Sam Wilson tapped his pencil against his desk. It was starting again. He looked over the paper work that litter his desk. Domestic disputes, children waiting for adoption, workers in need of medical care. Shit. He shook his head. The moonlight crept through his window like a prowler and enveloped him in its glow. All his life he lived in Harlem. All his life he saw the slums of his own home, the children digging through garbage cans just to find their next meal. Many of them were black, many of them could have been his little brother or sister…many of them could have even been himself. He became a social worker to make a difference. To help set right some wrongs, at least for a small moment.
But on nights like these, when the paper work flooded like an ocean, when the moon looked over his shoulder like a beggar, when his own desk felt like it would break under the strain of a few sheets of paper, he felt as if what he did…wasn't enough.
"I should take a break."
And he hated nights like those.
So instead he ended up on the roof. Instead of cramming himself up with paper work, he gazed out into the city he swore to keep safe, as both Sam Wilson and Falcon. He looked down at the rotted staircase on Jefferson Avenue, and he marveled at the scope of the library down Luther Street. His ears perked at the sound of a trumpet, stringing through the night like a ghost. This was his home.
How long had he been up there? Soon, the memory of moonlight gave way to the light of dawn, his city illuminated with splendor. He sighed.
"Back to it then."
As he walked down the stairs, he saw a few faces popping in and out of the building. Some of the early risers, he liked to call them, one of them being Mr. Jake Alabaster…his superior.
Sam forced a smile and stood still. He was too tired to try and fake being nice. Alabaster was as pale as marble stone. Something about Alabaster always rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was the cheap cologne, the false smile, or the fact that when it came to social work Alabaster was more than happy to shrink on his duties…especially when those cases involved people of color.
"Listen Sam," Alabaster was almost shaking, "Our little operation is going to have a very important visitor today."
"Really?" Sam asked. It took every ounce of restraint not to roll his eyes. He needed to get back to his desk. He needed to finish that paper work. He needed to help those people.
"Yes. A king. Some guy named…I dunno. But he's important."
Yeah, but not important enough for you to remember his name, right Alabaster?
"And you're telling me this, why?" Sam asked.
"Because you're going to be looking after him. Making sure he's taken care of, and you will give him whatever he needs."
"Wow, you're certainly going to great lengths here, aren't you sir?"
Sam knew this guy like the back of his own wings. Sam wasn't sure about the whole "king" thing, but this guy was probably only being used.
"Of course I am Wilson. This guy's a king. If we do this our company will be the most recognized in Harlem"
How exactly? Was what Sam wanted to ask, but honestly he didn't care. He needed to get back to his desk…he had put off his for too long. Far too long.
"Y-yeah. Whatever you say sir."
Alabaster smiled. "Great. He'll be here later. I'll send him to your office when he arrives.
"Great." Sam smiled.
It took longer than he expected to finish up, in fact, he in the middle of filing that last piece of paper work when…a knock came at his door.
"Excuse me." And then came a voice. It was deep like the river he used to swim in as a boy. So deep that he could never reach the bottom. It commanded. It mesmerized. It made his stomach fall down to his feet. "Is this the office of Mr. Sam Wilson?"
Growing up Sam never felt like his name was anything special…but coming out of that man's mouth made him think differently. Slowly, Sam's eyes slid from his paper work and onto his new visitor.
"Y-yeah. I'm Sam Wilson."
The man was so…how could he describe it? He stood as tall as an oak tree, his skin seemed to glisten in the poor lighting of his office. He stood stout and tall, a warrior amongst workers, a king amongst men.
"I am T'challa."