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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"This isn't real, this isn't real..." he repeats to himself, a thoughtless, necessary mantra to stave off the horror of what he's just witnessed. Something he couldn't fight, a man he couldn't help. Any chance of reversing a memory that claws at his insides burns up along with a large amount of what little oxygen still remains for him to breathe and each inhale strains newly ashy lungs further.
His heart's hammering in his chest when his eyes lower to the only source of light in his cramped box, one radiating heat and energy, and his options melt away. The ring of his ancestors sears his skin when he grabs for it, stuttering out his pain as he forces it down over a finger that turns immediately red and raw at every point of contact. A new pressure blooms in his rib cage and at the base of his skull.
Then everything goes dark.
The sudden pain that overtakes him is unlike anything he's ever felt before, ripping him apart from the inside with shining white fingers that calcify and decay everything they touch while voices whisper his unworthiness in his ear. He recognizes his father's. Still the fire sinks and spreads as it consumes him, a failed king, the Chosen by mistake and not by proper destiny, and the last twinges of fear that he feels cement that idea in his mind.
The torture only stops when he has no nerves left to experience it with and his eyes open slowly then, reformed and undamaged. Soot streaks his bare skin, remnants of his father's ashes and his own alike, the last remainders of a long and proud line and the evidence of the tracks it's left on his own life. Light reflects in blue as he again focuses on that ring, silent and exhausted. The dread within him grows with each passing second -- minute? hour? -- until he realizes just how much he wants to be away from it. It's becoming fucking unbearable and his next strike upward is far stronger even if his words are quieter.
"Hey! Please... I'm calm, I can talk again. I can't stay in here... We can talk about what you want."
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"I am sorry." It sounds genuine. "But you had to see it. The risk. All that could be lost."
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The touch to his face has him tensing, yes, but not pushing Kebechet away. Not yet.
"Is this... how you sway people? This is the best way for you?"
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"The risks of my actions and inactions?"
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That was a courtesy to make me less ignorant? I'm listening, just... Let me go." He draws the blanket around himself tighter, gaze remaining averted.
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"And what are you trying to make people understand by torturing them? That's not imparting information, it's just... You want to recruit people, right? Is that the point of this?"
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"I know it... I always have... but there are more reasons behind putting people through this; this isn't just your quest to enlighten people. You said you're a detective, not an informer."
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And then it's gone. Calm again, Kebechet continues.
"I wish to make you understand what your negligence and sloppiness will lead to. For you, and for your citizens. You ally yourself with the same ideologies that killed your father, wrecked your country and disemboweled your fiancee. You reject peace and prosperity in favor of some idealistic bid for individuation."
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"Don't... don't talk about them. I knew the risks, I fought for what I chose, and I've lost people for it. I get that. But I would never criticize them for the choices that they made. What's idealistic is thinking you can eliminate all of that suffering without paying an equally heavy price. Isn't that what you want? An end to wars and chaos? You don't want to relive what you saw either."
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They turn, then, as though realizing something. "This is not theory. This is fact. There are many Peaceful territories, a fact your rebellious colonies like to forget and obscure."
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"... who were you, before you took that name? Did your world get saved from its wars?"
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"They said it was liberation." Which makes it sound a lot better than Kebechet's version of things does, doesn't it? "... what would the Regency do to Eos? What are your plans for my home?"
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"Universal employment? Genetic backing? You're speaking to one of the local rulers now, and I'm hearing you out. I promised already that I would.
Or is that outside of your purview?"
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"I cannot make you diplomatic promises in specific, but I can explain what our contracts generally entail. To become an imperial colony, universal employment is strongly suggested, as the populace is more at Peace when they are occupied. Our genealogists will go through individual's family histories to assign them the employment they are most suited toward; though if someone shows aptitude in another field, they will be moved. Genetic backing is simply a precaution; we wish to study the genetic diversity of our allies, so we can better understand the diseases endemic to the populace, and their inherent genetic successes, as well. This is to ensure future generations will be stronger, less prone to disease, with longer and healthier lifespans."
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"Going back in time, altering events that sow discord later to rewrite history... If you have access to that much technology and that many resources, why is it you haven't just taken out COST's leaders in their pasts? Are they out of your reach now? if that's the case and that big a weakness exists, it sounds like making promises out of turn.
You get that what I want, above all else, is the safety and prosperity of my people. I'm not gambling with that based on less than full information."
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"We don't know who started COST. We theorize it was several independent terrorist cells, all springing up for their own low ends, before finding each other and deciding to band together for common strength. Believe me, we've eradicated all we can, and are always looking to do more. And before you decry our misuse of the technology-- we could easily send agents to your childhood, kidnap you or even do something as simple as replacing a philosophy tutor with one more amenable to our modes of thought. We do not. A colony must choose."
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"I'm not 'decrying' anything. I'm trying to understand what you are and aren't capable of. My personal morals..." Here he pauses, eyes lowering to the design on the blanket around him.
"... Aren't important in the face of keeping Lucians safe."