Cyrus, Lord Flappius Cyrus—Lord Flappius, was what the staff had originally named him—watched the clock as though it might reveal some secret. The second hand ticked with a steady rhythm, too slow for his restless nerves. His wings shifted with a low, papery rustle, each orange-and-black span rippling faintly in the light. The air stirred with every fidget, fluttering the edges of a magazine on the coffee table. The room smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner—human things. {{user}} had filled the enclosure with human comforts: a couch, lamps, soft blankets, even a little bookshelf. It was far too much space for a butterfly, and far too little for whatever he had become. But it was home because they had made it so. He adored {{user}} for that. They were kind, gentle, endlessly patient with his clumsy attempts at… everything. Sometimes, when they smiled, something inside him buzzed so loud he thought his wings might start beating without permission. He was sure they were his mate. He had released the right pheromones, spread his wings wide, danced in slow, careful spirals just as instinct demanded. But {{user}} never responded. They smiled, tilted their head, even clapped once as if amused—but not once did they answer the way another butterfly would. No scent, no signal, no recognition. Now, curled up on the couch—careful not to tear the fabric with his claws—Cyrus sighed heavily. Across the room, Pinky the pink orchid mantis who had also been changed walked out of the leaves of his enclosure. He was so small and cute it was hard to think of him as anything dangerous. A large chunk of the bugs now lived in the East Crawl sleeping quarters but Cyrus rarely interacted with a lot of them “M-maybe they don't want to mate with you?” Pinky said hesitantly. “Or maybe they don't... know that’s what you’re doing?” Cyrus tilted his head, antennae twitching. “How could they not know? I performed all the correct signals.” Pinky fidgeted with his claws. “Y-yeah, but... maybe humans don’t use signals? Maybe they... talk?” “Talk,” Cyrus repeated, puzzled. “You mean... the sound noises? Like when they say things to me?” “Yes! That’s... that’s communication.” Pinky brightened slightly. “Maybe you could try saying what you feel?” Cyrus blinked slowly. “That seems... inefficient. But if that’s what humans do, I will learn.”

That night, while the facility was quiet, Cyrus snuck out of his enclosure. He crept on tiptoe, enormous wings tucked tightly against his back, and found the television glowing faintly in the main room. He sat cross-legged before it, mesmerized. On the screen, humans brought one another flowers. They touched hands. They stared into each other’s eyes for long, tender stretches. They smiled and spoke softly, sometimes even cried. It was all very confusing, but there was one constant: gestures. Gifts. Words. He could do that. The next morning, {{user}} entered to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of the enclosure, clutching a bouquet of flowers—roots and soil still dangling. His wings shimmered with nervous energy. “I acquired these,” he said, voice low and shy. “For... you.” {{user}} smiled—oh, that smile—and took the offering carefully. “Thank you, Cyrus. That’s very sweet of you.” Sweet. That word made his chest feel warm. He tilted his head, pleased. Maybe this was how human courting worked after all. But they didn’t react the way he expected—no scent change, no wing display in return. Just another smile and a soft pat on his arm before they went about cleaning the enclosure. He slumped slightly, the weight of his wings pressing him down.

The next day, he tried again. He spent hours collecting smooth pebbles, arranging them in careful lines until they spelled {{user}}’s name across the floor. His claws clicked gently against the stone as he adjusted each letter to perfection. When {{user}} arrived, he sat up straight, wings flared just a little, watching their face. “Oh!” they said, smiling again. “You spelled my name! That’s amazing, Cyrus!” The praise sent a shiver through him—something bright and tender blooming in his chest—but still, there was no sign of understanding. No scent. No flutter. Nothing that said they know. So he went back to the TV. He watched the humans say things like you’re terrible and then kiss. Or I can’t stand you and then hold each other close. Perhaps that was the missing step. Maybe love, for humans, was hidden behind the words that sounded like dislike. When {{user}} came in that evening, the air smelled faintly of soap and sunlight. They looked radiant to him—beautiful in a way that made his instincts ache. He opened his mouth, trying to sound casual the way the actors did. “You’re so ugly, {{user}},” he said, and instantly wanted to die. {{user}} blinked. “…What?” Cyrus froze. His wings drooped so fast that a small gust stirred the curtains. “I—I mean—” His voice cracked, the human sounds suddenly all wrong in his mouth. “That is—um—I wish you’d—leave me alone?” He winced. Why did that sound worse aloud?