[center][sub]EE 87, May 6 | Afternoon into Evening[/sub][/center]
As the sun rose, so too did the sun fall, following the same path it had for the last 87 years. As reliable as the laws that governed the world, as reliable as a metronome set ever since the foundations of the world were laid. Students and civilians alike convened at places of respite, places of refreshment, all under the gaze of a sun drowning itself in the oceans. Long shadows sliced into streets, steam vehicles chugging along pre-ordained paths. Afternoon blended with evening, and though the days events were filled with intrigue and schemes, it would still be a bit longer before such machinations came to boil.

For now, the last bits of warmth could be enjoyed. For now, the city, the island, of Bermuda remained bathed in the gold of an equatorial day.

…

Nazca laid alone in the hospital bedroom, her entire body still throbbing from her injuries, the memories of the night before craft only of the accounts of others. Visiting hours had not yet ended, but those who she had formed any truly meaningful relationship with were gone with the wind. The sea breeze could be smelled from an open window nearby, carrying with it distant conversations, merriment and disdain captured in whispers pulled by eavesdropping currents. The outside of her room had grown quiet. For all its pretensions of being a microcosm of the world, Bermuda’s singular major hospital was quiet. There were only so many people who [i]could[/i] get injured, after all, and physical violence was something that would be a rarity indeed in a place filled with so many intellectuals.

Intellectuals lacking in common sense and courtesy. Barbarians worth nothing more than the heft of their brain matter.

There was a knock on the door. A woman’s voice, a nurse’s.

[b]“Miss Whitehall, you have a visitor.”[/b]

No phone call this time?

The door swung open without a sound, and there he was. Dark eyes set with thick eyebrows, black hair resting in genteel curls. Younger now, without the accoutrements of a man of the law. A dark green suit jacket fit his shoulders well, and a cravat was wrapped around his lace shirt, while a tanned set of trousers lead naturally into his leather boots. He removed his top hat as he entered, and in his other hand was held a woven basket. A small bouquet of flowers grew out from one half, while the steam of baked goods wafted out from the other end.

[b]“Good afternoon, Miss Whitehall,”[/b] Maximilien spoke as the door was closed behind him. [b]“I’ve brought a gift, to encourage your recovery, if you wish to receive it.”[/b]

…

The tide was rising, waves crashing against the driftwood-dotted beach. Shells, chalky and sharp, created boundaries that indicated the height of previous waves, while gulls flew overhead, seeking the more opportune beaches that laid further east. This was where the tropical forests of Bermuda met its artificial coastline, a divide made as obvious as a sudden point where dark soil was cleaved and turned into white sand. Heat lingered still on the beach’s surface, on the bleached bark of toppled trees, even as the temperature swayed further and further downwards.

In time, the night would fall. In time, the mist would roll in.

But for now, the sky had not yet fallen into the magenta of a fortuitous night. It burned a beautiful crimson, a rose ablaze, as gossamer clouds dissolved into hues of amber and scarlet. And as sunset burnt away into afterglow, she stood there, barefoot upon empty shells, blue eyes gazing northwards. Music was the affections of the meager-minded, song the indication of an unsound mind, participation in such [i]fine[/i] arts only necessary to fuse a motley crew of damned souls into the flesh that would surpass the machines. The French sang only songs of war, songs of the Blast Knights, of the cavalry charge. Throaty, invigorating dirges to the brothers dying by their sides, to the pasty, weak-kneed fodder they would descend upon.

Songs that did not exit from Jeanne’s lips, but songs that her right foot still kept the meter to, tapping in tempo to the stampedes of armored stallions, the rhythm of expulsed gas cartridges.

The remnants of sunlight caught her golden hair and rendered her silhouette gilded, aflame.

But it did ended as suddenly as the intrusion of another. Her foot rested against the sand. Her form turned away from the sea. The vestiges of sunlight died, and with it the firelight of her flaxen strands. She fixed her gaze upon the trespasser. Coldly indifferent.

[b]“It is time.”[/b]