05: [Video]

[kindly_done]

[The feed opens on Jack's face, rather close to camera. He's grinning--he seems excited for once. There's a bruise on his cheekbone--he's been practicing this. He laughs a little into the camera, breathlessly, and puts it down. He's wearing a blue linen button-up shirt that fits him rather awkwardly because it's on backward and partly buttoned to

Comments

[audio]

[worldentire]

That's nice and all, son, but aren't you worried you'll end up springin' yourself across the damn world, at that rate?

[audio]

[kindly_done]

Worried? I hope I do.

[worldentire]

And where exactly would that get you, son? Besides trapped out in the middle'a damn nowhere.

That's to say, what if there ISN'T an "across the damn world"?

[kindly_done]

Then I'll hop back.

I'm not going past the hills anyway.

[worldentire]

I'll try not t'worry too much, then. [sounds sarcastic]

...

Where are you, anyways?

[kindly_done]

[He flips the video back on to give Sinclair a view of the landscape.]

It's about a ten minute walk from the gardens.

he's lying. he totally does.

[worldentire]

... Alright, damnit. I'm on my way.

... Not because I like the idea'a flyin', you understand.

[kindly_done]

'Course not.

[As Sinclair approaches, Jack is sitting on the ground with one of his forewings pulled carefully forward over his shoulder. He runs his nails up and down over the edge of the wing, yielding an odd, reedy sound, almost musical.

After a moment, he pauses and looks up to see Sinclair. In a moment, he's on his feet grinning, and then he's running, and then he's in the air.

He tries to land about ten feet away, but apparently he's not quite as good at that as he is at taking off. He skids, then crashes heavily to his side, and slides to a stop, laughing.]

[worldentire]

[snort] Y'look like a damn fool, son, throwin' yourself around like that. [shifts uncomfortably] ... I don't think I'm goin' t'be able t'move like that, either.

[kindly_done]

[He picks himself up, dusting his knees. One of his palms is skinned and bleeding, but he doesn't seem to notice.]

You don't have to. You're a butterfly. They're much slower.

[worldentire]

... I am NOT a butterfly, damnit. I've seen enough'a the damn things to know as much.

... Not quite sure WHAT these are from, but I can tell you, it's not a damn butterfly.

[flaps his wings slightly, looking ...sheepish]

[kindly_done]

I'm just saying, I don't think they're made to go very fast.

Not sure what mine are from. Listen.

[He flicks one side open. The forewing is narrow and slightly leathery-looking, deep brown and mottled with black. Beneath it, the hindwing is delicate-looking and fan-shaped, colored a vibrant lavender in the middle that fades out to transparency at the edges.

He grabs the edge of the forewing with one hand and rubs the back of his fingernail across its edge with the other.

Chrrrr. Chrrr.]

Cricket?

[Close, but not quite.]

[worldentire]

[eye twitches slightly] Reminds me'a home. [pauses] Somethin' like that, son. Not sure I've ever seen a cricket with wings like that but you're not too far off.

[flaps his wings thoughtfully] I'm some kind'a moth, I think. ... Not a moth I'VE ever seen, that's for sure.

[kindly_done]

I thought moths were brown. Yours are green.

[He lets his own wings drop neatly to his back, where they fold into what looks like a slick, brown, stiff cape. Once they're settled, he reaches out cautiously and brushes a finger across one of Sinclair's wings.]

[worldentire]

[shiiiivers, swallows after a moment] What the hell, son. Don't touch. [watches some light scales flutter to the ground] ... Didn't you know moths can't fly if you touch'em too much? [flaps his wing experimentally]

[kindly_done]

[Jack looks at him, wide-eyed.]

I didn't know that.