[u][b]Ink[/b][/u]
Mornings suck.

Were it Ink's prerogative, this would be his cue to go back to sleep. The eye-piercing blues of the fake sky above Agartha are just starting to roll in through the overdramatic orange-purple sunrise, bleeding against it from the opposite end of the fake sun peeking over a horizon that doesn't exist. It's pure artifice, and it makes him feel grumpy, if not downright angry, every damn time. He's not one to tout the supposed inherent value of that which is [i]au naturel[/i], but if the sun is supposed to be either aesthetic or utilitarian in nature, why did they choose to replicate the fact that it's a blinding ball of fiery hate?

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Ink wasn't trapped in a vicious cycle of inconsistent sleep schedules. His circadian rhythm was like a sundial on a cloudy day that grew limbs and started breakdancing. At this point he doesn't question what woke him up or why he's tired anymore, he just accepts that waking up at times determined by roulette wheel is his new normal. Today he had the misfortune for it to land on the tender hour of 3 am, which called for extra coffee in his morning mug full of milk and sugar. He considered a shot of vodka while he's at it, but wouldn't you know it, he's all out. [color=#a6bad9]"[/color]i'Ll BuY mOrE lAtEr[color=#a6bad9]"[/color] he muttered, mocking his past self. Truly, that guy is an asshole.

After burning a couple of hours starting his day, lazily consuming literally cursed sour candies and rewriting the hastily scribbled notes he made yesterday, he got up and out, ready to begin the herculean task of existing in a public space.

Ink wasn't [i]famous[/i] per se. Among mediums, sure, his abilities and position were unique enough that they stood out if nothing else, but for most of the middle and upper class, he was more [i]infamous[/i] than anything. In some ways it was nice. He seemed to inspire dead silence as he walked by others, a simple glance more than enough to kill the gossip on their lips, though that might be because his resting bitch face is worse than he thought. Either way, it was some much-needed peace and quiet. He gets more than enough judgmental word vomit from the many enemies he's made and/or spontaneously acquired. Really hard to remember which is which at this point.

Brionac Academy is an ostentatious beast of a building. Ink was once told it felt like sacrilege for him to even step foot on the premises ever since his so-called 'fall from grace', which to some is just when he left the Lysander family and abandoned the Paladin tradition, and to others was when he decided to become a Sorcerer even though he's incapable of casting a single spell. Maybe it's just his habit of summoning a bag made from the fossils of dead angels in order to eat candy in such a professional setting that ticks people off. It's still better than a smoking problem, in his opinion. At the end of the day, Elpidio needs his unique 'talents' for the daemon program, so all the petty bullshittery and empty legal threats tend to slide off him like water off a duck's back.

Ink walks through the front doors with his usual nonchalance, through the elevators, down towards Elpidio's office. He's taken the same route many times already, never interacting with much of the rest of the Academy and its facilities. It's routine at this point, just like the way that one medium's bag of gummies mysteriously vanishes while he's in VR, no matter how bad of a curse he places on them to catch the thief. It's his own damn fault at this point, really, he doesn't even try to hide them.

As he tosses the rest of the bag into his angel fossil hammerspace, he opens the double doors to Elpidio's office and is met with a bunch of familiar and unfamiliar faces. Frederica Simonova, former vanguard, first class juggernaut and darling protector of Agartha, a reoccurring name when his father compares him to other mediums, though he's never met her personally. Fire girl, first class valkyrie, someone he's almost certainly worked with before but probably not someone he's actually ever spoken to. Finally, there's some girl he doesn't recognize who was wearing not one but two articles of sleeveless upper body clothing, just to show off the tattoo on her arm. He begins to think he's intruded on either Elpidio's harem or a collective sexual harassment complaint when Elpidio says, "Ah, Ink. You're just in time. Lock the doors, will you?"

Ink didn't exactly like where this was going, but in his moment of hesitation, the three girls didn't seem interested in stopping him, so he did as he was told before walking across the room, producing the notes he was asked to take and presenting it to Elpidio. [color=#a6bad9]"[/color]As you requested.[color=#a6bad9]"[/color]

"Ah, thank you, this will help greatly. Say, why don't you stick around, Ink? I've got quite the story to tell you."

Blissfully unaware of the message sent on the Maji-nEXT he keeps breaking, Ink walks ass-backwards into Elpidio's trap as he comes to lean against one of the cabinets full of plastic monsters lining the wall. [color=#a6bad9]"[/color]Sure, I'll bite. What's going on?[color=#a6bad9]"[/color]