Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three.
We do not merely destroy our enemies;
we change them.
WELCOME TO THE END OF TIME.
The Regency has its spies and its cloaks and daggers. You may have even brushed shoulders with one and not have known it. There is a place for such tactics. You are not in that place any longer.

On missions like these, the Regency prefers to keep its base close, in a intradimensional time pocket. You're apart from Gallipoli, no longer technically on Earth or in the 1910s. There are multiple segments to this complex base of Regency operations, but you can only really see two places...
THE BRIG
This is your holding cell, a constantly shifting room of indesctructable grey squares. It folds and bends to hold you and your seven companions as you await... something.
There are no guards in this place. There are no bars to look through, or sounds to listen for. You are simply in the box, left to your own devices.
Occasionally, holes will open in the ceiling, and packaged, processed rations will fall from them before immediately closing. This is the only way to measure time. There are always exactly eight bags, each with the name of one captive written on the side in their native language.
Holes will occasionally open in the walls, and they always bring with them a searingly bright light. Sleeping and sitting is difficult on the ever-shifting floors, and when you try, it always seems like a pinhole of light opens right on your eyes. Even leaning on the walls has mixed results.
DON'T GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT
The windows of light that open always stay very small, making it difficult to look through, and always pour radiantly bright, hot light. If you're feeling particularly self-punishing, you might be able to peek at an odd angle and see something of the world outside without being completely flashblinded. The world outside the Brig looks rather like the interior of a Dyson sphere. In the center, a great, bright, hot energy radiates out like a sun, and it reflects off the exterior globe the pocket dimension functions within, illuminating everything from every angle. The Brig floats around it in a slow orbit, as do many other similar looking box-rooms made of similar material, connected by constantly moving tubes and chutes. Some boxes have more chutes going toward them than others. No chutes connect to the Brig, unless someone is about to disappear into the floor...
Getting this view will be difficult, but not impossible; it will just take characters willing to blind themselves with an overabundance of light multiple times until they get the correct angle, allowing them to see outside for roughly a half second before the room shifts to redirect the light back into their eyes.
not so solitary confinement
Occasionally, the cube will split into smaller segments, throwing characters together with others at random in close confinement. This is unpredictable and fast, splitting you off from the whole for what feels like hours at a time, often with only one companion as the cube shifts and squirms around you.
technical malfunction
The power nullification is still in full effect. No magic or special abilities rule this place. Your only master are the walls, undulating with no discernible pattern, always moving.
The Regency has also attempted to break the BCE's translation capabilities, but due to the fact that COST-jailbroken BCEs work on a different system than Regency ones, this is an intermittent problem that occurs sporadically. (ie, have the translation capabilities blink in and out at your discretion.)
THE OTHER PLACE
And then, suddenly, the floor drops out from underneath you. The shifting walls make a hole perfectly your shape and size, and sucks you through. The hole closes neatly, immediately, and you slide along in a world of boxes pressing close to your skin as you are moved from one holding area to another.
When you emerge, you do so in total darkness. Power nullification is still in effect, but even if you can naturally see in the dark, it doesn't matter. All you can see is an endless blackness, and walking doesn't help. You can keep walking for however long; there is nothing to walk to. The floor is perfectly level, but you'll never reach a wall.
Finally, there's light in the distance. A spotlight from nowhere shines down on a person with the head of a jackal. Looking closer, you'll find it's some kind of highly technical mask. They are wearing armor that obscures their exact shape-- no skin shows, no hint of identity or personality, just the cold eyes of the mask. They turn to you, and speak in a voice clear and soothing, almost gentle.
"I am Kebechet. I have been looking forward to speaking with you."
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"To know me? Can't you already see inside my head? How else would you have known about--" Even trying to say her name is difficult right now; his throat closes up against his will.
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They look back to the throne, but do not move toward it. "Funerals are sacred to my people. I found it a shame you missed hers."
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"You didn't know her either. Stop talking about her like that."
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They peel Noctis' hand from their arm, a clinical gesture of quiet rejection, and begin walking toward the throne again. "When I read the historical record, I could not help but find myself empathizing with your family's plight. Facing a hoard of inexplicable fools bent on meaningless chaos and destruction, attempting to maintain some semblance of order and intelligence through the battle... It was very moving."
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There's a huff of agitated derision at the words, however, not enough amusement in it to call it an actual laugh.
"Are you seriously trying to make a comparison? We never forced order on people... We never stole people's choices away from them."
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"Where did you see us do such things?" The voice within the mask is quiet, calm, but perhaps there is the faintest echo of concern.
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"... I was told that." The truth. "You wanna' tell me you guys have good intentions after you've been attacking us, after you kidnapped us and brought us here like this?"
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"And you want a chance to tell me your side of the story? You had to bring me here for that?"
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Kebechet shakes their head and stands. "The room you stepped into when we met was a living portal, but it can only take its denizens places they have already physically encountered. We use it to unfold mysteries, things that don't make sense. I am a detective, of sorts. I had hoped we could discuss the matter as equals, but you clearly think I am unworthy of such answers."
The sound of gunfire in another room grows louder, nearer.
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"Detective? I'd be more willing to talk to you if--" If they weren't here, if they'd been seated face to face, but the words cut off abruptly as he hears that approach. Fuck, and without a weapon on his side, too. Immediately he's moving back down those stairs, hand absently feeling in his pocket for a magic flask he also doesn't have. It's in his bag still, isn't it?
"I think you're trying to use me as much as you claim they are, that's what I think."
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"A sad truth of the world as it is: everyone is trying to use everyone. Were the world at peace, this would not be so, but strife continues onward." Kebechet turns, again showing their back to Noctis, walking slowly and calmly away from the throne. "The difference is for what purpose, and the intention involved. Or did your country not utilize soldiers when at war?"
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"... they were always given a choice. Did you give the Nibelungs a choice? Would you give me a choice?" He doesn't fundamentally disagree with the reality of Kebechet's statements. He's had a use of his own since he was a child and he's accepted that but it was his to knowingly grapple with.
"Were you given one?"
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Kebechet reaches out, and very gently settles their hand on Noctis' shoulder. As it lands, the scene melts away once more, just as an explosion of noise, gunfire and screaming, rounds the corner into the throne room.
And then they are back in darkness, barely illuminated.
"But I thank you for your concern." Kebechet takes their hand away.
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Then like a whiff of smoke it's gone, the inky blackness a gift only to his throbbing head. That comfort is easily overwhelmed by the dread of the unknown, however, and the cold sweat on the back of his neck.
"I didn't say there was no choice," he follows up, quieter without any background noise to contend with. "I said they weren't given one. Rebellion against your organization isn't the same as that organization promoting free will. We're not comparing the same things."
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Kebechet turns to walk away, steps echoing through the dim light.
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"... I can be my own kind of king." It's strange that Midnighter's words, which he'd resisted before, come back to him now. "And I'll choose for myself. That's my only answer to you."
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If Noctis tries to move, his feet will bump against... something. It gives slightly, rolling on the ground, the size and shape of a prone body, but the light is too dim to identify it who lays at his feet.
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The step forward to punctuate his words cuts him off, the physical barrier taking him aback as he slides his foot back just as quickly.
"... I made a fucking choice; what do you want?"
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The light around them fades dimmer, until Kebechet can barely be seen at all. "Perhaps you only learn by the methods of my contemporaries, as they advised me. Regrettable-- it is a harsh road. But you have chosen it."
And Kebechet is gone, leaving Noctis in the dark with a body at his feet. What little light there is grows just enough to outline it in dim shadow: a fallen king, his father's body.
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He's right.
Noctis's knees shudder with a tortured moment of realization, of recognition, and he's not sure whether or not he makes a sound (he does). But in the next second he's sinking to the ground, reaching hurriedly for that body in denial of his own horror to clasp at the back of his neck and support his head off of the ground. This is an image he'd been spared until now. He hadn't witnessed his father's corpse and he barely sees him even now, vision blurring with tears as he drags him closer when a very real part of him wants to push him away.
"Dad... Fuck, don't do this--" He doesn't know who that aborted plea is even directed to, too focused on trying to steady suddenly uneven breathing. It's delayed shock settling in now, hard and fast.
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Soon, trapped in bare darkness, Noctis will find him cramped in a coffin with his father.
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Guilt weighs on him as their surroundings do, forcing him to shift in order to accommodate a far more symbolic prison than any he's occupied yet.
"What--" He swallows hard to cut off a sharp gasp, red-ringed eyes glassy as one hand reluctantly pulls away from his father just to feel out the lid of that coffin from the inside. "Hey!" His next strike is far more violent, one that bruises knuckles instead of forcing anything else to give way.
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