Jake: Check in on a buddy-ol'-pal.

 

Golden fleece, Jack says, more like a suggestion than a statement, not quite as sotto voce as he thinks. You're not sure why he says this. Perhaps he had some inner monologue that made it make more sense. You weren't privvy to that though, so he just mumbled the words apropos of nothing.

 

He grumbles and says it makes sense in context. He then grumbles more, because actually, it doesn't.

 

 

Jack rolls his eyes. At least, you think that's what he's doing, his design makes it a somewhat abstract form of expression. Nevertheless, it tells you all you need to know - that it is, in fact, the case. If he were still living in a proper society, one that valued things like money, he would be throwing himself off the roof. Like October 1929 in Chicagopolis all over again, he says.

 

 

Jack senses the scope of the iceberg of teenagers having big feelings and does a time-honored acrobatic pirouette out of the conversation, hoping to not get raked over the coals for not wanting to be party to teenagers being cringe.