So I had a poll ten months ago about which character I should write about. This is what became of that. I do not own Ninjago.

There is no room for imagination, in Zane's logical mind, which is why he never distracted himself with wistful daydreams or flying fantasies. He'd either live in the moment, or he'd clear his mind entirely. Imagination is a human gift, something he does not share.

At least, that's what he used to think. Lately, Zane is terribly distracted all the time. His mind is clouded with imaginings of all sorts, keeping him from focusing on the present.

He hopes he's doing it right; Jay and Cole are always telling him to use his imagination, but it's hard to comprehend something like that when he simply isn't built with a flight of fancy. He just focuses on a world, different and the same as his own, and he pictures himself there. Then, Zane supposes, he imagines.

In most daydreams, Zane likens himself to a bird, because he likes birds. He thinks he'd make a good one. Sometimes, he's a falcon, peregrine, racing winds and capturing the skies high over a distant earth. Other times, he is a simple songbird, flitting fast through green trees. And still other times, he is a vulture, sometimes black, sometimes turkey, weaving through the air with a massive pair of wings, more looming than flying.

One might think these rampant daydreams concerning for someone with a job that requires attentiveness, but no one has really noticed the change in Zane. The Overlord's defeat has brought the team an impromptu vacation—or rather, a period of time where nothing bad happens.

They spend it docked in an offshoot of the Wailing Alps, a series of cliffs that veer high over an ancient stream that roars. The cliffs are covered in trees and underbrush that's easy to get lost in if one isn't careful, and it's far, but not too far from a local mountain town, where they get all their groceries.

Not much has happened here, and the ninja don't know what to do with themselves. Kai daydreams of glory, the good old days that never really existed; Wu talks of opening a school. Their days are spent sometimes together, but mostly separately as they find new and often quiet ways to entertain themselves.

Zane spends his mornings walking a trail up the side of these massive cliffs, reaching a place known locally as Wally's Peak, named after a boy who fell asleep on a rock at the top and landed an unfortunate death at the bottom. Zane likes to sit on those rocks, because the entire valley opens beneath it, and he can observe all his favorite things.

Like birds. Zane likes seeing the birds.

It's been three months since Dr. Julien passed, and Zane doesn't know what to do with himself. He never mourned his father; he never got the chance. Now he does, but something about grief and mourning seems so animal, human too, both which Zane is not.

So, he imagines himself as a bird, flying through a landscape that is as much his as he is a part of it. A bird, no matter what sort, fits into the landscape like a puzzle, every piece snapping perfectly into place.

Zane in the present does not fit. He's not a puzzle piece. If he had to imagine, he'd call himself a gear.

It is mid-morning on a warm summer day, and Zane sits at the top of Wally's Peak, upon a boulder that flattens out just wide enough for his form. His eyes are closed and he's barefoot, sitting and soaking up the sun, as Jay would say. He's been here since dawn, tracking two red tailed hawks and observing scenery. He does this every day, though he's not sure why. He guesses that he merely just likes being here, and he does. Here, he can get away from himself and his father. Here, he can imagine himself a bird and almost believe it.

The wind blows strong and wild, enough that Zane thinks if he stepped right off the edge of the cliff, arms open, he'd go soaring. The winds would pick up, he'd feel a jerk, legs swinging, and he'd fly.

But that is not possible, Zane's common sense reminds him, Wally's Peak is named for a reason.

It is, Zane nods, though he thinks that his fall would be different from the boy's. A boy of metal and wire would not land the same as one of flesh and bone. The mountain town found the boy eight years after the fact, when he was nothing but a tattered purple sweater and a jawbone fractured over a floor of granite.

Zane would be found differently. In fact, he debates if he would even die at all.

"I wonder," he says, speaking amiably to two cardinals that flit through the deep green cedars around him, "what would happen if I lay here for the next one hundred years."

He can see it now, eyes closed. The moss and overgrowth that shrouds this stone top would grow around and through him, slowly pulling apart the fine work of Dr. Julien by the plate; shed leaves and needles would fall through the cracks, filling up his insides until he is well enough for a small pack rat or mole to live in. Then other plants will slowly take him over, fed through the soil that fills his gears, and blooms of clover will sprout behind his empty blue eyes.

Zane smiles at this image. He likes clover.

But something bothers him about his daydream. In it, suddenly, a boy is next to him. He pictures him as looking somewhat like Lloyd. After a hundred years, the boy is gone, and the world is lucky to find a fragment of bone here or there, nothing but jagged remains after being picked over by wildlife. Zane is still there, still recognizable, because for as hard as he imagines, Zane is not a part of this landscape.

He is a part of no place. He was a part of Dr. Julien, but Dr. Julien is dead and gone and Zane has no part left in this world; no place, not for Zane.

Frowning at the string of intrusive thoughts, Zane opens his eyes and stares out at the open valley. From his perch, he sees the nest of the red tails. An adult and two juveniles, their movements are recorded in a spiral notebook Zane picked up from the local general store. Zane would like to draw them, had he the skill, but artistry is a uniquely human trait, something, like many things, Zane is not.

"I don't suppose you'd be interested," Zane tells the cardinals, giving them his best smile, "I'm sure you'd create some interesting portraits."

They pay him no mind, used to his presence by this point. Instead, they chase each other through wiry branches, chirping high and loud.

"Though I don't think you'd wish to depict a predator," Zane continues, watching the clouds move across the sky, "That would be like if I painted a picture of the Overlord."

Or Skullkin, or Serpentine, or Garmadon. Of course, Zane cannot draw. He simply isn't built for that.

A sad feeling, one he's felt a lot recently, overwhelms him, and Zane drops his eyes to the rock he sits on, closing off the rest of the world indefinitely. The wind blows, teasing his hair.

He is sad, awfully lonely. It reminds him of the years before he found the ninja, when he'd wander from town to town, trying but never quite finding a place for himself. It makes sense in hindsight; there wasn't one.

Once he had the ninja, those feelings went away. Now, they're back, and Zane can't figure out why.

After a while, he forgets his shoes and walks the trail home, having seen enough for one day. He watches a vulture fly above him for some of the way, floating at the speed of passing clouds.

Even from the cliff, it's no larger than a speck.

Updates for this will be patchy for now. This is one of those stories that I've written and rewritten several times, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

Thank you for reading!