The mentioning of Lyon made Gen raise an eyebrow. "Planetary council, huh?" she intoned, humming to herself while recalling the time she had actually lived on that planet. It seemed so distant although had only been four years now. Something was not right about this woman in front of her, she felt. Besides the bruises and the black eye that shouldn't be there, there simply was something about her appearance that screamed at her, but she couldn't really place what it was. "Say, how is Gaspard doing? I can only speak from a commoner's perspective, but from what was floating around, he had a knack for advancing on unwilling women." She didn't rightly remember the name of the council's head, but she figured that it was Gaspard. This seemed to be the noble that the captain had been talking about, given that her alleged position was at least somewhat prestigious. Lowering her eyes to the PDA, she took quick notes on what she had just said before looking up again.
"Also: what happened that you look this way?" Geneviève asked, deviating from the standard set of questions but found it necessary to do since the cause for her injuries could potentially impact her price. The one that marred her face was temporary, or so she hoped, but the way Charlotte held her side at least insinuated that she was experiencing some degree of pain. Furrowing her brow, the fact that she couldn't recall her home planet's council-head's name bugged her, and so she absentmindedly tried to look whether she had been right using her PDA.
"There was- a fight," explained Charlotte, rather lamely. "I think- the doctor told me, rather, that one or two of my ribs are bruised- bruised or broken, that is." She had to work hard to keep her voice level, which was one area where the pain actually helped - the way her tone wavered a little would hopefully be chalked up to either discomfort or fear, rather than the all-too-familiar anger roiling in her stomach. She was far from an empathetic person, but in her mind there was at least a difference between indifference towards others' suffering and an outright contempt for it. At least Sirians could be excused in having such base, barbaric ways - they were a cruel, savage set of peoples, with eight hundred years of conflict and counting to show for it - but to find a fellow Gaul with such a callous, unfeeling demeanour towards her fellow people was an eye-opener.
In more ideal circumstances, Charlotte would have done something about her growing fury. Punching the cold-hearted little bitch in the face would have made her feel much better, but she knew better than to try anything while already walking wounded. It likely wouldn't have been worth it, anyway - but a girl could dream. She would remember this one's face, she promised herself - when the Crown's fleets darkened Malta's sky with one great shadow, making an example out of the Gallic slave handler would bring her no end of vindication. For now, though it pained her to admit it, she knew she had little choice but to toe the line.
"Gaspard is- I don't recognise the name," she added haltingly, forcing herself to try and smooth things over. Something about the almost deadened expression on the other woman told her an emotional appeal wouldn't have worked, in any case. Certainly, if their positions were reversed, with Charlotte as the presiding judge and this other woman on trial for her crimes, every useless little plea she heard would have only made her take more joy in the sentencing. "He- I suppose he must have left before my time, I believe. What, ah- what department was he in charge of?"
Geneviève didn't answer right away, being a little preoccupied with the PDA in hand. Her memory had in fact not served her right. The name had been Gerard, but she could hardly fault the woman for not knowing everyone who she might have worked with. Then again, the man had been rather well known on Lyon, so it struck her as odd that the girl had never heard of his reputation, at least, let alone that she didn't correct her on the wrong usage of the name. It did not, however, altert her overly to anything that might have been wrong. "You should sit down if you are hurt like that," she said while slowly rising from the chair to make way for the other woman. It might have been conflated for a gesture of care, but it was really only to not worsen the ware's conditions even more. "When I arrived here, I had a fight as well. You shouldn't do that. Your master slash mistress might not be as benign as mine is." It might have been exaggerated to talk of Enma as her mistress, but ever since the debacle that cost her her seat with the Church, she felt the metaphorical shackles that bound her to the impulsive woman more and more, restraining her, even more so than the Cardamine infesting her system already did.
She exhaled slowly, having taken a step back from the chair. Why was she even talking to this one like that? If she were to really follow that question, it was likely boredom — boredom and pity. She could see the pugnacious, proud spirit in the eyes of this woman glaring holes into her as though she hoped a malign deity would inflict a terrible and agonizing kind of cancer upon her lymphatic system, as though such a thing would even work when Cardamine was in play. Such behaviour would only earn her the whip, or worse. "Gaspard was more of a representative of the royal court on Lyon. Had a good reputation with the population, mostly because he advocated for the tradition of hunting on Lyon, which the more posh people thought was barbaric. That, and lots of sex scandals." What did it matter that she hadn't recalled his name correctly? If they were both talking about the same person and she knew sort of what Gen was talking about, why admit her mistake? "It is strange that you didn't hear at least some stories while being there."
Charlotte practically fell onto the offered seat, her pale face streaked with sweat and her breathing still ragged. There was no fear of her misinterpreting the gesture, though - reading the other woman's expression was like reading a book, and there was no sympathy in that gaze, just the impression that she was being inconvenienced. All the same, sitting down took the edge off, although it wasn't exactly a miracle cure. The added insinuation that the other woman was in the same position as her barely even registered with her - even if it was true, there was little difference between unwilling and willing collaboration in her mind. It sounded faintly like a weak excuse or justification for her current position, too, which didn't help matters either.
"I'm not from Lyon," she half-spat, half-gasped, her brown eyes staring up at the stony-faced woman as if daring her to argue. "I'm from Le Mans, in Maine. It's gone now- the supernova about a year ago- I was transferred after that. I don't know who you're talking about." She could have spun a semi-truthful tale about Orleans for days on end, but of course this girl was the provincial type. Charlotte had always thought of Lyonnais as something of a backwater, a dull little system tucked away in the sleepiest recesses of the Kingdom with nothing to offer but a planet full of farmers, but of course this girl happened to be intimately familiar with the damn place. It was all beginning to wear down on her - the past few hours had been like something out of a nightmare, and things were only getting worse. She had regretted agreeing to the Lorraine tour almost the second she'd stepped aboard that sad excuse for a liner, but no one could ever have guessed that it would have turned out like this. The room felt like it was tilting slowly up on its axis, the stress, strain, and outright trauma of the day all combining to take its toll on both her body and mind. "Don't you- do you have any painkillers?" Appealing to the woman's sense of pity was a waste of time, she knew that, but the sooner she deflected the ongoing interrogation, the better.
Her eyes followed the other woman as she sat down, wanting to look out for any peculiarities in the way she lowered herself, though it was too quick for her to draw any sort of conclusions from that. "That must have been horrible." Her voice stood in stark dissonance to the words. Using the pad, she made another note. Her request, however, made her wonder. She could, of course, call for a medic to administer pain-relieving drugs to her, but that would go contrary to the purpose of this facility. It was supposed to weaken the resolve of those going through it, be the first hit to erode the foundation of their character until only the basic instinct of obeying lest there be punishment remained. "Painkillers," she repeated, this time actually sounding rather conflicted. It wasn't like she deliberately tried to be heartless. On the contrary: Geneviève genuinely believed that this sort of treatment was the best way she could treat the new arrivals. At least she would be able to ease them into their new lives in a more gentle way than others would. Of course, this was only what she kept telling herself in order to erase the depravity of the entire procedure from her conscience. It was soothing to believe she was doing this out of care. As long as she didn't think too deeply about the mental gymnastics she was performing, everything was fine, just fine.
"I take it you're an intelligent woman," Gen continued, switching over to French now, her own accent certainly not as refined as that of the noble in front of her, but at least she sounded native, which was something that Gen lacked in Maltese and English. "I'm sure you realize why there is this middle-step between capture and being sold to the highest bidder. After all, this screening could have been done by some machine." She lowered the pad and put her arms behind her back, with one hand holding the wrist of the one holding the pad to give the woman more of her attention. At least this wasn't as boring as the others now. "We all learn to obey our betters. Dissent, and there is punishment. You must think that there is some sort of fun involved in doing this to you. I am preparing you for people far crueller than me. If you obey them, they will leave you alone. If you don't, they will torment you more than we here ever could, because you will not get away from them."
Lifting the pad, she held it in a way that Charlotte could see the display and read. Just out of her arm's reach, she could see that only a single command more would be needed in order to provide her with what she wanted, as Gen had even switched the pad to English for her to read. "Can you show me that you understand what I mean?"
French was good - French was much easier. Her English was impeccable, as one might expect from someone with her upbringing, but her native tongue freed up more of her brain to concentrate on the important things, like being able to sit upright and form complete sentences.
"I understand," she responded slowly, her accent an almost perfect replica of a New Parisian citizen's. No offworlder could ever truly shed their home world's little foibles and intonations, but how close you got to the zero marker was just one more measurement of prestige among Gallic nobility. Even the pain etched in her tone seemed lessened by the effect, although one look at her would have told anyone that things were far from rosy. She hadn't expected to be offered medicine at all, but in a way she realised she never had been. Even if the button did what it said, there would be something worse lurking down the line as a consequence. It hadn't taken the other woman's lecture to help her realise that, and the fact that she was being treated particularly like a slow child was just another thing to fray her nerves even more. The urge to snap back was almost overwhelming.
"Put- put that away." She waved her hand dismissively at the display, turning her head away as if defeated. The barrage of questions was over, which was a small victory in itself. Indeed, unless the other woman realised she'd been thrown off the trail, it would be the first point she'd managed to claw back at all during this whole torturous ordeal. "They wouldn't help for long enough, anyway." Every word sent a new stabbing sensation through her side. Nothing was leaking yet, but there was definitely something grinding around in there. Definitely broken. There were about a million more things she would have liked to say, but none that were worth the effort. For the first time, some of the imperious attitude seemed to seep out of her bearing. Her situation was already untenable, and had possibly been so from the beginning. She was so tired, too. Taking the seat had been a mistake, as it turned out - once you were sat down, the very real possibility of getting up again seemed more like a fairy tale. The academy was proud of putting its cadets through hell, or as close to it as to make no difference - the Royal Navy's standards were tenfold harsher than those of the Royal Army's, and those of the First Fleet doubly so - but Charlotte was fast realising that in this case, at least, imitation really did fall quite short.
Retracting her arm from the Gallic princess in front of her, Geneviève closed the tab that would have called the medic down here to do what she said. "Very well." And the girl did in fact not understand what she had wanted to tell her. Well, if she so desperately wanted the whip, then please, by all means. "Can you imagine what comes next?" she asked while opening the tab for the evaluation again. The physical traits would still need to be ascertained. For some reason, Geneviève figured that this would not go as smoothly as with the others, given Charlotte's injuries. There was a certain tint in the eyes of the other woman. "Are you angry?" It would really surprise Gen if she wasn't. She remembered vividly the first few times where the little game of pretend she played with her own conscience faltered for a moment and she got furious at Enma, Malta, Martelli and whoever else was a fitting target right now. Of course, none of this had ever left the privacy of her own bedroom.
Shifting her weight again, she tried not to inhale sharply, as the old injury in her hip made simply standing pretty difficult. Leaning back, she used the wall to relieve some of the weight from her legs in the hopes of this making it a little better, but it was a vail attempt. She just hoped it wouldn't be too visible. It distracted her for a moment while she waited for Charlotte to speak.
For a brief period, Charlotte didn't reply. She didn't have to say anything, though. Her face had already spoken on her behalf, a resounding yes written all across her features. There were a lot more yeses hidden in there, too - she was angry, in pain, exhausted, light-years away from home, and seconds away from being either tossed out as broken goods or found out altogether. The woman hadn't asked her about any of those other things, but they were all there in the princess' half-deadened stare.
"Yes," she said anyway. Try as she might, though, it was getting harder and harder to hold onto her anger already. In her own peculiar way, these few minutes with the blonde-haired woman had been the one of the least awful things to happen to her all day. Her candour was refreshing, even if it made her skin crawl too. "What does happen next?" The princess' voice was weaker now, wavering unsteadily through the dead silence, shaky more from fatigue than anything else. God, had it always been this cold in here? Even her hands felt clammy now, pale and sweaty, and it was impossible to keep them from shaking. It was more of a mental thing than it was physical, and she knew that,but it still didn't help. If anything, it only made it worse. All the medicine in the world couldn't melt the grey, soulless walls of Valetta; couldn't send her back to Orleans where she belonged. Thinking of home made her think of her sister, and thinking of her sister just made her feel sick.
Honest, at least. This was indeed something that would serve the girl right. It reminded her of Enma and she had to suppress a smile lest it seemed like she was laughing at Charlotte. "I will need to ascertain your value," Geneviève pronounced bluntly. Dimly, she noted that she wasn't even supposed to do it this way, not explain what she was doing because that would go against the idea of the procedure, but she figured that one wouldn't spoil the bunch. It wasn't like she was usually playing nanny like this, too. She was actually curious to see how the girl would react to being objectified like that.
"Please take off your clothes." If Gen had known who was really sitting in front of her, it would have never gotten to this point, since Charlotte would have needed to be seized already. Still, as it stood, Gen was simply too detached from Gallic politics to recall what the crown princess had looked like. "Unless there is anything else?" A question out of curtesy if anything. The dull pain in her hip was starting to really become aggravating and she intended to finish up here sooner rather than later to lie down and hope it would go away.
The princess' dull brown eyes flicked up from the floor at that, her gaze meeting the other woman's with incredulity. Her mouth opened like a goldfish gulping down water, but the words died away before she could give voice to them. Was there anything else? Yes - yes, there was so much else. I am not Camille, Camille Desrosiers, not just another noble pulled from her sheltered life and out into the cruel world - I am the crown princess, the heir apparent, Charlotte DeFrance of Orleanais-
She wanted to shout, to scream, to protest, to scream again - to do anything to wipe the unapologetic, almost blank mask off the blonde-haired woman's face. It would have felt so good to deal with her like she had the young lieutenant; across the room in two seconds, tackling her to the ground in one more, clawing her way on top to straddle her and then a clenched fist caving in her nose to cap it all off. That would elicit a reaction out of her, Charlotte was sure of that, and she would have given almost anything to see the uptight bitch rolling around on the floor in agony, her face a bloody, crimson mess. That would be trouble, though, and even the thought of the word reminded her of the guard outside. No trouble, he had said, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer. Even with all her ribs in working order, it would have been a hard sell.
Her fingers fumbled with the shiny, platinum-gilt buttons of her uniform jacket, each one harder to undo than the last. It seemed to take an eternity to unfasten them all, the shiny white garment slipping off her shoulders and down onto the cold metal floor. Already, Charlotte was acutely aware of just how cold it felt in here. Her dress shirt was as ceremonial as the rest, its fabric little help against the air-conditioned chill. At least her injury was numbing slightly, that previously agonising sensation in her left side subsiding to a more dulled sort of ache. She hesitated now for the first time, the tightness in her expression spreading to the rest of her body as well. Charlotte was not an imposing figure - her frame was more that of a pilot's than a proper soldier's, her average height and slim physique lending itself well to hours spent in a cramped fighter cockpit - and the angular, almost sharpened features of her face prevented her from being truly called beautiful - attractive, yes, but never beautiful. Not unless she smiled, and each year the opportunities for that had grown thinner and thinner. Her skin, pale even at the best of times, had gone whiter than ivory, her shoulder-length black hair standing out in stark contrast.
The other woman's gaze was heavy on her back as continued, its presence almost a physical force as she continued in silence. She had to stand up to finish the job, her expression unreadable the whole while. Only her bearing stayed constant throughout - that, at least, was something no-one could take from her. The way she carried herself was almost imperial in its own right, even in the harsh, artificial light glaring down from above. The red flush to her cheeks was beyond her control, as were the goosebumps that rose on her skin and on the back of her neck, but everything else was approached with a curious sort of detachment. It was all for the deception, she told herself - if they had not bought into Labourd's drunken ramblings by now, they never would, and if the Crown had any sense the news of her capture would never reach the broadcasters. The thought kept her strong as she disrobed slowly, the thin, almost silken shirt coming up over her shoulders and over her head before joining its fellows on the floor.
In the end, it didn't take long at all for her to finish. The dress uniform looked much less impressive now, the way fine clothes always did when not being worn. Her arms were folded in front of her chest, her gaze forced level with Genevieve's and her expression guarded. The same would happen even if you were a prisoner, she told herself. It did not help much. Some part of her was dying already - the fleets would come, and they would get her, but the Charlotte they brought home would not be the same princess they'd first lost.
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