RP:Under the Knife

Part of the Larketian Fault Lines Arc

Note: All of this remains an IC secret. Do not assume knowledge icly.

Summary: Rachelle proves most useful to Muzo as a live specimen. Alone, in pain, and helpless, poor Rachelle's terror and outrage has little effect on the cold-blooded scientist, and he has no difficulty continuing the vivisection despite her protests. Ultimately, though the experiment is technically a success, Muzo is dissatisfied with the answers he's found. Rachelle's physiology is normal, and this calls much into question...

Secret Royal Laboratory

Muzo has been a poor conversation partner thus far. The guards were a little more talkative but, for "reasons of utmost secrecy" the naga had informed them, they were not to enter into the laboratory unless summoned. It's a dismal, sterile, bizzare place hidden beneath the castle with tidy floral furniture in one corner and a mass of buzzing equipment, preserved specimens, shelves of tooling, and stacked bodybags throughout the rest. It's hard for Rachelle to tell much else about the place, as her place on the operating table is rather restricting her view. Mostly, she sees the silent face of the snake man as he works, his head rather like a boas' with large, black, unsympathetic eyes and a flicking forked tongue. He sometimes mutters as he works. "...line of cysts? Ah, common, mundane. Pity..." "...ganglion development normal..." "...some deep-tissue mana scarification consistent with magic use..." This is, of course, a running commentary muttered over the glide of his scalpel, the tug of forceps, the press of a needle-fine probe. "Heartrate falling," he comments, watching the exposed organ struggle within her chest. Once more, Muzo takes the bottle of vitality tonic, a healing potion of sorts, and pours a measured amount directly into her chest cavity, letting it go quickly and efficiently to work. This is the twelfth time Muzo's had to intervene on his specimen's behalf, but it would be quite impressive if Rachelle had been able to keep track. "Ah!" The measure slips, and Muzo dumps in a bit more tonic than he'd intended. He grits his teeth and flinches. Thank goodness he'd fixed sturdy restraints.

Rachelle is certain she’s slipped into some kind of fever dream. Being locked away here was a shock enough of its own, with no answers and little dignity and even less of the comfort she is accustomed to. Had she just simply not come to Larket, perhaps paid a little more mind to the whispers of witches (and witch-hunts) coming from the area… she could be home right now, sipping tea and perfecting her enchanted orchestra, or curling up on the loveseat by the window and reading a book, or even strategically dodging the courtship of that wretched Marius. It’s all useless, this train of thought, but she cannot help but cling to it like flotsam off the fresh shipwreck of her life. It even brings a weak laugh to her chapped lips; she’s barely a step above delirium when the tonic is poured into the weeping cave that exposes her innards. “Heh… if you wanted to hear… the pleadings of my heart, all you had to do was… ask…” This is at least the third time she’s quoted this line at the naga since she’s been laid upon the table, though she was too far out of it then to recall now. Not that Muzo would likely know, but she’s quoting from the climax of one of her romantic novels. It’s not a particularly good line, even, but she keeps repeating it anyway, the most lucid thing amongst what’s largely been word salad up to this point. “What… will you do with it, now that… it’s yours?”

Muzo takes a steadying breath. He'd feared a more violent reaction than that and, in relief, he actually laughs. Setting down the tonic, he leans back in and, ah drat, his guard drops a little. Muzo makes eye contact. "Ah, plan to observe it working," he mutters a little uncomfortably, eyes shifting skittishly. He snaps his fingers, and Formulae, his trusty spellbook, flutters to his side to hover, pages open, and an ink sketch of Rachelle bleeds into view before their very eyes, complete with anatomical labels leading to her exposed organs. "Dismal results so far. Was assured you were a witch." He sighs and picks back up the scalpel. "Poured over the records, saw the detector myself," tongue flicking, he sets back about cutting, peeling back a few more layers of tissue in his exhaustive search, "can scarcely doubt that you *are* a witch, as the signs indicate." One might suppose he would be glad that a bona fide witch is spread on his table, but quite the contrary, Muzo seems distressed. Perplexed. "Would bother you," he instructs her, now that he supposes they are on speaking terms, "to exercise a bit of magic." Plucking a loupe off the table, he pops it into his eye and leans in closely, his ophidian head hovering mere centimeters away from her living flesh. "In your own time."

“Bother… me…?” Rachelle’s eyes open into a disoriented squint. The naga blurs in duplicate before her. Tidbits of context come floating back to consciousness: the naga when he first entered the room, when he cuffed her to the table, the moments preceding her first blackout of however many. Muzo snaps abruptly into sharp focus; Rachelle’s hands turn to fists and strain against the straps holding her down. What little she can move, she struggles to free, though it does little more than rattle the table. “Release me at once! I’ve done nothing to you! I’ve done nothing to anyone!” Magical energy surges as she attempts to call her heavily enchanted parasol to her… but alas, it is not here. Whatever other protective amulets or charms she might normally keep on her person are not here, either. She is not a traditional mage, and possesses no directly offensive spells. Rachelle is alone with her head full of enchanting knowledge and panic and no way to put either to use.

Muzo stills and watches with bated breath as she accommodates his request, willingly or no, and sends magic surging before his very eyes. He waits, then slowly shakes his head, sighing. He would ask her to demonstrate again, but the scientist has always been one to stay a vain effort. It's no use. It's no different this time than from the times she'd tried before. "You aren't here for punitive reasons," the naga explains matter-of-factly, wiggling his fingers in a dismissive sort of way as he takes his probe and forceps, tugging a little deeper, checking for anything he might have missed upon first glance. "You're being studied, and it's going poorly, though," he adds, sitting up with a frown, "through no fault of your own. You've been magnificent." Reaching around to a nearby lamp, he adjusts the wick a little longer, giving himself some more light to work with. "Should be hours putting you back together. Long night. For me anyway," he chuckles again, brows raising in amusement as he changes his scalpel and probe for a needle and thread, "don't have much more for you to do." Again, it would be difficult to see, but she can certainly feel the beginning of what will be hundreds, if not thousands of sutures. "Seem like an ordinary, pleasant person. Had hoped you'd be something more sinister."

Rachelle is in no position to view Muzo’s words as any sort of compliment. Nor can she easily recognize the… humanity?... of her naga tormentor. While a certain level of detachment must surely be required in order for Muzo to do what he does, it only contributes to Rachelle’s view of him as some kind of, well, scaly awful villain monster. Like the ones in the stories. The ones that eventually get vanquished by a dashing knight sent to rescue the beautiful damsel. (She is, in fact, quite plain, but few would rob a rich girl of her vain delusions.) “You just wait until my father realizes I’m missing.” There are tears in her eyes, and they defy her attempt to be any kind of menacing. “He’ll come for you. Someone will come…” She’s hardly experienced when it comes to hostage situations; one might forgive her for accidentally confirming that she has no magical means of freeing herself or even communicating with the world beyond these walls.

Muzo shakes his head gently as he works, deliberately and meticulously, tugging the thread through one puncture at a time. "Doubt you'll be believed. You'll be healed and your sutures out by morning." To emphasize the reality of his point, he takes the bottle and gives another squirt into her chest, and the gaping wound gives a *tiny* pull shut. "If I had enough, I'd just soak you in it, but I didn't have time to prepare a suspension vat." He huffs, bothered that the royals and the guards would take his time so for granted. With a little advance warning, this could have been handled properly. The stitching resumes. "No matter. Assure you," he dares to glance up from his hands, if only for a second, and meet the distressed Rachelle's eyes, "your stay here is brief." Believing his bedside manner has been sufficient, the great snake picks up his pace, working diligently and professionally. "Take great pride in my work," he adds as an afterthought, the loupe's lens glinting in the lamplight as he sits up to re-thread his needle. "A few scars. Nothing more."

A few scars? -A few scars-?! Rachelle kicks her feet in an impotent display of outrage. The naga’s instruments must retreat until she stills again, but this only serves to prolong her pain. “It will,” Rachelle finally agrees through clenched teeth, speaking of her ‘stay’. “You had best make sure of it.” She doesn’t bother lacing her threat with grisly details of his demise; she no longer has the energy for it, and they’d all be lies anyway. Rachelle is at his mercy… and thankfully Muzo does seem to be something faintly resembling merciful, for the tonic’s effects are starting to leave her again. She’s fading quickly back into unconsciousness.

Muzo sighs and welcomes the silence as Rachelle drifts back out of awareness. Being social had been a welcome diversion for a time, but too much and it grows tiresome. Muzo really does need to focus now if he wants to have his specimen prepped for release on schedule. Gods willing, this would be the last witch he ever needed to put beneath the knife.