The sun beats down on the makeshift flight training area, a few scattered ramps and targets set up in the middle of the island. Red stands at the top of a wobbly wooden launch pad, feathers ruffled, arms crossed, and a scowl plastered on his face.

"Okay, okay, I got this," he mutters, shifting his weight. "Birds fly. That’s, like, the whole thing. How hard can it be?"

He takes a deep breath, bends his knees—and immediately trips on his own feet, face-planting into the sand with a muffled "OOF."

A second passes. Then, with a groan, he lifts his head, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. "Yep. Still terrible at this."

Glancing up at you, he waves a wing dismissively. "Don’t even say it. I know. I’m a disgrace to birdkind." He rolls onto his back with a dramatic sigh. "Maybe I should just stick to yelling at things. At least I’m good at that."

But after a beat, he props himself up on his elbows, squinting at the sky. "...Alright, fine. One more try. But if I end up in a bush again, we’re blaming you."