[center][sub]EE 87, May 5 | Evening[/sub][/center]
[sub][@Medili][@Click This][@Yankee][@banjoanjo][@Jumbus][/sub]
Jeanne’s apartment suite was large. Thankfully, it was large enough that even having five others in her dining room made for a feasible arrangement. After the disaster that was the traditional Japanese breakfast, the Frenchwoman had taken onto herself to order a dinner for six. Perhaps a bath had improved her mental state; certainly there was the possibility that she would’ve only ordered food for herself and left the others to figure out their own meals.

Regardless, the Abya Yalan-style dining room smelled of wine and umami-filled sauces, cooked meats and fresh bread. Escargot bubbled on cast iron pans, while slices of foie gras laid in duck juice. There were samplers of cheeses as well, accompanied by nuts, dried fruits, and wild honey, and of course, a roast duck sat in the center of the table, skin crackling gently. The delivery and presentation of the chefs were, in Jeanne’s eyes, adequate for their standing, though a bit uninspired. One could only expect so much out of ‘free’ food, after all.

Still, she partook in the meal with surgical gusto, content on focusing upon her meal.

A meal alone, however, was not the reason behind this “dinner party”.

Against the wall stood a standing blackboard and a set of chalk, summarizing and detailing what had been uncovered during the days investigations. Nazca’s photographs were pinned there with lodestones. Franz’s special delivery laid on the shelf, already skimmed through. Bang’s diagram of what he had discerned from the gunman’s positioning was drawn with a somewhat shaky hand. And Inti found a bullet. It was round!

Ryuuko, on the other hand, had discovered that Jeanne’s room was devoid of any sign of Jeanne. What possessions she had brought with her to Bermuda island must either be few in number and small in size, stored elsewhere, or so well hidden that they evaded the gaze of even a snooping Egoist. Perhaps it said something about the firestarter’s character, or perhaps she was overthinking it. After all, even devoid of any of Jeanne’s personal touches, the room was well-furnished and pleasing to the eye.

And regardless, they were here to build a defense case for someone who did not care to defend herself.

Dinner began.

[sub][@Zombehs][/sub]
Was the Earth not flat? The curvature and roundness espoused by ancient stargazers was founded upon a false understanding of the concepts of day and time, after all. The truth, illuminated through international communications, was that the sun and moon fell at the same time around the world, rendering the very ‘planet’ they inhabited into some more akin to the maps drawn by cartographers. And yet, what laid beneath? Was a God who had abandoned the Heavens cruel enough to still allow Hell to be inhabited?

Nay, if Heaven is empty, Hell is too. From whence did volcanoes spew their flames? From where do springs draw their waters? From what do trees generate their might? The oceans were fathomless and unwelcoming, the foremost frontier for adventurers and daredevils, but those buffoons knew not the value of the very ground they trampled. After all, so long as the stars were conceptual, perhaps there laid Divine Calculus in the depths of the planet as well, the underworld forsaken by the Omnipotent. And unlike stars, nothing more but fragments that shed weak motes of light, the flames and the waters, the life-granting dirt, could offer greater breakthroughs than ever before.

Perhaps, by plunging into the hollows of the Earth, the secret behind ‘generation’ could be obtained. And perhaps, by delving into those dark depths, one could challenge Hell itself and set the rumors of religion to rest.

That, at least, was what the night’s keynote speaker, the affably maniac Lucy Atkinson, pitched to her audience…moments before she cheekily desired able hands and extra funding to make such expeditions possible. And of course, even for those who didn’t wish to shake hands with the Englishwoman, there was an evening’s worth of diverse entertainments, from a photo gallery of her prior trips to foreign lands to an indoor shooting obstacle course, devised by Miss Atkinson herself. Child’s play for any Egoist in attendance, of course, but for [i]humans[/i], it was certainly a fun diversion, especially when one considered that such an event had been set up less than a full day after arriving at the island.

The mania of adolescence was certainly impressive.

Still, delving into the Earth was at odds with Shou’s own adaptations. Unless the star of the night sparked his interest, there was no real reason to remain at the venue for much longer. Perhaps heading back to his tavern-apartment would be better instead.

[sub][@Psyker Landshark][/sub]
The tavern was quiet, despite its trappings of an Irish pub. A mug of ale sat before Valeriya on the counter, too weak to get her drunk but flavorful enough to distract from the tedium. How long had she spent here by now, waiting for her point of interest to leave? She was running out of time.

Warm lights flickered about. A wholly needless fireplace crackled, and a trio of students sat at another corner, rattling a cup full of dice. Gambling, or a board game? Either way, they were too focused to remember her, and the clock was drawing closer to curfew than she would’ve liked. The target never left tavern. Or perhaps that was simply because they were never inside to begin with.
One could not trust instruments to handle the senses of the inhuman.

The clocks hand drew closer. The longer she waited now, the more likely it became that the latter hypothesis was correct and they [i]returned[/i] instead. The more days that passed though, the more likely [i]Kiran[/i] would have noticed what she had left on him, the more likely his suspicions would cause troublesome actions.

Seconds ticked.

The Ministry demanded careful thought and swift action. Now, her training will be put to the test.

[sub][@Izurich][/sub]
[b]“Good evening, Mademoiselle Konigsmahne. I have heard much of your family’s achievements.”[/b]

It had been an invitation from her, but he was the one that set the terms, and now, Lucretia was seated opposite of the unkind Head of Bermuda’s Committee of Public Safety, in a private dining room at an undisclosed restaurant. A single pale light illuminated the white cloth of the table, bathing the avant-garde presentation of roast duck in a light that shone like the Moon. The walls were soundproofed, and the waiter required permission from the guests to enter.

It was, indeed, a place meant for clandestine conversations.

Maximilien Robespierre himself was dressed well for the occasion, though still less formal than the outfit that he had adorned himself with during Jeanne’s examination. His natural hair was black, resting in genteel curls that boyishly framed his face, while he settled for an embroidered dress shirt and tight pants for the dinner, his dark green coat folded upon a coat rack by the door. In the shadow of the room, his dark eyes glinted from the reflection of the silverware he used. Cutting, pulling, dissecting, deconstruction. Stripping meat from bone until the skeleton of a bird in flight remained.

[b]“To what,”[/b] he spoke, steady and measured, [b]“Do I owe the pleasure?”[/b]