"Well—" She stops up short. Infuriatingly, he's got a point. Getting hundreds of people to play along (at least without an immediate threat of death) would be difficult. Unless it was a cult situation. Actually that did seem to fit, there was the Stonehenge element. A charismatic leader could dupe hundreds of people under the guise of cosmic enlightenment. Or worse, drag them into apocalyptic despair.

Not that she gets a chance to expand this theory. He impresses the importance of trust, which hunches her shoulders further, and toasts to her health as he takes a bite.

Nothing happens. Fukawa frowns. It's not that she wants to be right, she's not a psychopath. It's just that now she'll look paranoid. It's Cassandra warning the Trojans all over again.

She's grousing as she mutters, "F-Fukawa," wringing her knuckles once more. "Guess you're just a lucky guy."

Or the other shoe will drop later. That's probably it. No one's demanded they start killing each other yet, or announced they'd be hunting them for sport. Small mercies. She's so tired of playing the jester in a lunatic's court.

"You're awful chipper, for b-being sucked across universe against your will. Don't t-tell me this place reminds you of home or something."