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The mighty clamps of Valetta closed in around the Lucullus class liner, a tremor reverberating through its length, signalling to anyone aboard the ship that their trip had come to an end. The captain, valiantly or foolish, had refused to chose death over living in serfdom, and would soon walk the path he had thereby set for him, alongside his crew. Unbeknownst to the Outcasts, this crew constituded of a rather valuable woman that they, through prodigious amounts of luck or divine mirth, had gotten hold of in a surprise raid in the neighboring Lorraine system.

Geneviève Marie Mercier shifted her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she observed the people scurrying around the corridors from where she stood, still wearing her flight suit. The rather sudden appearance of a Gallic vessel of this size had no doubt roused no small amount of suspicion, and it was best to put them to rest ere any sort of misconception could metastasize into something that could potentially be more than unfortunate. Therefore, she had sought to speak with the current overseer of Valetta to inform him of the situation properly. Now, several hours after the arrival of the vessel, during which it had been kept in strict quarantine, she stood in the control room, a little to the side, to watch those with more competence in this field handle the situation.

To say that she understood half of it would be an overstatement, yet nobody asked her expertise, or lack thereof, which she appreciated. It was unbearably hot in this flight suit, but she feared that she would miss out on something if she went away to get rid of it quickly. It was one of those times where she regretted not having visited higher education, as she felt incredibly dumb in such situations and, maybe just out of paranoia, assumed everyone was thinking just the same as her. God, Enma couldn't have chosen a worse puppet to steer the CID for her.

Blinking idly to keep herself from dozing off, she caught movement from the corner of her eyes. On one of the screens, people in heavy riot armor were lining up, a line in front of them bearing portable energy shields. Finally it seemed like someone was actually taking steps to enter this vessel, and apparently in a rather brutish fashion as well, judging by the armament. "Are you expecting resistance?" she spoke up in Maltese, addressing the one whom she presumed was in charge of this, a rather lanky man with a head as hairless as a newborn.

The man evidently hadn't reckoned with being spoken to, and turned around to face Mercier, the bad light of the monitors failing to adequately illuminate his face in order for Mercier to read his expression. "Wouldn't you? They have just been captured and from what you told me, you weren't quiet about their new planetside occupation."

Looking down, Mercier had to remember their flight here. She had offered the captain multiple times that he could take his and his crew's lives if he wanted. The minefield in Lorraine and Omicron Tau had been right there, yet he hadn't. Then again, they might just want to take as many Maltese with them as they could. "Fair point," she just replied and motioned for him to continue with his work, figuring a talk with him would be less than sterling in productivity. She took a deep breath, wondering if this was really worth it. The ship, while probably a nice trophy and quite valuable, was foreign tech, as far as she had understood the people around here, and couldn't be made use of by the Maltese anyways, except maybe for science purposes. Maybe Bretonia would want to buy it?

The man in front of Mercier nodded to a woman sitting in front of one of the surveilance monitors and she proceeded to speak something quick and technical into a small microphone in front of her. The result was immediate as the people on screen advanced in one unified motion towards the door, intending to breach it if they wouldn't be admitted entrance.

Fortunately for the Maltese receiving team, the remaining crew of the Calliope had no intention of changing course this late in proceedings. The most extreme loyalists had been killed in the initial mutiny - six members of the royal guard lay dead in the vessel's innermost chambers, as well as a couple of the more zealous engineers and retainers. For the vast majority, however, the idea of flying headlong into a minefield had proven less attractive than the captain's hastily proposed alternative, and so their hasty revolt had met little resistance. Valetta was no safe haven, and the Maltese none too gracious as hosts, but it was better than dying. They had all assembled near the port-side entryway, a hundred or so men and women huddled together in a subdued, beaten clump. Almost every one of them looked utterly defeated, their expressions a range of resigned sullenness to outright despair.

Almost everyone, of course, because there was one woman on board who couldn't have been more against docking safely on Valetta - understandably, the ship's gendarmes had long since had to subdue her. With her hands cuffed behind her back and a torn piece of silk cloth serving as a gag, however, there wasn't much chance of the irate young woman doing much at all besides be marched out of her quarters, flanked by two of the Calliope's security detail. Despite her condition, there was a certain way she held herself that still managed to bespeak her standing, her sharp features etched with venom at the betrayal she'd suffered. Tears already threatened to well up in her dark brown eyes, but they were tears of fury and not anguish. Her white dress uniform, its surface dotted across with silver fleur-de-lis patterns, hung lopsided on her slim frame. The fabric was ripped over one shoulder, but other than the minor damage to her attire and her restraints she appeared unharmed. Every so often, she would let out a sort of muffled growl of frustration, struggling uselessly against the two men holding her in place.

The captain had long since reached the end of his tether, too - in fact, he had gone beyond it altogether. With the autopilot locked to the Outcast reavers' directions, and a stern young woman's voice taunting him every step of the way, Henri Labourd had done the one last thing any man in his situation could have done - drained his captain's refrigerator of every last drop of wine he could find. In the face of either death or a life spent in bondage, he had felt entitled to one last drink of despair. He had spared the men and women under his command an ignominious end one way or another; even if the Sirian raiders had all simultaneously dropped dead on their way out, they would have all been executed upon returning home regardless. Small comfort, no doubt, given the alternative, but the red-faced, heavily sweating captain found anything nasty easier to stomach with enough alcohol in his bloodstream. A lifetime of slavery, it seemed, was no exception.

A firm volley of knocks rapped smartly on the liner from outside, sending a brief ripple of trepidation and murmuring throughout the assembled crew. Henri closed his eyes briefly, his expression deeply pained as he breathed out very slowly. When he opened them again, however, he seemed to have rallied a little.

"Open the door, for God's sake!" he motioned, the sudden noise spurring him to action. "They'll cut their way in here if we don't. Get the- get her up here, too. I want those bastards to know we haven't tricked them into seizing an empty ship, or else we'll all wish we'd died out there." In response to his animated gestures, the door began to slide open with a low hiss at the same time as the young woman was pushed towards it, her two custodians half-steering, half-dragging her towards the exit. He couldn't quite meet her eyes as she passed him, a gnawing sense of nausea growing in his stomach with each passing second. It was far too late for second thoughts now, though, and he had an example to set.

Straightening his dress uniform, the captain drew up his shoulders and turned to face the light from outside, the still-struggling woman and her attendants standing just behind him and off to one side. He raised both his hands as the door slid further aside, fully aware that their hosts probably had enough weaponry trained on the ship to neutralise an entire platoon of Royalist marines. The realisation that, no matter what happened here, he could never return home seemed to at last be sinking in. Even if the Chant du Cygne descended on them now with the entirety of the Royal Fleet in tow, he and his crew would be no better off for it. With that thought in mind, even the Sirians beyond the door seemed more palatable. At least they might listen to him before they decided whether to shoot him or not.

With the opening of the airlock, the denizens of the Calliope would feel a soft draft as the warmer air of Valetta streamed into the ship, bringing with it the more insidious component that was Cardamine, yet not in any amount that would be noticeable to them. What followed was a quick and efficient subdual of the crew at the hands of the Maltese teams talking over the vessel. In the control room, Geneviève leaned forward slightly to be able to watch as much of it as possible when the crew was taken out of the ship. What struck her eye was the captain, of course, since the fact that he was intoxicated was more than just obvious by the way he almost stumbled, prompting his escort to give him a rather unfriendly shove. "Is that a cripple?" asked the commander by Geneviève's side, sounding surprised more so than anything else. "Well, at least that one's useless for the fields."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Gen knew what that would mean but kept shut about it. It was simply how things worked on Malta, and it wasn't like she necessarily disagreed with that. Only the able could provide. It hadn't been that much different in Gallia. What neither she nor he knew at this time was that the captain was merely drunk above his head. "Zoom towards here, if you would," Gen told the person sitting in front of her, wanting to take a closer look at the next little swath of people exiting the Calliope. Two Maltese security men were flanking a woman, keeping her restrained by both arms. By the way she moved, it was evident that this woman did not intend to comply. Squinting, Gen leaned forwards to the screen, making it a little awkward for the poor woman who sat on the seat in front of her, but she didn't care. She knew this woman from somewhere, yet she couldn't place where she had seen her already. "Why's she gagged?" she asked, to which she received no definitive answer. "Well, then tell them to remove the gag. Why give her a different treatment than the others?" Even if this woman would scream and shout, what good would it do her?

Complying, more out of an obligation to her rank than actual respect, the order was relayed to the marines by the ship before the prisoners were led towards temporary cells to be held until they could be redistributed to Malta for work. Something wasn't right, Geneviève felt, but she figured it was simply her flight suit that was clinging to her with a mixture of sweat and bad life choices. "I'll be with the team shortly to catalogue the new workers," she told the people in the control room, not having expected a reply and thus not getting disappointed for not receiving one, before she made a move to leave. If anything, she would be able to grab a quick shower to get rid of this disgusting feeling below this cloth. If the prisoners hadn't been catalogued by that time, she might even take a look at them herself afterwards. It was always fascinating to see the different reactions, and if she was being honest with herself, she could by now guess the value of a slave by judging their first two hours of Maltese captivity. Not a skill she was proud of, but it was something.

Being frogmarched out of the ship by her own crew had been infuriating enough, a betrayal that had set her stomach turning over with rage, but it still came as a shock to actually be handed over to these Sirians like a common hostage. She had made it all the way to the bridge during the initial standoff, but the captain had convinced her to hold her tongue. It would do none of them any good if the raiders knew they had the crown princess in their clutches, he had assured her - it would be much better for her to return to her quarters until reinforcements arrived from Metz. Charlotte had doubted him then, but she couldn't argue with him on that front. There was a slim chance an ostensibly empty ship might be allowed to slip by; there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Gallic royalty would receive the same treatment.

It had been an awful shock to her, then, when she had heard Labourd capitulating to the Sirians' demands over the radio. Each man and woman aboard the Calliope had been vetted extensively - treasonous tendencies didn't reflect well on one's résumé, and the captain should have been no exception. It was only then that she realised how he had duped her - he must have had no intention of obeying his standing orders. In a worst-case scenario such as this, the directives were grim but clear - death came before capture, always. It was cheaper and easier for the Crown to make martyrs out of dead noblemen rather than spend billions of francs and thousands of tons of materiel recovering them from enemy hands. Even Charlotte had agreed, in this instance - these were not Bretonians capturing her, one of the few breeds of Sirian with at least some base civilisation among them. No, these were those known as the Outcasts, murderous slavers shackled to a poisoned world. Gallic society had always been appalled by the sheer brutality of Outcast traditions, and the idea of choking out her last breaths on a toxic world rotten to the core held much less appeal than a quick, dignified end by explosive decompression. They would at least remember her fondly then, if briefly, and her sister would carry the torch in her stead.

Unfortunately, Labourd had expected her to disagree. The ship's security team had met her and her six-man entourage just as she set out towards the bridge. Members of the royal guard were the best the Crown had to offer, hand-picked from the elite of the Gallic Royal Army, but even the best couldn't predict a knife in the back. Labourd's men had gunned them down even as the doors slid open, five dead and one dying from a hail of pulse fire before she could so much as blink. The next hours had passed in a blur of anguish for her. She had fought, struggled, spit and screamed until they had had to restrain her for their own peace of mind, gagging her to ease their consciences and binding her arms to keep everyone safer. By this point, even the most shamefaced of the traitorous crew knew they were committed - they either all died for the sake of their princess, or clung to life with whatever hope they had left. Apparently, she realised bitterly, her popular support was lower than she'd thought.

Now, though, something unexpected was happening. The Sirian steering her along was listening intently to his headset radio, ignoring her halfhearted attempts to break his grip. When he had finished, he reached over to remove the makeshift gag from her mouth, his expression betraying no sympathy for her somewhat dishevelled condition. This was a man who had seen men and women of all types led off countless transports - to him, she was no different than many others who had come before.

"Who are you?" he grunted, his expression masked behind a tinted visor. He didn't sound like he particularly cared who she was, and Charlotte surmised that he probably in fact didn't, her eyes flicking to the headset he wore. No doubt those in charge were curious exactly who they'd managed to reel in this time. Well, if they didn't already know, there was no chance she would-

"That's the crown princess, our one and only dear Charlotte DeFrance, of course!" came an almost-merry shout from across the way. Her blood froze, and she twisted her head to look at the culprit. Captain Labourd's ruddy, weasel-like face stared back at her, a strange sort of glee in his eyes at selling her out at last. "I told you I wasn't dying out there, son altesse. At least now I can finally talk to you as an equal, oui?" Perhaps the man thought she was his bargaining chip, or perhaps he was too drunk to care about anything else other than seeing her fall. How long had he harboured this resentment for her, and how stupid had she been to not notice it sooner? Whatever the cause, even the sight of him standing there felt like another punch in the gut, and before she even knew what she was doing she lunged towards him, held back only by the burly Sirian hauling her back into place.

"Labourd, you scum!" she screamed, spitting on the hangar floor in his direction. "They'll hang you for this! If these Sirian filth don't gut you first, I'll see you hang for this!" Already, she was being dragged away, finding no purchase on the smooth metal flooring no matter how hard she tried to dig her heels in. If the Sirians had thought she was just a minor noble, she might have gotten the same treatment as the rest. Now, she couldn't even begin to imagine what they might have in mind. At best, they would sell her to the Bretonians; at worst, well - from what she had heard of these Outcasts, each new possibility was worse than the last.

Before she could say anything more, however, it was clear her Sirian minder had had enough already. With the practised ease of someone who had done this many, many times in the past, he clamped one armoured hand over her mouth before hauling her away entirely, pulling her out of the hangar away from the rest of the crew.

Regardless of what Labourd had said, his words were met with reluctant cynicism. Surely the Gallic crown would know better than to let their heirs run around with only a minimal escort in a system that was bordering not just the Council, but the Outcasts in Omicron Tau as well. It was for these reasons that, despite Labourd's words, Charlotte would be led to where she would be 'processed' which entailed an entire screening and cataloguing process of her physical attributes, because those characteristics would afterwards determine the market value of a servant. For males, the focus had always been more in the possession of prodigious amounts of wit or muscle mass in order to withstand the rough and rigid regimen that their future masters would dictate. Given the Outcasts' more prominent societal issues, however, the focus for women would be on a more visceral and basic level.

Led by the stoic man, Charlotte would find herself led into the intestines of the shipyard, even though its rather tenuous size compared to Gallic one made it seem miniscule in comparison. What it lacked in imperial size, however, it made up for space where slaves could be held in cells similar to a prison, although it was obvious that those were a more temporary solution. Given the procedure that was hovering above Charlotte's head like an impending sword strike, she could struggle, scream and spit all she wanted before she would find herself thrown into a cell alongside half a dozen men and women of her crew. Locking the door behind himself, the inhabitants would hear a short, electronic buzzing before any and all sounds from outside the cell were cut out abruptly, silencing the subdued murmurs of the other crew that had already been put in their cells and leaving Charlotte alone with the others. Now, all there was to do was wait until their captors would decide to process them as well.

Having finished her own errands, Geneviève would move towards the cells approximately half an hour after she had exused herself from the control room, now wearing a proper CID uniform that was two shades of grey. It made her stand out quite a bit from the engineers and pilots she encountered on her way, most of them probably not even knowing who she was representing but it was well this way. She was no person who gave much about the attention or approval of people she didn't know. It was almost halfway through the screening process of the new captives that she would arrive on the cell block that held the Gallic, and the yet still not recognized Gallic princess. Taking a step into the corridor from the elevator, Gen saw a small group of eight people move towards the next cell to withdraw the next batch of wares, so she decided to join them. "Hey, entance is restricted here. Who are you?" asked one of the men upon noticing her approaching, to which she withdrew a small ID card from the inside of the uniform for him to see before she put it away again.

"This has its correctness. Please, don't mind me being here and carry on," she told him with practiced formality, meeting his rather antagonistic tone of voice with a patient one, which seemed to at least drain the pugnacious spirit from him. Thank you, Enma. Casting a look at the small woman in grey in front of him, then at the others in his group, he snorted, having noted the accent in Geneviève's Maltese, but not commenting on it. With a nod, the men moved towards the cell to withdraw the prisoners. This was not yet Charlotte's cell, but it would be her turn in due time.

Her armoured handler seemed utterly unmoved by her cursing and yelling at him, one steel-clad arm wrapped around her midsection keeping her a minimal concern as he hauled her towards her cell. It was entirely possible he just didn't understand any of her French, but the end result would have been the same either way - soon, he had thrown her bodily into a spartan metal holding room, sending her sprawling to the floor as the door clanged shut behind her. The metal aperture swung shut with a clang and a soft beep, the lock indicator light turning an angry shade of red behind her. Charlotte was an enlisted officer, so although the physicality of it all didn't shock her as much as it could have, it still left a feeling of deep-seated fury boiling in her stomach. She took just a moment to recover herself, picking herself gingerly up from the steel floor tiling before, rather belatedly, realising that she wasn't alone. Ten or so pairs of eyes watched her from across the room, their expressions a range of sympathy to outright disgust and everywhere in between. Not one of them had made even the slightest motion to offer her a helping hand - unfortunately, she took that as an insult rather than a note of warning.

"Are you blind? Why didn't you help me?!", she fumed, balling her hands into fists. "I am still your princess!" A couple of the older crewmen averted their gazes at that, their faces betraying the shame that had been eating at them over the past few hours, but they were definitely in the minority. The other men and women simply glared back at her, their expressions almost mirroring her own. One of the younger lieutenants stepped ahead of the pack, evidently pushed too far by the stress of the past few hours.

"If we'd gone along with what you wanted, your highness, we'd all be dead already," he spat, conscious of the murmur of assent that backed him up. "You'd have sentenced all of us to die just to save yourself. What do any of us owe you after that?"

The words hit her almost like hammer blows, although they didn't curtail her fury in the slightest. She was a DeFrance - her crew should have been happy to die for their princess' sake! They were the subjects and she was destined to rule; there was no room for argument. They had mutinied against her, they had committed treason against the Crown, and now they dared to stand against her one last time. Combined with the stress of the past few hours, it was too much for Charlotte to overlook - common sense gave way to white-hot anger, and she advanced on him as if she had a thousand men at her back. Her right hand came up to grab the irate young man by his uniform collar, though the extra half-head of height he had on her minimised the effect of her intimidating gesture.

"I am still your commanding officer, lieutenant, as well as your better by birth," she began, practically shaking with rage. "Don't you dare talk to-"

So focused was she on almost throttling him that she never saw the knee that took her in the stomach, sending her crumpling almost to the floor, winded. He said something to her as she knelt there on all fours, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath to refill her lungs, but the rushing noise in her ears blocked out whatever it was. For the first time, Charlotte was glad that her father had forced her through the Royal Navy's training regimen with the rest of the cadets, rather than securing her a cushy, nominal position intended only for prestige. It gave her something to hold onto instead of the pain, and provided her with the strength of will to hit back. She caught him unawares with her reckless tackle, barreling the unprepared young man off his feet and to the floor with a heavy thump. The next few minutes passed in a blur - all she could register was a dull throbbing far away and a piercing noise in her head as she laid into him, her fist impacting his nose with a sickening crunch of snapping cartilage. She could hear shouting, as well - out of the corner of her vision, more of the crew had broken ranks to aid their fallen comrade - but she found that she hardly even cared. Not one of them noticed the door swinging open behind them, nor did they notice the hulking Outcast filling the frame with his armoured bulk.

The figure in the doorway didn't even look surprised, just bored. The fresh meat was always the most unruly before reality set in, and more often than not new batches needed a few harsh lessons in camaraderie before they even made it to the fields. It was always fun to watch the new intakes duke it out, but too many damaged goods and it would be his payroll that would suffer first. It had been very exciting for him at first to break up these sorts of fights, but now he struggled to find the same joy in it as he once had. They weren't even allowed to kill a few to make a point any more - it made too much of a mess of things, and generally wound up being more trouble than it was worth. It really was a shame. With almost clinical precision, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and began firing indiscriminately. Soon enough, the noise of brawling chattel had subsided into almost-total silence; only the soft hissing of his weapon could be heard once his work was done. Or, well - almost done.

One last thing called for his attention - he had to separate the produce in case any of them got crushed. Normally, he wouldn't have minded, but regulations were becoming even stricter these days, as cartel after cartel sought to outproduce and outprofit its closest competitors. Even a single avoidable slave death could have ramifications nowadays, and so he waded over to the heap of twitching bodies to line them up neatly, his gauntleted hand picking one out after another to prop them neatly up against the wall. Some were outright unconscious, some were on the way, and only a couple were still somehow clinging on. Those were the stupid ones, he thought - it was always worse that way. The stun-gun he'd used scored ten out of ten for effectiveness; it wasn't quite so hot, however, when it came to the comfort rating.

Eventually he came to the core of the problem - a blonde-haired lady officer in a dress uniform, sprawled in a heap to the side of another, lower-ranked man. These were the two who had started it, although he hadn't really been paying enough attention to know which. Neither of them had come out of it particularly well - the man's nose would be crooked for the rest of his life, and from the looks of it the girl had been mobbed more than she'd been fighting back. He couldn't tell for sure, but he suspected she'd have more than a few bruises in the morning, and maybe even a rib or two out of action. The thought of it made him grind his teeth, because it put him in even more of a conundrum - either he called in medical and nothing was wrong, which meant he'd wasted their time and looked like an idiot, or he called them and there actually was damage, which meant he would be losing credits off his next payday. Either that, or he could just hedge his bets and hope she was okay, in which case he'd either get lucky or someone would find out further down the line that the Gallic officer needed attention before anyone could put her to work. This day just kept getting worse and worse.

He made up his mind soon enough, however - as he left the room he made a few quick gestures to the wall-mounted camera, making sure that a medical team would make their way along sooner rather than later. With a few more disgruntled clomps of his heavy, armoured boots he left the room entirely, the door shutting behind him as he made his way along to the next cell. If they were rioting in there as well, he swore he'd drain an entire battery's worth of shots into them this time. Maybe that would stop this day from being quite so aggravating.

There was a moment during which Geneviève had considered simply standing back and watching the process. There was something deeply unsettling about it, she felt, although it was conducted in the most mundane, granted ways she could imagine. It wasn't like it made her feel bad; after all, why shouldn't those sorry clowns experience the joy of Malta as well? It was simply the fact that the sight of crying adults really, really grated her nerves. What was it with these Gallic engineer ladies and hysteria? She knew for a fact she hadn't been this whingy when she had been maimed on Leeds. "That is very well, Miss," Gen replied to the woman who had just answered her question of what her name was after five minutes of sobbing, lapping and wailing. After ten people during which she had just watched, she felt like she needed to do something lest she go insane and took over the job of the poor sob who had previously been bitten by a more vigorous captive. "Please take off your clothes."

Looking over the PDA that she was holding in hand to take notes and fill out a form on her physical attributes, she waited for the reaction, which didn't seem to come in any other form than stiffled sobs. "Miss, the clothes." She cast a noticeable look to one of the guards who was standing outside, this one rivalling the one who had dealt with Charlotte's little brawl in size. "I know from experience that it is unpleasant to be undressed instead of doing it yourself. You can at least keep some dignity this way," she switched to French for this, as she didn't necessarily want to have the man overhear her in a way he would understand. Her words, however, had a quite different effect on the woman, sitting in front of her on a plain chair while Gen herself was standing in front of her.

"Y- you're one of u- us," she sniffed, her blue eyes casting Geneviève a glance she couldn't quite place. Was this supposed to be hope? "But w- why? Why h- help those bastards?" Judging from the intonation of her voice, she honestly couldn't grasp the concept. Wordlessly, Geneviève motioned for the woman to comply with her demand lest there be consequences and slowly, reluctantly, she moved to comply, unbuttoning her uniform jacket. "Where do-"

"On the ground," Gen interrupted her, having anticipated her question simply by sheer experience by now. At least every third one who was processed this way asked where they clothes should go. Well, the answer was simply just off of them since they would also not be putting that back on again. In order to be sold, they would need to wear something more uniform in order to not dazzle customers with false decorations that could obstruct the true qualities of the wares. Geneviève watched as first the jacket, the blouse, then the rest hit the floor, remaining quiet the whole while. The girl was at least accepting her treatment right now. Good. Acceptance would help her stay remotely sane. While taking several notes on her outward appearance, now completely uncovered and illuminated in stark contrast by the white neon light of the room, she motioned for the woman to turn around in order for her to appraise her backside. "Have you ever had any surgeries? Allergies? Chronical medical conditions?"

Doing as she had been told, the girl faced away from Gen was she answered. "Two surgeries, one to mend a splintered collarbone and the other to replace a liver," she replied, her voice having turned more firm over the minutes that she had spent undressing, although it was now more dejected and hollow than anything else. Malta was already claiming her spirit. Geneviève was sure she had deliberately hesitated in order to remain some composure. Maybe at least this one was taking her advice about dignity to heart. "No allergies or conditions."

"Very well, miss," Gen acknowledged her answer, adding two ticks on the PDA followed by a quick note. "Did you have sexual encounters in the last three months? Are you pregnant?" This was arguably the most important question in this entire process, at least for the women, since children were a highly valued commodity, not just for trade, and some families even went so far as to actually adopt the children of their slaves to extend their family lineage. The biggest criticism they faced for this was diluting their own bloodline, which was considered more than disgraceful in the high echelons of Maltese society. That was the reason that it was mostly practiced between the less wealthy families, since those could not affort costly scientific projects in order to produce a genetically flawless successor to their heritage.

The woman was still facing away from Gen as she replied. "No." Well, that was unfortunate. Nodding, Gen took another note before noticing that the girl wouldn't be able to see that and therefore spoke up again. "Alright, we are done, then." She held up a hand as the girl turned around and knelt down in order to pick up her clothes. "Nu-uh, leave them." Upon the questioning, almost exasperated glance of the woman, Gen elaborated. "Simply stand up and leave through the door. You will be taken where you need to be." She would also receive some neutral clothing there, but she didn't mention that. It was good for the girl's attitude to be put through this. There was a certain elegance to all this, at least from a psychological perspective. Too bad Geneviève had never been erudite enough to make up her mind about such things.

"B- but they'll stare at me!" the girl protested weakly, looking at Gen with bloodshot eyes. "Why can't I cover myself? Didn't you say something about dignity before." There was a certain truth to what she said, at least from an ouside perspective. What the girl hadn't yet leaned was thinking like an Outcast.

"That would imply you'd have the right to cover the body, but you have to understand that it does not belong to you. Now have the dignity to accept this." With a handmotion, Gen shooed the girl out of the room, which she very reluctantly did to be met with one of the guards who would lead her towards where she would get dressed, as well as be distributed to one of the many shuttles that went to and fro from Valetta in order to bring and take goods. With the room empty again, Gen waited until the clothes had been gathered and dispatched of before yawning. If anything, she would process one more before minding something that didn't only have a scholarly value in understanding Maltese customs.

"Continue, please," she told the man by the door of the room who was supposed to make sure she wasn't assaulted by the captives and therefore held a pulse rifle, and he left to get another person.

For all Charlotte knew, Valetta might have been the Maltese word for hell. The curious blend of Italian and Spanish was too far removed from her native French for her to really follow what was going on, but unless it was another romanticised old Earth place name, she was sure it was fitting. As far as she was concerned, it was a nightmarish place, and seeing it was already doing wonders for her conviction in the Crown's cause. It sickened her to think of free Gallic men and women going through this place like cattle - the traitors among her crew deserved it, of course, but she couldn't help but wonder how many more of the Kingdom's loyal citizens had been dragged through these hallways in months and years gone past. The moral depravity at work here beggared belief - even to someone like Charlotte, to whom the inner workings and less savoury side of Gallic politics and the Kingdom's running had been clearer than most others could have ever hoped for, the Maltese had taken things to another level. Their poisoned world, it seemed, bred a people just as toxic.

The princess was not the woman she had been just a few hours ago. Whatever stun-gun they'd hit her with had left singed part of her dress uniform black like charcoal, and her right shoulder had been throbbing ever since she'd come round. Her right eye was blackened from the initial scuffle she'd had, and from the way her chest ached she was fairly certain at least one rib was out of commission, either with severe bruising or an outright fracture. It was hard to be sure, though - it hurt to breathe, but the doctor who'd attended to her had bigger concerns than her comfort level. She had been just one patient among the hundreds who came through every day, and after a brief checkup to ensure that she had no punctured lungs or other complications she had been sent on her way. Damaged was better than dying, and not even a tenth as important - a couple of broken ribs might shave a few hundred to a thousand credits off her purchase price, but it certainly wouldn't lose the medic any sleep.

Another Maltese brute was with her now, the same sort of hulking figure as the rest of his type charged with half-steering, half-dragging her painfully along the corridor. Her limping gait was too slow for his liking, but he knew better than to push the wares too far beyond their tolerance. If someone had told her they were all some form of clone troopers, she wouldn't even have been all that surprised. It seemed to her that the Maltese had been in this business for so long that they had refined it into more of an art form than a science - it also struck her as odd that they weren't treating her any different to the rest. Initially, she had thought of them not recognising her as a great victory - she could imagine a hundred different uses these brutes might have for a young, female member of their enemy's royal family, each of them more distressing than the last - but now, she wasn't quite so sure she was lucky at all. The inner workings of Malta's processing unit were beginning to take their toll, and the previous grit and determination Charlotte was so proud of was beginning to rot through with a very real sense of fear and the now-constant pain of injury. The fleets would come for her, she was sure of that - the only question was if they would come soon enough.

A gauntleted hand stopped her dead in her tracks beside yet another battleship-grey door, her armoured minder throwing out one arm to bar her way.

"In," he grunted, sounding as if even the single syllable took effort. A day ago, being spoken to like that could have gotten the speaker killed; now, she went along without protest. Her hand almost shook as she pulled the door open, stepping into the room before the guard closed it quickly behind her, almost slamming it back into its frame as he reverted to type. "I'll be watching," he said, speaking through the rectangular slit in the otherwise bare steel. "No trouble." His tone left the consequences of 'trouble' wholly unstated, but the implication was enough by itself.

The pain seemed worse in here, and Charlotte slumped against the wall for support before she noticed that she wasn't alone here, either. A blonde-haired woman was seated opposite the doorway, poring over some sort of PDA with apparent disinterest. She hadn't looked up yet, and Charlotte was in no hurry to catch her eye either. Instead, she took whatever brief respite she could get, clutching at her side with one hand in vain hopes of dispelling the sharp, stabbing ache at her waist, her face ashen with the pain.

The voice of the man who handled Charlotte was audible well through the door of the room in which Geneviève sat on the stool that had been vacated by the woman earlier. When the door opened, she cast a brief look to see which gender would enter this time, and judging by the clothing alone, it was a woman. Good. That meant she would need to repeat the same procedure as before. With the door closed and the woman slumping against the wall, Gen figured she could take some time before she would address the woman in front of her, instead keeping to finishing some things on the files of the last woman. Her breasts had been slightly asymmetrical, which should be noted negatively and would likely bump down her price by around five hundred credits. From experience, she would guess this woman would sell for around six to seven thousand, slightly above average, since everything else was in rather good condition and her skin was rather clean, except the surgical incisions from the two surgeries.

With the finishing touches made, she cleared her throat to get the attention of the new arrival, crossing her legs while sitting on the little stool in the middle of the room. Geneviève was not what one would call a particularly imperial person that demanded respect by sheer virtue of her appearance. She was rather small, clocking in at around 1.60 metres, a gift of early smoking, and her face was rather average besides the fact that she was slightly wall-eyed. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail to keep it out of her face for now, as this was the one thing that definitely got on her nerves rather quickly. Despite all this, she knew that she was in the superior position. "Name, age, occupation," she asked the woman levelly, taking in her appearance, the luscious hair and clean skin. The dress uniform was rather nice as well, although the bits of blood, spit and other body fluids that had stained it during the brawl in the cell definitely hadn't helped to better its appearance. "Stand upright and face me, if you would." Again, it would be rather obvious that Gen's English was heavily accented. It was rather obvious that the woman was hurt in some form, and it looked rather fresh, yet the full extend of the damage would only reveal itself to her once she was faced properly. At least this one had the pleasure of not having a man with them in the room to leer.

Her teeth gritted against the pain, Charlotte took an immediate dislike to the seated woman, though there was some surprise in there as well. The Gallic accent in her English was more subdued than most, but for someone who knew what to listen for it stood out more prominently than ever. What was a Gallic woman doing in power in a place like this? She would have loved to have found out - something told her the story would let her hate the officious-looking little bitch even more. She took a somewhat wobbly step forwards, trying not to look quite as wounded as she really felt. The princess looked every inch her office - her blonde hair had lost some of its styling and lustre in the past few hours, true, and while anyone would have been hard-pressed to describe her as truly beautiful, there was something in her expression and in the way she carried herself that lower-born Gauls simply didn't have. The overall effect was mitigated by the almost deathly pallor of her face and how she kept clutching at her side, but enough of it remained to still be noticeable.

"Camille- Desrosiers," she lied, swaying slightly without the wall to support her. The more she thought about it, the more flying under the radar seemed like a safe bet. If and when the Kingdom's fleets darkened the skies here in search of her, the last place she wanted to be was in the hands of the Maltese administration. The Bretonians might have afforded her more privileges as a proper POW if they had both caught and identified her, but the best she imagined the Maltese could do with her was attempt to ransom her back. They wouldn't have any luck, of course - their negotiations would be received with stony silence and an invasion flotilla bent on reducing their world to ash, and then they might just slit her throat and be done with it.

"I'm- twenty-six, and I'm the on the planetary council for Lyon. Border control- and so on with Kusari, for the most part," she added, stumbling only a little with the fluency of her story. Truth be told, she had been to Lyon only twice in her life, both times on holiday as a young girl and then a teenager. All that mattered, though, was that it was about as far from Orleans as one could get. Her refined accent and relatively fancy dress marked her out as some form of noble anyway, albeit one attached to the Navy - as long as she went along those lines and tried to downplay her influence, she might just slip through the cracks. The Maltese didn't seem to follow Gallic politics at all, apparently, which was turning out to be more of a help than anyone ever could have guessed. All she had to do was dodge around the sour-faced woman's probing questions - that, and not to pass out from the searing sensation working its way through her abdomen.

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