Whether in solitude or in company, whether in harmony or dissatisfaction, the first generation of Bermuda’s students occupied themselves as the last few minutes of curfew ticked away. Some found themselves still wrestling with inordinate amounts of luggage that did not fit their curious residences. Others simply lounged upon beds or sofas, the headiness of the party making any extra activity too much of a bother. Still more busied themselves with the research that brought them there, forging new partnerships or simply continuing the work that they had always done, shunning whatever division between nighttime and daytime that their primitive ancestors may have pursued. Night had truly fallen now, and with it, the seconds until ten o’clock drew closer and closer.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

…

It was like a wave of thunder, rolling through the plains. It was like the clash of percussive steel, performed by an army. It was the great bell of the Clocktower that laid in the center of the island, extolling the passing of the day with ten long clangs, forceful enough that the nascent mists [i]vibrated[/i] from the force. Perhaps if there were any who had snuck into the cloistered interior of Bermuda, with its expansive libraries and its sequestered study halls, the sheer volume of noise would have rendered them temporarily deaf if they hadn’t been prepared. And how could they, when throughout the day, the clocktower had not rung at all?

At the distance of the dormitories, however, the noise itself was obnoxious, perhaps even somewhat haunting, but certainly not harmful, nor anything to be concerned about. The Egoists continued their nightly routines, the Dynamicists lived life as normal humans with superlative capabilities, and the Technologists…noticed something.

The world that they perceived, the world of constellations informing them of the qualities of Heavenly Creation changed. As electricity surged through the buildings, some infernal engine drawing in the energy expelled from the Telesma System at ever greater rates, the lines that they could once perceive became denser and denser, Formulizing chaotically as if a child had taken a carefully knit article of clothing and mashed it back together into an imitation of a ball of yarn. And following that lightning-quick alteration was the simultaneous ‘click’ of locks being set into place. Such actions were especially drastic in Kiran and Shou’s dorm room, the open window slamming shut before either of the youths could prevent it from doing so. The surprise lasted only moments, however. Anyone Technologist who was in the know could understand what had happened.

[i]The Starsteel Formulization.[/i]

It was well-known that the blessed blades of the Orient, forged from the very essence of Divine Proclamation that had been plucked from the false sky by an archer of mythological renown, were materials that could not be altered by the Formulizations of the Occident, a unique material that was a universal constant in a world where all else was mutable. In pursuit of recreating such constancy, a young prodigy hailing from Japan had sharpened his craft as a Technologist until he created a device devastating in its simplicity: through inserting complex wiring within an object and the expenditure of electricity, he could scramble the ‘constellations’ that such solids were composed of, greatly increasing the difficulty of performing further Formulizations while temporarily suppressing previously-edited ones. As if going from a neatly-arranged 3x3 Rubik’s cube to the incomprehensible chaos of a 64x64 cube, the Starsteel Formulization found value as a safeguard against unlawful Technologists that sought to refashion themselves as gentlemen thieves, confounding efforts to simply [i]alter[/i] their way into a massive vault. And the inventor himself, Sukoro Jinga?

He too was a student in Bermuda now, no doubtlessly placed here in part [i]for[/i] his contributions to the Academic City’s designs.
That is to say, then, that the administration running the City were taking curfew very seriously.

Of course, that wasn’t to say that the Starsteel Formulization was all-powerful. With Formulized properties suppressed, a glass window was truly just a glass window, and organic materials such as wood, of course, could not be Formulized to begin with. Brute force would solve the problem easily enough, and no flimsy lock could seal a properly-trained Egoist. And even Technologists and Dynamicists could, in theory, simply kick the doors down or smash the windows open.

The problem, simply put, was that all this effort wasn’t for the sake of [i]preventing[/i] people from leaving, but rather to prevent them from [i]hiding[/i] that fact afterwards by repairing their exit of choice.

And who knew the consequences that would follow after?

For a select few, however, such a problem wasn’t a concern at all. They had, after all, remained outside while the clocktower tolled its decree.

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qJQlfMMNmw]For a select few, the night was only beginning.[/url]

[sub][@SgtEasy][/sub]
The fog rolled in with a languidness that belied its suddenness. All Kalil wanted was some night air to clear his mind, a walk on the nearby beach to reorganize his thoughts. The evening’s festivities hadn’t all been disastrous, and considering everyone’s varying levels of intoxication, it was very likely that no one would even remember that he had been the first to sing out Pax Britannica’s opening lyrics. Beneath his feet, the sand still held some of the latent heat from the day, every step sliding to the side slightly. It reminded him, in part, of the dunes that he had traversed during his duties as a caravan leader, of simpler days where his gifts could be utilized freely and effectively for the betterment of people he actually cared about.

But the chill of the night had settled in, the salty sting of the seaborne fog seeping into his senses. In a distance that he could no longer judge, the ebb and flow of the incoming tides resounded in tune with his heartbeat, dampness darkening his clothing, stirring up the remnants of the stinging pain he had felt as those bastards branded him with polluted ink. Memories stirred still, as the fog rolled in with a languidness that belied its suddenness.

And just like that, Kalil found himself shrouded in the mists, so thick that street lamps from the direction of his apartment diffused into a meaningless, orange blur.

[sub][@Greengoat][/sub]
Jeanne set a clipped pace, but it was certain before she even began that she could not make it back to her apartments before curfew began, before the rumoured fog that masked every night in Bermuda rolled in and reduced her visibility to zero.

But so what? She could still see her boots, clicking against stone pathways, and her intellect was such that it was no problem, recalling the route she had taken before hand to Ryuuko’s ryokan. There were adjustments to be made, of course, due to the detours she had taken to burn a gazebo down, but even that was no problem. Bermuda’s streets were named. Tram tracks could still be seen. She was well-armed, enough to put up a fight against any vagrant Technologist or Dynamicist. And even walking, it would take less than half an hour to return to her suite, if she so wished.

She, of course, couldn’t know of the locks or the Starsteel Formulization placed upon every building in Bermuda, but that too was not a problem that more property destruction couldn’t solve, and the curious chill that settled in her bones was no match for the warmth generated by physical movement nor the flames she could generate with her pocket furnaces.

Her boots continued to clack against the pavement.

Yet, she could still hear it in her head. The clicking of a tongue, as if chiding a disobedient child.

And occasionally, intermittently, at the edges of her vision, she caught the glimpse of a shadow shifting beyond the veil.

[sub][@Jumbus][/sub]
It felt amoral, perhaps, to tread upon the stone garden, footsteps disrupting the carefully-raked patterns of the gravel field. Surely someone else, a custodian or a gardener, would repair whatever damage his intrusion had done to this display or Oriental sensibility? And, knowing this, perhaps Ryuuko would even enjoy the damage he’d have dealt to this symbol of traditional culture and arts?

Well, he also knew what the [i]other[/i] residents of the ryokan had thought when that crazy bitch from France rolled in and blasted the front door apart, simply because her brain couldn’t handle the concept of sliding doors and defaulted to violence at every opportunity. Truly, the French were a barbaric kind, from their Blast Knights to their meaningless reverence towards the Maker, and Jeanne seemed intent on proving everyone’s beliefs correct. She may be fine with it, of course, but Franz himself certainly couldn’t go around alienating his peers with quite as little consequence.

The fog rolled in as it did, but his proximity to the ryokan, as well as the previously-incinerated door, meant that Franz could at least make it into the front lobby without any issue, not that there looked to be any need to. Lesser minds may have found themselves lost once the fog stole away their ability to see where they were going, but he was the Universal Genius. He could navigate Bermuda blind and on stilts, if he needed to…probably.

Still, once the phenomenon of thick fog was confirmed, and once the temperature started dropping to levels where he might catch a cold, was there any reason for him to still be out here?

Why [i]was[/i] Franz outside, anyhow?