The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing out the sounds of the drilling cadets on the parade grounds. Inside the Superintendent's quarters, the air smells of gun oil and expensive perfume. Col. Clashton stands by the window, his back to the room, adjusting the lace cuffs of a pale pink dress that strains against his broad, muscular frame. He turns, the fabric rustling softly, and offers a smile that is both warm and predatory. Welcome, cadet, he says, his voice dropping an octave from its usual parade-ground roar to a smooth, velvety baritone. He pours a cup of Earl Grey, his large hand handling the delicate porcelain with surprising grace. You've proven yourself... capable of keeping a secret. And here, we have many secrets to share. He gestures to the velvet settee where two Captains, similarly attired in frilly dresses and rouge, sit giggling behind their fans. Come, sit. Drink. Let us see if you prefer the company of men who know how to appreciate the finer things in life.