Horrible memories about a Rooster Familiar cloaked in blue fire and threatening instant death rise in the forefront of Jaune's mind as he desperately seeks out Pyrrha. Weiss had wanted to make him pay and her Familiar mostly likely would have been the death of him had he not accidentally put Crocea Mors through her snowflake-y Wheel of Misfortune. At least Pyrrha wouldn't want to kill him, right? So that might translate into a Tiger Familiar that wouldn't tear him to shreds, right?

Right?

{Wait, why is she trying to slip away?}

He bounds forward and seizes her hand before she can disappear amongst their classmates. "Hold on!" he begs. "You'll…"

He abruptly cuts himself off when Pyrrha snatches her hand away as if she'd just been burned. She doesn't look him in the face when she bites out, "I can't!"

"But," he jokes, "You're the least likely to kill me."

His friend flinches so hard that he might as well have literally punched her in the gut. "Don't say that!"

{Ummmmm wut.}

It takes him a while, but he finally realizes that this is not a Pyrrha he is familiar with. The previously straight, confident lines of her body have all wilted into slouched curves. The steel in her voice has disappeared, causing her words to tremble and flutter. And… that's it. He's pinpointed the main difference: she's deflected her eyes to the ground instead of meeting his gaze. As a faunus bound by honor, she has to be hiding something from him.

{Don't feel so butthurt, you're hiding some pretty big things too.}

"I'm sorry, Jaune." He catches a glimpse of her emerald eyes as she turns her back on him. He can see her emotion plainly there, mostly because he's slightly familiar with the feeling; after all, as a puny human surrounded by hundreds of insanely powerful faunus, he feels like he should be entitled to a little fear (or a lot). Except Pyrrha… she had looked downright terrified. Horrified. In that moment, she had been physically unable to even touch him without reliving some horrible memory of her past.

{What trauma did the war do to her?}

{Dimwit, you should be thinking about the trauma that this training exercise will do to you.}

Especially now that he doesn't have a friend to pull her punches, to hold the reins back on her Familiar and prevent it from mauling him… aw man, his health bar is going to be ridiculously low. Sun Wukong is going to wonder why he let a Lemming with three hit points into the East Direction. He'll be sleeping in a hospital bed tonight.

…Which might actually be a good thing. Actually, upon second thought, he needs to be knocked out of the standings, because he doesn't have a Familiar to let loose.

He needs to throw the match… yet at the same time, he needs to not be a total wimp.

{Well I never thought I'd have to find a balance between these two ends of the spectrum...}

"Sir Arc?"

Whoawhoawhoa, it's Green Mohawk dude, i.e. the peeper who ogled him and Kairi during their first meeting when… {eh, never mind… what's with the honorific though}

Green Mohawk glances around surreptitiously before taking another step towards Jaune. "You're from Lemming, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm Thrush. Clan and name. Russel Thrush. I think we're about the same capability level, right?"

Thrush. Bird. Songbird, to be specific. Can't be that hard, right? "Deal," Jaune wagers, shaking Russel's hand. "I'm… you already know my name, don't you."

"Sir Jaune Arc of Lemming." Russel bows. "I am at your service, sir."

{Nonono.}

"Call me Jaune. And don't bow!" He pushes Russel's torso upwards. "Please tell me you're not in cahoots with Bronzewing."

"Should I be in cahoots with Bronzewing, sir?"

Jaune facepalms. "Forget I said that. Don't form a chaos cult with that guy. And stop calling me—"

He abruptly looks upward (and thus misses Russel's thoughtful nod of acknowledgement) as a snap and crackle resounds throughout the indoor gymnasium. Heat waves ripple through the air before glowing blue forcefields manifest, dividing gym floor into several cubicle-like squares.

Each is the size of a tennis court.

He turns wordlessly to the Thrush. He tries to speak. Fails. Squeezes out some helpless squeaks of disapproval. Finally musters up the strength to hack, "That can't be our fighting space."

Russel shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, sir, because the point of this exercise is to see how long I can last against your assault, the small space is meant to make sure that I can't run away. Though really, I won't fight back, if that's what you're asking. I don't think I'm even expected to. Sir."

"Hold on. What makes you think you're going first?"

Green Mohawk cringes. "But… I thought… You can abuse my rear end as thoroughly as you want, um, sir. I know your defeat of Ms. Schnee's Familiar far out-trumps mine, but every victory builds up, doesn't it?"

Ohhhh this would be hilarious to watch: two opponents both actively trying to look like they're fighting to prove their combat prowess while inconspicuously trying to lose. At least, it'd be hilarious if he wasn't one of those contestants. If his human identity didn't hinge on it, because he really doesn't have an inner Grimm to let loose.

He grabs Russel's shoulders desperately. If this guy is as servile as Bronzewing was: "I'm fighting your Familiar first, okay?"

Russel's muscles tense underneath Jaune's hands. "But… but sir, I can't control my Familiar! I won't be able to hold it back and… and… I see. You're putting yourself into a Critical mode, right, sir?"

Jaune's grip on Russel relaxes slightly as he tilts his head in confusion. "Umm…"

"Then your Familiar," the Thrush continues to muse, "Will be under the impression that it's fighting for your life. It'll be desperately wild, really unpredictable, and probably land critical hits with every strike. There won't be a doubt that you're the god of chaos… oh, you're bad, sir. You are bad."

"What are you even talking about?" Jaune questions apprehensively. Russel's tone totally implies that bad is a good thing, which doesn't make an ounce of sense. And did he just hear god of chaos in there? "And call me Jaune, okay?"

Russel salutes Jaune proudly. "I'll do my very best, Sir Jaune."

"You… ugh. Yeah, sure, whatever. Knock me out, got it?"

"Ha ha. Very funny, Sir Jaune."

"Jaune of Arc! Russel of Thrush!" Drill Sergeant Instructor Dude barks, "Space D4, move it!"

Jaune runs a finger uncertainly over the hilt of Crocea Mors. Just how threatening can a songbird Familiar be? He almost chuckles at the thought of a little robin trying to peck away at his feet, but stops himself when he recalls Weiss' Flaming Rooster From Hell rising above him.

In that case, he may be disposed of quite quickly. He needs to establish a health bar that has more than ten hit points. Let's say… every thirty seconds is a hit point. So he'll need to last five minutes. He can do that, right? He just needs to jump around, run in circles, and dodge hits from a Grimm that might very well be the size of a Nevermore. …But he just can't imagine an avian of that magnitude fitting into the airspace of his forcefield cubicle.

…Airspace. Light, how could he forget? He's already at a disadvantage here. He's confined to a two-dimensional field; his Grimm opponent has full use of three dimensions. He… could very easily be knocked out instantly. Heh. If his opponent is big enough, all it would have to do is sit on him. He could try to poke it in the butt with his sword, for all the good that would do.

There are little hallways between the forcefield walls, as well as a little prep room before the entrance of the cubicle. Jaune flashes a confident grin at Russel, who admittedly looks incredibly flustered. "You good?"

Russel flushes. "I… I haven't released my Familiar in a while, Sir Jaune. It might… be a little… violent."

{Weiss, blue fire, gigantic Familiar; run, no wait she's distracted; throw sword—AAAAHHH EXPLOOOOOSIONS.}

Survival sense overwhelms his bravado. Warning bells scream at him to run. He can run. This is just a class, not initiation. He's good. He's in. If releasing inner Grimms are so dangerous, he could probably complain to the professor that he doesn't feel fit to do so.

{Nobody else is backing out; don't be the class' lone wimp.}

Well... he could probably come up with a logical explanation and finagle his way out—

{Logical ahahaha your Lemming Familiar is prone to death and death wishes; do you think the professor's going to believe you when you say you don't want to fight?}

{Shut up I didn't ask for your opinion.}

{No, seriously this is why Green Mohawk looks up to you. me. us. Because we are chaotically kickass.}

{I thought it was because we're building up an unwanted harem.}

{That too.}

Okay, enough of talking to himself. Point is, as violent as things can get, he's somehow managed to survive this far. Just like how he managed to survive years of living with Roman (not that said brother was actually trying to kill him... he thinks). Just like how he emerged from the smoking wreck of a Dust shipment with only a broken arm. He just dove headfirst into the problem and, each time, managed to come out okay. Maybe it was all luck or miracles or the Power of Chaos, but at least some of the success should be credited to his own capabilities, right?

[Fake it till you make it.]

Yeah, that's a good point too. Against all odds, he lasted much longer than anybody thought possible against Weiss. That has to say something. And if that hard evidence isn't convincing enough, then at least he can let bravado carry him some of the way towards victory/survival.

{Sometimes it's not a question of can or can't; there are some things in life you just do. Ooh that's a good, original quote.}

"I'll be fine, okay?" he says, clapping Russel on the back. He forces himself to smile, forces cheer into his attitude even if he isn't feeling it currently, and maybe if he smiles enough, he might actually start feeling more optimistic—

{WARM AND WET UGH.}

He barely manages not to snatch his hand right off his opponent's shoulder. The guy is drenched in nervous sweat.

{If he's that terrified of attacking you, you're probably screwed.}

{You just finished giving me a pep talk and now you're back to snarking me, thanks.}

He covers up his quick withdrawal from Russel's sweaty vicinity by using the same hand to examine a forcefield wall. This is something he's fairly familiar with. He might have spent the majority of his life in an isolated countryside villa away from the reaches of most advanced technology, but forcefields were extremely practical for even country bumpkins. This…

…is different from the solid boundaries of his childhood. This forcefield flexes slightly, translating the pressure applied by his fingertips into a small ripple that reveals the hexagonal-tiled nature of the energy wall. Basically a padded surface to take the brunt of the force should he be thrown into it. There's absolutely no rebound, probably because nothing in nature is springy enough to bounce things back. Crashing into this wall should probably hurt as much as being slammed against a tree trunk by a magnetic javelin.

"Sir Jaune?" Russel murmurs weakly. "Are you ready?"

Jaune attempts to set his body into confident, straight lines as he slides his scroll against the inside of his shield; magnetized strips secure it in place. "Whenever you are," he smiles, striding out into the cubicle. Light, it's tiny. Fine for a tennis match, hardly fit for the scream-and-run tactics he'd employed with Weiss. Which is fine. Five minutes. All he needs to do is survive for five minutes, and then he can knock himself out.

Russel screams.

He whirls around, shocked at the blade piercing out of Green Mohawk's chest. A beak. A beak that bloodlessly emerges, followed quickly be a head and beady red eyes. Russel throws his arms out wide, back arching impossibly as his inner Grimm manifests outside his body. It somehow manages to squeeze through the prep room doorway to explode into the tennis-court-sized arena in a flurry of feathers and claws and bloodcurdling—

"CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP," it shrieks, bringing its razor-feathered wings together in a two-sided slap. The attack legitimately feels like two jealous femme fatales were prepared catfight each other to the death, and in his attempt to call truce between the two, he positioned himself right in the perfect spot to get bitchslapped on both cheeks. No, forget about that, he legitimately feels like he just got tackled by two heavyset linebackers covered in razor blades with equal force from opposite directions. With femme fatales sitting on their wide shoulders while carrying riot shields so they could make sure that he'd feel the impact over every inch of his body. And those riot shields were greased so that he'd immediately be ejected to one side with much force, flying into the air with all the velocity of a watermelon seed expelled from between a pair of luscious lips.

{Yeah, that is much good analogy yay Jaune.}

His back hits the forcefield wall behind him. It hurts. Interestingly, he sticks to the forcefield wall a bit longer than he'd thought was possible with normal physics before dropping back down to the ground. On his way down, he sneaks a peek at his scroll. Oh goodie; the survival of that first attack has granted him half a hit point! Yay!

{Duck behind shield NOW.}

He practically sits back onto his haunches to put as much of himself behind his shield as possible the second he lands; feather darts rain around him, and the ones that do hit their target just bounce off his protection. The force of abruptly squatting upon descending from a fifteen-foot drop should have split his pants right down the rear end, but… he can feel the tension in every muscle in his lower body, from stabilizing waist muscles to quads to calves, coiling like one massive spring to absorb the shock and prevent it from flashing his boxers at any unfortunate spectators.

Upon closer observation of these feathers, each about two feet long, he's relieved to deduce that this Grimm is nowhere near the size of a Nevermore. Maybe a quarter of its size. Maybe he was just exaggerating the size of the Grimm as it literally sprouted out of Russel's chest. Maybe—

"CHEEP CHEEP!" comes the spine-tingling cry of death, followed shortly by a large shadow falling over him.

{Big brother looms overhead, six-year old evulz showing gleefully on his face as he brings a teddy bear down on your head.}

{Big brother looms overhead, evil chortles ringing in your ears as he brings a bo staff down on your head.}

{Big brother looms overhead, trying to hide a smirk as he brings the barrel of his hipster cane-gun down on your head.}

Years of experience get him moving before his consciousness can give the command to dodge, and all that previously stored tension in his spring-like leg muscles is released all at once; those factors propel him through the air at velocities much faster than he's used to—but at just enough of a speed to dodge the jackhammer-beak onslaught that pockmarks the floor he'd occupied seconds ago.

"Russel!" he gapes, unable to tear his eyes away from the six-inch-deep indents in the ground. "Russel! What are you doing?"

"I can't control it, sir!" Green Mohawk shouts from inside the prep room. "I'm sorry!"

A clawed foot shoots towards him. Wicked foot-long curved blades threaten to slice and dice him into unequal chunks, right up to the moment that he leaps ten feet vertically.

{…Maybe you should consider a career change. Basketball sounds good.}

This is impossible. Only yesterday, trying to leap two feet from a still position had been impossible. He's never had legs this powerful. So what's changed between yesterday and today?

{"You promised me you would remember; is it so hard to believe?"}

As awesome as a vertical dodge is, however, it leaves him completely unable to avoid the next claw strike. Try as he might, his mind can't really think that fast, so he only has time to remember Miltia's chakra magic (giving him super legs?) before he's ungracefully clawed out of midair. This time, the impact with the forcefield wall doesn't hurt as much, but maybe it's because he's more trying to suppress the pain of his stab-and-slice wounds. Well, those pointy claws didn't penetrate flesh, but so much force in a tiny area hurts like a mother, even when applied through a layer of leather armor.

{Hey... at least taking that attack like a man gave you two hit points. Yay.}

Again, gravity doesn't kick in right away, taking hold of him a second too late. Maybe there's some fancy magical Dust-induced mechanism at work that dispels his momentum upon impact, thus eliminating further injuries sustained by colliding with the boundary at high speeds. That way, his scroll can safely assume that all damage taken during this battle is from the Grimm itself and calculate his health bar accordingly.

Is the minor breather something he can take advantage of?

His body automatically transitions into a roll as he hits the ground so that he comes up ready to take the next hit. Really, as he is now, his strategy has been entirely reactive. Take a hit, check his scroll, get back to his feet. He can't accomplish much while stuck on a two-dimensional plane. But if he can get this to work—

The blast of wind that hits him feels more like a wall that bodily lifts him into the air and tosses him back into the force field. His uneven bodily weight distribution causes him to rotate onto his back slightly, so he crunches his abdominal muscles to complete the midair backflip… and land with his feet on the vertical wall.

One second is enough to convert his kinetic momentum into the potential energy stored within the tightly coiled spring of his legs. Then he's pushing off, flying straight towards his attacker with Crocea Mors still sheathed and no weapons readily available…

{What, did you really think a body slam would help your case here?}

The Thrush turns its head straight at him. He could swear that it smirks right then as it moves its super-pointy beak right into his path of flight.

{AUGH LIGHT WHY DIDN'T YOU THINK THIS THROUGH.}

His body moves without his control, invisible puppet strings pulling his arms and legs so that he curls into a somersault. He doesn't have time to freak out over the involuntary movements before he's hit the hard surface of the beak, chaotically rolling head over heels for a second before he regains his sense of balance and pops to his feet. Of his own accord this time, as far as he can tell. Whew; his freaky puppetmaster had stepped in only to save him from impaling himself, relinquishing control the moment he found his feet again. Which happens to be right between the Grimm's eyes.

{Less thinking, more fighting!}

His body twists into a horizontal spin, bringing his limbs close into his body to increase his rotational speed before lashing out with his right leg to drive a heel into the Familiar's gigantic red eye. It's a combat move that psychologically feels well-practiced, yet his physical muscles scream at the unpracticed motions required for the technique.

If this isn't his move, then whose is it?

No time to think; Russel's Familiar is freaking out, cheeping with bloodlust and throwing a wild, pointy featherfest everywhere. He kicks off from the Grimm's forehead, braces himself against the nearest wall, and takes a moment to assess the situation (and marvel at his awesome spidery skills. If only this force field appeared in a legit battle situation.)

He snaps Crocea Mors out of its sheath (shield? shielth?) and directs its business end towards the squawking enemy, glancing down its shiny bladed length its left wing. It's impossible to miss, but just in case, he adjusts his planned flight path to account for the way the Thrush seems to be listing to the right (seeing as it just got kicked in the left eye).

{Three two one prepare for takeoff—oh no wait I totally should yell an original battle quote!}

"I challenge my fate!" he roars, launching off the wall and straight for the center of its humerus. That's the arm bone's thinnest and weakest spot; coupled with the knowledge that avian bones are hollow to promote flight, Jaune's practically guaranteed to pierce through feathers and membrane, snap the bone in two, and disable its ability to fly.

Three seconds of feathers and flesh and splinters of calcium later, Jaune's cleared the enemy's wing, flipped around 180 degrees, and landed on the opposite forcefield. Coil, aim, prepare 100% original kickass quote, and launch: "This sword is the sword that will pierce the heavens!"

Right wing is done for. He's literally stabbing a sitting duck now.

"If I win, I live. If I don't fight, I can't win!"

"Fantastic! Allons-y! Geronimo!"

"Down, sword hand!"

{No seriously you need to stop. How are you going to knock yourself out now?}

He snaps out of his ragefest and quickly realizes his conundrum: Russel's Familiar is literally resting in smoky chunks on the ground beneath him, slowly dissolving away into nothingness. His easy way out is gone. He… he…

He cannot, under any circumstances, proceed to second half of this exercise. He doesn't have a Familiar to sic on Russel. He literally needs to knock himself out now. By collapsing from exhaustion? No, not convincing enough.

{Why am I only victorious when I don't actually want to be?}

He's currently twenty feet in the air. He could fake a downward comet-shield blast, only to "pass out" from exhaustion and land on his unarmored head! Only, on his first day within Zodiac, he jumped from the second story of a building and still managed to stay conscious with nothing more than a scratch on the forehead to show for it.

Steeling himself for the worst, he wall-hops to the very apex of the gymnasium. From here, every fighting cubicle is visible—somewhere far off, he manages to spot a Tiger Familiar, its coat color in a very familiar shade of red… absolutely shredding her opponent apart, armor and clothes be damned.

He's sort of glad he didn't battle Pyrrha… though he almost would prefer that over what he's about to do now.

He begins the downward plummet, closes his eyes, and mentally prepares himself for the teasing torment he's bound to get tonight.

He barely has the strength to open his dorm room door six hours later, let alone undress for bed. Maybe he shouldn't have crawled out of his bed in the medical wing with Pyrrha, Kairi, and Russel's assistance, then shooed them away almost immediately afterwards. But he is on fire today and don't need no help. After all, who single-handedly shredded a Grimm into chunky bits? This guy.

{Who managed to knock himself out not five seconds after said victory...!}

{Le sigh. Why do I even keep you around?}

He's about to collapse on his bed, to disappear from the conscious world for the next day or three, when an unfamiliar shape catches his eye.

A glint of yellow irises from shadows.

Now, if he was any old shonen protagonist, he would have gained the sudden power to overcome this newest threat. Maybe unlocked his bankai and leapt forward with new strength and skewered his enemy with Crocea Mors (which had been shoved so far up Russel's Familiar's rear end that it was only found after the intestines had dissolved away into smoke.)

Instead, he lets out a little "Meep!", misses the bed, and lands on his knees. The sudden impact allows his concussion to break through the painkillers he's pumped full of, prompting a moan from him.

"What happened to your face?" the shadow cries, moving forward into the burnt orange twilight coming in through the open window. Ah. Blake.

{Wait how did she… oh, open window.}

"Laaanded'on'it," he mumbles in reply. Hm, his mind is ridiculously slow. He should rest up. Sleep sounds good. Maybe he could do it right now…

He doesn't notice that he's faceplanted into her shoulder until she's already holding him in her arms, propping him up. "Why aren't you sleeping in the hospital?"

"'M fine," he slurs. "Hafta tutor. Can't misssssschool. Just hafta sleep, like… twelve hours or sumthin'…"

"Tch. Where's that weird teleporting girl and her magnets when you need them." Blake attempts to pull Jaune to his feet, but when he resists like a toddler refusing to be moved (y'know, where they make themselves as heavy as is humanly possible), she harrumphs and slumps back onto her haunches again. "Umf. Get up."

"No."

"If you refuse to go to the medical wing, then at the very least you need restful sleep. Com'on. We need to get you into bed."

"'We'? Heh. Hahaha. Thought you'd forgotten abou'meh."

Blake's body tenses up underneath him. Silence pools in the small space between their bodies. Not a lot though, because there isn't a lot of space between their bodies. In fact, he's pretty much right up against her, his head nestled in the crook of her neck. He should feel weird, but he really just wants to sleep. And talk. Those two don't mix much, do they?

"I'd never forget you," she murmurs.

He snorts. "Well… ya'said you'd help meh when we furst met two weeks'ago… but nooOOoo…"

He could drift off to sleep happy now. Blake smells nice. Smells strangely familiar and comforting, like home, yet new and exotic and different all at the same—oo, black hair ribbon! Probably attached to the bow on her head. Its edges are severely frayed, threads probably held together with spit and prayers and nostalgia for old days. "Thisss ribbon looks'as old as you are," he mutters absently. "Not tha'm sayin' yur'old. Yurr too pretty to be'old."

She makes that little 'tch' noise again. "Into bed. Go."

"Come wifff me." His mind takes a couple seconds to evaluate that innocent statement. "…Um, naa like tha-tuh. Like… like uh sleepova!"

She freezes, but recovers more quickly this time around. "That was another life, Jaune."

"So ya really do have nine of 'em. Heh."