared in the comfortable silence as more pigeons perched on the street light hanging over the street. He was the only one there that wasn't a pigeon. They all puffed their feathers and hunkered down on their feet.
The shot of a car backfiring pierced the air, and the pigeons startled and jumped into the air to fly away. Bird screamed and took off with them. The flow of the flock swept him away to the top of a building, and he spent a minute recollecting himself.
The wind rustled his feathers and cooled him. He closed his eyes and accepted the gentle breeze, and he rocked a little trying to find a comfortable foot hold on the rooftop. Within seconds he fell asleep.
He woke up in the evening, with the orange sky setting into night. There were a couple days until the meeting, so Bird had plenty of time to rest, explore the city, extend tidings to other birds, and greet the fan public. He intended to capitalize on acquiring bread.
Bird flew down to a cluster of tables outside a restaurant. Humans filled some of them to eat an evening snack or meal, and Bird saw his chance. He hopped onto a table.
"Human!" Bird puffed his chest feathers and clacked his beak.
The human looked at him. His imploring charm failed to work. They dismissively waved at him and made shooing noises.
"Don't shoo me!" Bird flapped around the human's hand.
The human gave in and tore off a piece of their sandwich. Bird huffed. This person wasn't a fan.
Bird ate it and flew away. He couldn't tell fans apart from the other humans. He needed some sort of plan.
He jolted. Swarms of people were in Times Square; if anything, he could attract fans there. He jumped off the table for a start into flight and headed towards the square.
Bird deflated when he reached the site. There wasn't any dirt for him to scratch inscriptions to fans. Humans walked past him, unaware.
He flew again and darted between people, pecking at their clothes and searching for writing utensils. Most of them had the nerve to try to swat him away. Still, Bird persisted, and eventually he managed to take a pencil from someone's shirt pocket. Bird scooped up a trash piece of paper and set to writing.
He wrote his motto, his catchphrase, the most famous piece of writing in all of history, masterful and succinct to only one line:
I am feel uncomfortable when we are not about me?
Bird clamped the top of the paper in his beak and moved to a trashcan to stand on it and expose his autograph to the world. One person reached to toss out a candy wrapper, and their arm froze, their eyes locking with his. Their starstruck reaction satisfied him.
"Oh my god, there's a bird over here!"