// @rxtroskull {{continued from here}}
When the girl’s hands and feet swung in the air, there was a matching aura of confidence. That the child had climbed before and jumped all the same. The thought was met with a blunt stop. The creature in front of him landing face-first on the ground, instead of on her feet. Jack blinked at the muffled sound of collision with the dirt, no crackling of rocks or bones to make Jack wince.
Before Jack could even consider being concerned, the girl bounced back up. The momentum from the fall sprang through her body, flowing all the way up to her mess of hair. The strands were sent sailing through the air, proudly showing off the leaves tangled in the blonde mess.
There was relief in his chest. A reoccurring comfort of seeing a child not weighed down by the world. That she wasn’t scared or shy of her surroundings.
The girl crept closer to him, and Jack stayed still. Not wanting to spook her. When her question was posed, Jack could only think it was off. New? New was something bought off a shelf. New was when you moved into town, and your neighbors came over to introduce themselves. New was something that wore off when you settled down—when you were here to stay.
And while time had proven his memory wasn’t a trustworthy tool, Jack knew he had too many responsibilities here to stay.
The girl was near him, face scrunched up into something studious as she looked at him. Jack followed her gaze to his newly branded hand, and he turned it, displaying it clearly to the child. If the stranger in front of him had been at eye level, Jack would’ve been hesitant. Jack knew the shame of your skin displaying status, and the despair of men condemning you for things out of your control.
But Jack couldn’t say no to the little thing in front of him—children weren’t hateful, and if she wanted to see the 94 on his hand, he would let her. “Yeah, I’m not from around here.” Jack couldn’t claim to be from anywhere, really. Home had been a fabricated concept to him. A luxury reserved for the best of the best, not tools. And the city of his birth offered any sentimentality for him.
Jack crouched down, putting himself on the girl’s level. “I’m Jack. What’s your name?”