Honeymoon

[Lanakov]

Good. Montlaville's mind was already racing by the time Valdez concluded her reply on that last, sorrowful note. Very good. She'd more or less gotten what she expected from her line of questioning. The picture of a defeated woman, who had long jumped off the edge of desperation Montlaville had sensed her at. And although the Maltese remained tight-lipped about her exact role in Outcast society, the commandant deduced that there simply wasn't that much to talk about. She had neither the air nor the mannerisms of the working class, but she didn't come across, either, as one of those mob bosses that seemed to rule the barbaric Outcast society like so many parasitic worms, mercilessly feeding on the orange grasses of Malta. Valdez said so herself : titles and power were her spouse's thing, not hers. She was willing to believe this much on several accounts : no attempts at bargaining, meaning no real leverage ; no threats of utter annihilation, which would be expected in one with powerful friends or very dedicated and plentiful subordinates ; and perhaps most strikingly, none of that bragging, posturing and foul-mouthing that seemed so typical with powerful Outcasts. Instead, she faced this husk of a girl who was simply eager to go home after a bad time in her life.

Another ping of compassion hit her, harder than they usually do. Montlaville knew that strong emotions are extremely harmful to anyone dealing in high security and intelligence matters. Austere and reserved as she was, she was however disgusted by those who actively managed to suppress all their emotions. She knew a few from her line of work who could turn into absolute remorseless beasts ; to her, crossing that line meant they had become less than human, and paid too expensive a price for whatever successes they achieved. Montlaville actually cared. About Gallia, first and foremost : her happiness was tied, intimately, to the well-being of her House and its population. She knew she was hard to like, but she had her humanity for herself : that never prevented her from getting results, and it ensured those who got to work with her for a while often ended up appreciating her. In a manner of speaking.

Right now, what little heart she had was being tugged at by this girl's sad, sad story. A small price to pay : Montlaville had Valdez exactly where she needed her to be : her desperation all but confessed, her modest ambitions laid clear : "please let me go home". The commandant liked to think it was hard to lie to her and get away with it, and she could only sense genuine distress and plain-faced honesty from Valdez. Her body was like an open book to her trained eyes, and the sunken, evasive silhouette looked just as sad as her story sounded. Excellent.

"A costly decision, then, surely akin to the one you made marrying that woman. You have a remarkable spirit of sacrifice that I would not normally expect in those of your kind." She meant that : the biting irony she'd affected earlier was gone. She had what she wanted : there was no point in tormenting Valdez any further, for now.
"But you've not lost everything just yet. Gallia is a harsh mistress, but she gives back. What if I told you I could give you your Maltese life back ?" She gestured to the ensign, who silently produced a folder and laid it, closed, in front of Montlaville. She put her index finger on it and went on, softly.
"There would be a price to pay, of course. Your old life would come with a few refreshing extras." Then she went back to a harsher, clipped tone. "Or you could spend the rest of your days in a cell much like the one we've graciously lent you up until now." She let a moment pass to emphasize her point.

But, unexpectedly, from his own volition, the ensign spoke up, in a neutral, business tone.
"Madame Valdez. Would you hear our proposition ?"
He had a significant Corsican accent. This, and the fact that he spoke at all, surprised Montlaville, who'd never cared to notice this particular detail, despite his name : Paoli, as Corsican as it gets. Of this surprise, she betrayed nothing and kept her pale gaze locked on Valdez. It was too early to tell her, but she was close to reuniting with her estranged wife.

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Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.