Jean does not often eat. It is unnecessary, and takes up valuable time.

Sometimes, though, he sits in closed lecture halls with his Soldiers and they are nervous, unsure how to behave, the ice needs to be broken.

He reaches for a vegitable tray, raises a slice of green pepper to his lips, bites down.

The taste is hollow, distant; there's a sharp tang lingering, a taste like hidden grief, a hint of bitterness. It tastes mellow, mournful, cool. There is no drama to the taste.

"How is it, Archangel?" One of the Soldiers asks, anxious.

Jean considers.

"It is," he says at last, existentially.