RP:Operation Fakeleen Is Hatched

Part of the Larketian Fault Lines Arc

Summary: After his talk with Meri, Hudson gives Valrae a heads up that the Larketian witch detector is broken and moreover arranges a meeting between herself, Tychus, and Rachelle. The meeting gets off to a rocky start, as Hudson had rather unhelpfully given Valrae and Tychus no information about Rachelle and she hadn't exactly been tipped off that there would even be a meeting. The meeting appears doomed when Rachelle seems to recoil at the mention of witches. But then the truth comes out explosively, and Tychus and Valrae are immediately incensed. They hatch a plan to impersonate Queen Josleen and poison King Macon. Rachelle is right there with them: she'll be Fakeleen.

The Restaurant in Kelay

Hudson had, after meeting with Meri, conducted a brisk inquiry into the woman Rachelle. He'd then paid a handsome sum and booked the entirety of the restaurant in Kelay for one of the nights Rachelle was working and arranged with the owners for it to be a private audience with just her (i.e., that they and other staff would absent themselves). He'd then sent a cryptic note to Valrae. It opens as follows: "It's broken, they're covering it up but I saw it blow up with my own eyes. It's done. There's someone you should meet. Please, please trust me." (For there is plenty of reason she might not.) It continues: "Go to the restaurant in Kelay on Monday night. Bring Tychus. I won't be there, it's safe, I promise. I'm done messing up your life, but you need to hear this. Huds." To say the least, guilt has a lot to do with all of this. And for his part, Tychus, being not in the know, has a hard time understanding why Hudson, known mafioso, would spontaneously orchestrate all of this for a random witch who'd once been his employee. Or maybe it's not that Tychus truly has a hard time understanding, more like he has a hunch that he plays dumb about. He doesn't press Valrae on it. He opens the door to the restaurant for her, waving her in.

As far as Rachelle is concerned, it’s back to business as usual. Well, as close to usual as she can manage. The best way to move on from what’s happened to her is to ignore it entirely, she’s decided, and so it’s yet another evening at the restaurant off the main road in Kelay, enchanting goods for customer after customer. Only a moment ago has her last job for the night departed, shiny magicked kitchen appliance in hand. The appliance will now churn out perfectly toasted bread! With depictions of the god Sven on each slice! (Sigh. It’s a living.)

The last customer departs, and Rachelle slouches deep into the booth and sighs into her teacup. Her free hand slips underneath her blouse to touch the gnarled scars across her abdomen. And then the bell announces the entry of more restaurant patrons, and Rachelle abruptly resumes her proper posture, sitting up straight with both hands clutching her cup. Whatever she’s been through, she still has appearances to maintain when in the sight of others. And… say, shouldn’t the waiter have come around again by now? Curious.

Valrae is late. Unusually so, but late nevertheless. This would also make Tychus late. So much for first impressions. Her golden hair was wild, the waves of dark honey and wheat tossed carelessly in a high and long pony’s tail. Her face was made up to cover the bruises of sleeplessness under her eyes, the sudden lines of worry that had recently creased over the golden arches of her brows. Dark kohl lined her wide emerald eyes, lent an almost feline sharpness to her features, while her lips were berry-red stained and in full pout. Her cloak was draped about her shoulders and open, the hood down, with the owl clasp of silver resting in the hollow of her throat. She wore a tunic shirt of ebon tucked into the high waist of if her skirt. The skirt itself was light and long, black silk threaded with silver so that it shimmered like dark water under moonlight as she moved. Crystals of quartz and amethyst dangled from long silver chains about her neck. Valrae looked and felt every part of a stereotypical witch, save the warts and crooked nose, as she stepped through the restaurant door Tychus held for her. She wasn’t sure why she was here. The letter Hudson had sent was tucked neatly in the bag on her shoulder. The witch had kept Tychus guessing for reasons because she didn’t want to, or couldn’t, explain to him why she still trusted the man who had so recently been prepared to kill her. Val blinked, eyes adjusting to the light change as they scanned the room. It was empty, save for a woman sitting by her lonesome, so she assumes this is the person Hudson thinks she needs to speak with and steers her boot clad feet in her direction. “Hello?” The greeting is more of a question as the witch offers her hand, unsure of how else to proceed.

Tychus glances at Valrae for direction, and then follows her gaze to Rachelle. He looks between the two women. Fortunately for everyone, this awkward staring contest does not continue indefinitely. Tychus has observed that the place is dead empty. For his part, he is a bit off the cuff sometimes, so he seizes the moment, he clears his throat and addresses her: "I think we're supposed to meet you, about what, I don't know, we got a cryptic note. Rather than have us all stand here awkwardly, I suspect we're here to talk about Larket and uh, the Crown." After glancing at Valrae in a wide-eyed manner that's meant to indicate that he's about to go Leeroy Jenkins up in this bitch, he holds out a hand. "Tychus, Resistance. This is uh, Valrae." He jabs a finger at his companion. He'll let her introduce herself as Resistance.

Rachelle raises a meticulously shaped and penciled eyebrow at the hand Valrae has extended to her, and then twists that gaze toward the man speaking. And then he, too, extends his hand. “Resistance,” Rachelle echoes, her lips and tongue tracing languidly over each syllable in turn. It looks for a moment as if the two might both be left to hold their hands aloft indefinitely, as Rachelle turns away as much as she dares and observes that, no, the waiter is nowhere to be found -- and nor is anyone else, for that matter.

Rachelle turns forward again and sets down her cup. “Well met,” she sighs, and at last takes care of the required pleasantries, shaking hands with them both before bidding them to sit across from her in the booth. “I suppose I could have made myself a more difficult woman to find,” she grouses, but there’s half a smile laced into her complaint. Why doesn’t she hide? She’s wanted to put the past behind her, and yet here she is, completely recognizable, stuck in old habits and revisiting old haunts, across the table from two who speak of Larket and of resistance. “What is it that you want?”

Valrae is giving Tychus her own wide-eyed look, only hers is one meant to convey something closer to 'Shut up!'. But he's done it already, shown their proverbial hand, and all that's left for her to do is watch this mystery woman's face for some kind of meaningful reaction and try for a harmless, not awkward smile. "Resistance and witch," She adds, giving Tychus side-eye that could kill. This woman seems just as confused with this interaction as they were, and it's getting awkward because instead of taking her hand she spins around to look about the room. Valrae drops her hand, just as the other woman reaches out to shake Ty's and now it feels even worse. Oh well, all parties are apparently ready to gloss this fumbling social nicety over and move on. "Uh, merry meet," Val replies, sliding into the booth first. She can't help but glance over her shoulder as she settles. Why would this woman need to hide herself? Why didn't she know any more about this meeting than they did? "I uh, I'm not exactly sure why we're here," The witch admits. "A contact sent me a note, arranged for us to meet it would seem, but to be honest I don't have the slightest idea why or who you are," Her tone was apologetic but sincere.

Tychus sits next to Valrae but is avoiding eye contact with the witch, because he knows he's getting the stink eye right now. He studies Rachelle for any signs that point to the reason behind their meeting. Valrae comes out with it - they have no idea why they're here, only that they need to talk to Rachelle. Tychus tidies the salt and pepper shaker so that they're aligned, and then clears his throat and adds to this: "I know it may seem weird to trust people you've never met but we're here to help in any way we can." There's something about her, this remark that she'd made herself difficult to find, or not difficult enough, was it. His hand stirs the air, conversationally. "If you're a witch, you can tell us, we can help you. That's what we do. If you... know something about the Crown, we'd love to hear it." His expression grows shaded with the conviction of a revolutionary. "We're in this together. Are they... are you in danger?"

Rachelle thinks she’s keeping a good poker face, but unbeknownst to her there’s a muscle twitching at her jawline. Her teeth are grinding top against bottom, though she won’t realize that either unless it comes to pain. Her gaze narrows and drops to Tychus’ throat at his suppositions. Under the table, one hand grips a little tighter around the handle of her trusted parasol. However good an actress she believes herself to be, her discomfort is not subtle. “I’m not a witch,” Rachelle insists, and Valrae will get no apology for the disdain she holds in those words. Nothing personal, but previous events have not led her to believe that’s a good thing to be. “Nor do I have anything to do with the Larketian royals. I am an enchantress and citizen of Kelay, and I am not in need of assistance.” She could easily leave it there. She could send these two on their way as if this were a case of mistaken identity (she’s already forgotten her little tongue-slip about ‘being found’) and she could resume putting the business of Larket and witches behind her. But she’s hesitating, hand strangling the grip of her parasol, as she contemplates Tychus’ last word. Danger. These people came all this way, braving the dangers the Larketian Crown posed, on a lead they seemed to know almost nothing about. “It sounds as though the two of you are, however.” In need of assistance, that is. “Is there -anything- you know already? About what they’ve been doing to their so-called witches? Perhaps you could save me some time.” In truth, Rachelle would rather not revisit the tale in full if she does not have to. These scars have not yet fully healed, in any sense of the word.

Valrae is noticing this pattern emerge between herself and Tychus. They were both working toward the same goal but sometimes Ty could use a little more discretion, more tact. He's smartly avoiding her looks now, just as he'd done at the riot in the work camp and countless other times he'd made quick, risky decisions. Luckily, the witch could be quick on her feet and usually managed to roll with whatever new punch he'd throw. So, Val is nodding along, looking concerned because she genuinely is and because if another witch was truly in need of assistance she was ready to offer just that. "I'm a witch myself," She reiterates helpfully. "And openly unregistered. Believe me, I understand the struggle and w-" But Rachelle interrupts her, distastefully clarifying that she's no witch and no friend to the crown. Well, what in the world would they need to be talking to her for then, Hudson? Silently, she curses him and the whole situation. Defensively, the witch narrows her eyes, maybe tilts her chin a bit more highly. "Perhaps you should clarify what you think you know," She says carefully, "That might be a much shorter conversation." Val is noticing the discomfort that has taken hold of Rachelle and is wrongly assuming the reason behind it stems from prejudice against witches.

Tychus is watching Rachelle's demeanor, and he flinches when she clarifies like a shot across the bow that she's not a witch. His gaze slides to Valrae in a silent question: what the? Like she's supposed to have further insight into why her mafioso buddy here had recommended they speak to this cagey woman. He's on Valrae's side, all the same, and when her tone turns sour, he straightens his posture to sit up tall with her.

Rachelle knows a passive-aggressive insult when she hears one -- it is all her brothers’ lady acquaintances ever seem to be capable of -- and this one is particularly thinly veiled. Her own chin raises a little higher, as if the perfection of her posture could serve as armor against the sting all on its own. “I am not a witch,” she repeats with a huff, “and I can’t even rightly say I know what it is a witch is supposed to -do-. But that did not stop the Crown’s pet snake from rooting around in my insides for weeks on end looking for evidence that that was what I was. If there was more to it than that, I didn’t stay long enough to see it. My opportunity came for escape, and I took it.” She wants to stare down Valrae, the only actual witch present, but there’s a rather annoying mist in her eyes and it takes both hands rubbing at her face to clear it. She sees Muzo’s face on the inside of her eyelids in the instant they are closed, sees his hands reaching for the gaping cavity of her chest. When Rachelle’s eyes open again, a hand grasps at the lace of her blouse, just to make sure it is there -- and that the hole beneath is sealed.

Valrae has braced herself for yet another debate on the validity of a witches life, as if that should even still be a thing, and she can't help the bone deep weariness that settles over her. Why was she still having these conversations? Why were her people still dying while others could sit in condemnation, hatred, and worst of all motionless apathy as the crown passed brutish judgment? She's assuming all of this of Rachelle, working herself into anger, but suddenly the woman is throwing her off this track. Her face changes from guarded conviction to pure confusion. "I'm sorry, what?" She manages to stammer. Things are slowly clicking into place now, forming a clearer picture in her minds eye, and suddenly Rachelle's manner seems less insulting and far more human. "Oh my goddess," Val breathes, wide emerald eyes following the way the other woman clutches at her chest before turning to Tychus. "The witch experiments," Valrae feels the room shift, tilt a little under her feet. Morbid curiosity has snared her. "You're who they were keeping for experiments? But you're not a witch?" There is this nagging voice in the back of her head now, "What did they do to you?" She can't stop herself from asking as the memory of Josleen's voice rings in her ears. Valrae herself had volunteered for these experiments some time ago, only she'd never followed through with it... What had she been spared?

Tychus had steeled himself for this meeting to come to a quick end. Valrae's friend could have provided more information, because this is a bust. He's only here for the cause and this woman isn't on their side, that much is clear. But then Rachelle spits out her truth, and the blood drains from his face. He'd heard the rumors, that there'd been experiments, but the truth had lodged itself somewhere in the cobwebs of his memory. There'd never been a name. He is silent. Valrae speaks first, says what's on his mind. He breathes a curse, it can't be printed here but it starts with F. "They're monsters," he says abruptly, growing animated. "We have to do something," to Valrae. "We can't let them get away with this stuff. Diplomacy isn't gonna work. We can't just protest, it doesn't DO anything. We need to do something REAL."

Rachelle has no idea the weight of the truth she has just unleashed on the rebels before her. She only knows that, for her, speaking the truth has left her feeling lightheaded. She buries herself in her teacup only to realize that she’d emptied it as the two had entered the restaurant. “Fiddlesticks,” is her own curse, echoing around the edges of the ceramic, and with that she excuses herself into the empty kitchen. (What the staff don’t know can’t hurt them, right?) A moment later she’s back, and shakily she pours fresh water into her cup from the kettle and sets a new tea bag to steep. Just as quickly she’s gone again, returning the kettle and regaining some semblance of composure before returning and helping herself to more of the tea. She takes her time breathing in the steam and the scent of the tea leaves before responding. “What could you even do?” she asks finally, voice quiet, eyes darting from Tychus to Valrae and back but not ever quite meeting the gaze of either. Valrae’s probing into the particulars will go unanswered, at least for the moment. “I poured acid on the naga myself. If the Crown knew and did nothing, what further justice could possibly be done?” It has not yet occurred to her that not only did the Crown know, but they likely ordered the experiments in the first place.

Valrae is trying to shake off the strange feeling that was gripping her. This mixture of guilt and relief that was clawing at her throat and strangling any attempt at words she could muster. She manages to hear Tychus over the ringing in her ears and a stillness settles over her. Her red painted lips bow into a thoughtful frown. "What can we do?" She asks helplessly, shaking her head and sending her golden pony tail bobbing. "They are comfortable behind guarded walls while we suffer," She states bitterly. "They have more power, more people, more funding..." The witch makes a thoughtful pause. "But the machine is gone... Magic is a weapon again," She's looking at Ty now and a hawkish excitement is lighting the depths of her eyes. Rachelle's abrupt departure gives her the perfect moment to say, "We could slip someone in there with the right glamour spell now. A servant or an adviser," Valrae glances about the empty restaurant and decides to lower her voice anyway. "We could cut the head off of the snake," The witch whispers, feeling guilt and excitement and burning conviction all rioting for a place in her chest. The other woman returns and Val squirms in her seat. It was easy to be zealous, passionate in her convictions with Ty. He was fully aware of how far she was willing to go to see the madness in Larket end. He was not only aware but proved on countless occasion that he matched, if not surpassed her resolve and willingness to do what felt necessary. Even if strayed into dark moral area. Rachelle, despite her obvious reasons for hating the Larket royalty herself, was still an unknown element and Val was slow to trust.

Tychus is fired up, he's the more impetuous of the two between himself and Valrae and he won't let her talk him out of something extreme. "Something!" he exclaims at her. "We can't just keep on the same path, they won't stop. This needs to be big." His eyes briefly flick away from his co-conspirator to catch Rachelle rising from her seat. Tychus and Valrae are both silent, a conspiratorial air having settled over them. And then they're alone, and Tychus opens his mouth to say something, but Valrae's stolen the show. "Yes," he hisses the word fervently. "Yes, very much yes. This ends, now." He clenches his fists, a near-religious euphoria coursing through him. He pictures how people will flood the streets, shouting with relief, when they hear that the King and Queen's rule is at an end. He misses that Rachelle is in the room, can hear him now. In his zeal he fails to read Valrae's body language. "Not disguised as a servant or an advisor," he says to Valrae, with careful righteousness. "The Queen. She poisons him. He dies, she goes to jail. We're done with them. For good. Nobody else gets hurt. This hell ends."

Rachelle sits a moment with the overheard thought. “What else have they done?” she asks, but soon realizes that question doesn’t need an answer. The question she should have asked is thus: if they had a hand in what was done to her, what else would the royals be willing to do? Are there more mad scientists in Larket than Muzo? Are there more witches or ‘witches’ somewhere captured at the Crown’s behest? And whether any of that has come to pass already or not, wouldn’t she feel the teensyest bit better knowing she had a hand in stopping anything further?

Rachelle sets her teacup down, her resolve strengthening. “Tell me how I and my enchanting can help,” she breathes, “and I’ll do it. Free of charge.” Rachelle doesn’t do anything without a price, as a rule, but perhaps that first droplet of revenge against the naga was sweet, and perhaps now a heavier dose of payback would serve as payment enough.

Valrae is giving Tychus this bug-eyed, panicked look now. She's caught between wanting to be swept into the excitement of this idea, this brilliant idea, with him and wanting to control the situation and all of it's unknown elements. She opens her mouth but what could she say now? Rachelle did just mention she tossed acid at the naga who tortured her. Was she willing to make the leap from maiming in self-defense to political assassination? The wheels in Valrae's brain continue to turn. "What more," She starts, her voice thick with emotion. "They're killing us, every day they take more of us. They've taken our homes, our jobs, our dignity. They've moved most of us in a labor camp, made it all but impossible to have another job or home. They've strong armed us into signing a registry that helps others who have bought into their fear mongering torment and persecute us. They took the bodies of our loved ones and denied us the right to mourn," Her eyes narrow with thought. "If you hadn't escaped, exposed what they were doing, we might have never known what was really done to our loved ones." She doubted working from a moral, 'save the witches' angle would really do it for the woman across her. Perhaps she could be persuaded in the name of revenge? Her eyes slide to Rachelle, to read her face. She's offering her help, and Valrae decides to see how far this help might extend. "I can make a poison," She taps her finger on the table in front of her and makes a calculated pause. "We just need a queen, someone to get the poison to the king... Someone to deliver a little revenge. Someone who could restore peace to Larket and see its corrupt leaders taste a bit of justice, maybe even revenge for once."

Tychus realizes, after the words have leapt from his mouth, that Rachelle has heard them too. Man, Valrae can't take him anywhere. But then the unexpected happens: Rachelle sets him free. There's no fear or disgust in her soft-spoken offer of assistance. Valrae's leaned into it, like a sail taking the wind, and Tychus' eyes are bright with excitement as he listens to her speak. Valrae's leaving the proverbial ends loose here, letting Rachelle grab hold of them, tie the knot herself, but Tychus can only be himself. He has to be on the nose. He turns to face Rachelle, a woman he hardly knows, and with whom he now is knee-deep in conspiracy. He says, with feeling, "You should do it. For you, but also for others they could hurt. We'll be right there behind you. This may be the most important thing all of us do in our life times." A beat. "Rachelle? Are you in?"

Rachelle is already sold before Valrae gives her thoughts and Tychus gives his, but their words do add more fuel to the fire. Valrae implies a struggle far more widespread than had ever reached beyond the Larket-Kelay border to Rachelle’s ears. Tychus speaks of the lasting mark this will leave on the world, and when the breath catches in her chest Rachelle finally understands something of why her adventurer clients all chase after glory and victory in battle. Maybe no one can know it is her who poisons the king and frames the queen, but Rachelle would forever know she changed the course of history.

Her heart sings in her chest, and for a moment she can forget how it drummed in plain sight under Muzo’s working hands. “Absolutely,” Rachelle nods, allowing a grin to overcome her features.