[hr][center][h1][color=007236]Mahendra Huq Zalil[/color][/h1]
[img]http://st1.bollywoodlife.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/rkmog-top-5-mahatma-gandhi-portrayals-on-screen-png-92679.jpg[/img][/center]

[hr][center][Color=007236]Location:[/color] Main Deck (Stairs) -> Second Deck (Mahendra's quarters)
[Color=007236]Skills:[/color] N/A[/center][hr] 

And as if the Gods themselves were doing their outmost - discreetly so, but none the less - to make Mahendra blush even more through his cold cheeks still freezing from the late-night swim, Mosi appeared to join the group for a brief conversation about, of course, how Mahendra had fallen into the river. His words flustered at first, but through chattering teeth just like poor Vera, he tried to answer her like he had answered the others down in Cargo. [Color=007236]"Mosi dear! Ye-yes, I did fa-fa-fall into the water, but it was only due to my own clumsyne-ne-clumsyness. Yes and thank you, but I sha-shall be fine, if only a little co-co-cold."[/color] Mahendra told Mosi as he was escorted further up the stairs to the Second Deck. 

He was certain not to forget today's events, and shamefully he was certain that nobody else would either. Oh the shame.

Mahendra was sleeping on the Second Deck of the ship, and when the others left for the Elite Deck, Mahendra gave a final friendly smile to each of them, including Lauren who once again offered to help him if the needed arose. [Color=007236]"You are too kind, dear Lauren. But thank you nonetheless. Good night."[/color] And with that, Mahendra was led into his quarters by the crew and in the end was alone. It was better this way, he thought, than to stand out there amongst the Fellowship and appear weak from the cold. But at the same time, as Mahendra got undressed and found a towel to dry himself up more, he couldn't help but feel a little lonely. Tired, cold and lonely. 

Soon Mahendra was in a new set of dry clothes, approriate for sleeping as he hung up his wet clothes to dry and went to his bed. Not many hours earlier he had already had a nap, but the Bengali needed more rest now. If not for today's escapedes, then for whatever the next day would bring. As he closed his eyes and things faded to darkness, one things remained in his vision; those glowing, red eyes of the mysterious lady. 

[hr][center][h1][color=#255DB3]Richard Barker[/color][/h1]
[img]http://images.complex.com/complex/image/upload/t_article_image/pxv8ashdo6bwszyzi55g.gif[/img][/center]

[hr][center][Color=#255DB3]Location:[/color] Lower Deck (Richard's quarters)
[Color=#255DB3]Skills: [/color]N/A[/center][hr]  

What does one expect a private detective to do right before he goes to sleep? Kneel down before the bed and say a prayer to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, asking for guidance? Wash his face and brush his teeth? Fill up his scotch glass with yet another drink of cheap booze since everything's illegal those days? Richard had done all of the above through his life, both as a street cop in the dirtied and bloodied streets of New York and as the no-nonsense PI Barker. As he lay in bed and got ready to sleep the not-so Big Sleep as one said, he did neither. Richard simply lay in that bed, taking in both the comfortable feeling of not sleeping on a couch, and thinking.

Richard usually slept on his couch in his run-down office, the ceiling fan slowly turning around on an electric bill he had been due to pay for a few weeks over time while the sound of traffic and angry shouts echoed from the window. Sometimes he cigarette still clung to his dry lips, but tonight there was none of that. Only him in his bed, the muffled sounds of what one could expect of a lower deck on a ship, and his usual detective thoughts. He thought about what had happened that day, the whole shebang.

They had gotten a ride on the steamboat to go up-river in an attempt to gather some more clues about George Jay Cold the I., and ended up in what Richard felt was a Buster Keaton movie. Burning his sleeve twice, ripping his pants and breaking a chair like it was a cheap bench in Central Park. And neither had gotten any good clues, at least not towards the Gould-case. But Richard could not get the image of that Franklin figure out of his mind; him, sun-burned and reading that journal that clearly wasn't his. Even if it wasn't related to Gould, Richard would be damned if he wasn't going to try cracking this little case. If not for some ambigous moral reasoning, he would do it out of spite. 

And as he continued to dabble in the what's and how's of Franklin the Journal-man, Richard slowly but surely began drifting off to sleep. For once he didn't drink himself stupidly drunk, this was one rare occasion where it was natural.