[It's Orlando's journal, all right, but things are looking different today. For one, there's the young man lying on the sand, with a black cloak draped over him, in front of palm trees and other vegetation which suggest a tropical beach. He looks to be in his late teens, or perhaps very early twenties. His long black hair is tied loosely into a ponytail, his skin is well-tanned, and what is visible of his body seems toned enough for him to be a professional athlete, or an actor from an action flick. In fact, the general look of him says "B fantasy movie character." Anyone who has seen footage of Orlando playing the Middle Country might think that this looks like a younger version of his "Thargor" character.
But there's something off about the young man. For all that he appears to be in the prime of health, he doesn't move like it. The way his chest rises and falls suggests someone seriously ill, for whom breathing is a battle.
That's not the only thing that's off, though. There's something bigger. All of this- the sand, the palm trees, the hairs that aren't contained by the man's ponytail- they all lack that little lag in movement, that little sense of the lines and shadows being wrong. Everything looks completely real.
But it can't be, can it?
The man opens his eyes, and turns his head towards the camera. He appears confused for a few moments, frowning vaguely.]
The community? [And that is definitely Orlando's voice, though weak and strained. A small smile forms on his face, before he pulls his head to his chest to cough. It's a violent sound. But when he rests his head, he returns to facing the community, and speaks again.]
I wish Fredericks could see this. [A pause. And something behind his eyes is ignited.] Fredericks. [With what is apparently great effort, he turns, and lifts himself shakily on one elbow.] Someone has to tell his parents- both our parents, that we're...that we're here.
[He starts to cough again, and the video ends.]