Have some fun.
Yes.
Fun.
That oldest, most abstract of concepts, fun, which could be had in spades without regret until the moment that 8:45 AM rolled around and you were still drooling into some foreign pillow with a clock-shaped hole in your episodic memory. Sixteen hours until they began the first morning of the rest of their lives - until they began an unprecedented training course for the usage of spirits and MECHs against a demonic horde bent on human extinction, but sure. There was always time to turn up.
Or, as so many other students were doing, turning around to go and make moon eyes over each others MECHs. Cry Havoc needed no such adoration; she simply got the job done, and Jericho with it. He would have loved nothing more than to seek out his dorm, or perhaps a good library, perhaps one with information on Seal Judgment. Almost as he was halfway through the idea, the right hand he was keeping shoved in the pocket of his black jeans began to chill slightly, as though dipped in a basin of water. When he withdrew it, a thin black layer of soft metal had coalesced over it, more like leather than an actual piece of armor.
"Good boy," Jericho said wryly.
The gauntlet tightened reflexively; he felt a tiny sting against a bone in his wrist as a small spike came to life, extended into his flesh, and then drew back into the inner surface of Judgment so quickly that he wasn't even sure blood was flowing from the pinprick. Piper rolled his eyes, both at his spirit and at the situation.
He would have loved to buck a good trend right now and paddle opposite the flow of shit's creek, towards a library instead of the hangar. Unfortunately, he had left his treatise on the kingdom's artifacts with his bag. His bag...which was currently nestled snugly near Cry Havoc's ankle.
Blugh.
"Following the herd after all, Judgment," Jericho muttered under his breath, putting the hand back in his pocket save for a thumb, which he cocked on the outside of his pocket as he began the walk to the hangar. "Unless there's something in my treatise you'd like to break the news on ahead of time."
There was no prick this time...well, not unless you counted the spirit as a whole.
But that was something Jericho had learned not to hold against it.
Grab the treatise.
The hair on Jericho's right arm stiffened, as it always did when he felt the familiar ideas from nowhere creep from the back of his head.
Head to the library.
...
"Perhaps not such a bad idea."
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