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The mission had been the furthest thing from success. Not only had the Violet Rose failed, but the target had gotten away, her mask had been shattered, and now the pirate she had been after was keenly aware of the Armada's interest in them. The fact that the electrocution undoubtedly awaiting her was the least of her worries was probably a warning sign of just how anxious she was.
The shattered pieces hadn't a chance of being put back together. Some part of her had bitterly thought of a silly nursery rhyme about a similar situation that was often told to children in Avalon. Needless to say, she couldn't put it back on her face, so she had to resort to any other method of hiding her features. She still had to return- as much as she dreaded it, running would be far worse. She had managed to hide her flawed human features enough by taking a discarded transparent enough cloth and wearing it akin to a veil. It was enough for her to return to the ship without being killed on sight. After all, it was a ship for the Armada- no human was allowed to board such a thing alive, unless they were a prisoner of some kind. The fabric also hid the blood long enough to escape to the small quarters of the ship that she had the privilege to occupy for this mission. The gash across her face hadn't stopped bleeding, and looked far worse from the rains that seemed to fall perpetually in Marleybone.
Once in the faux safety of being alone, Viola carefully reveals her face again to try and clean up. It was sickening to look at herself in the mirror. The thing that looked back was a corpse of a person, bloodied and harrowed. No amount of water could wash away the image of that from her mind either, though it did at least eventually get the bleeding to stop. It would most definitely scar- yet another flaw to add to her long list of imperfections. The thought made her flinch, the faintest feeling of electricity skittering across her side coming to mind.
Now that she was cleaned up, and when she had her breathing regulated enough that she was no longer feeling lightheaded from panic, she knew she ought to start planning just how she was going to break the news to the spymaster of just how utterly bad the mission had gone. There was no one to blame but herself. She couldn't even blame the pirate she had been after- Had she been a better soldier the blow would have been avoided, or better yet, the pirate would have been dead. Parts of her mind could so easily find other things to blame for her poor performance in combat. The rain getting in her eyes, the fact that her mask still provided blind spots, especially when the incoming hits came from the sides. She was lucky she hadn't lost an eye, though then again, if she had, perhaps she would have had a valid excuse as to why the pirate had escaped. She could have claimed that she hadn't seen where they had run off to, due to the injury. Of course, even then, it wouldn't be an acceptable response for the Spymaster. She knew that. The machine had high expectations, and even higher standards.
Viola sits at the small desk in the room. A quill with just barely enough ink for much writing, along with a few scrolls of parchment sit blankly in front of her. She didn't dip the quill into the ink yet- she hadn't a clue as to what to write first and she wasn't going to let the ink dry on the nib while she was brainstorming it. She taps the desk idly with it, watching the light feather of the quill bounce. It was a winter white feather, with just a few specks of grey scattered throughout. It made her heart hurt with a momentary yearning for the past. She often tried not to dwell on such a thing- the past never led to good futures- however sometimes she couldn't help it.
The memories of the White Owl Tower were fond ones, and easy for her to turn to during times like these. Anything to escape the present. How part of her yearned to feel the fresh breeze of Avalon rush through her hair again as she carelessly climbed the highest trees possible she could find. It was always encouraging to hear the laughing hoots of the owls flying around the tree, urging her to go higher, and letting her know that they would do what they could to catch her if she fell, by magic or their talons. If only she had someone to catch her now, she truly felt like everything was spiraling out of control.
Viola puts a hand over her mouth as she has to hold back the sudden urge to vomit as the pleasant memories are immediately invaded by the ones that Deacon had given her of a glass box being covered in dirt. What if he did that again as her punishment? She wasn't sure just how bad it would be for this big of a fuck up, but she knew it would be far from pleasant. The desire to get sick finally passed enough for her body to rather violently remind her of her own hunger. When was the last time she had eaten? She shifts, setting the quill down next to the still blank parchment as she searches for her rations that had been supplied for the trip.
Viola finds the small box of rations and takes a bar out. They never tasted good, but they weren't necessarily awful either. They made her feel slightly better sometimes too, and anything positive was much needed. She eats the bar, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling of the room. If she still had her mask, she would be able to safely be on the deck of the ship and look up at the skyways instead. Carefully, she pulls out the few shards of the mask she had kept. The gilded parts glisten sickeningly at her and she shoves the pieces back into her coat pockets.
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The trip back to Valencia was not long enough, and despite plenty of time being stuck in isolation in her cabin, Viola hadn't managed to write a single word on that blasted piece of parchment. Some report this would be. Hopefully she would have a few moments of spare time to try and write something, anything, to make up some kind of semblance of having tried to make a report, or tried in general. She dared to leave her cabin only to keep her face hidden with the same bloodied cloth that she had used on the way back onto the ship so many days ago. She kept her head low, hurrying to her simple 'room' that she was allowed. She only was allowed to report to Deacon when summoned to do so.
She pushes open the door with the violet rose embellishment on the front of it. The small room was almost claustrophobic however it was slowly becoming her new home. It was at least safe enough to take off the makeshift veil. Perhaps she could get her hands on some form of glue and put her mask together, and then it wouldn't be so bad. She idly pulls out a piece of her mask, feeling the smooth porcelain piece in her hands.
On the barren mattress of the bed rests a violet rose, long wilted. The once vibrant color was a faded purple, dusty grey fading to a more ashen hue where it had decayed the furthest. A lump in Viola's throat at the sight as anxiety immediately wells in her chest. So much for spare time to write up the report. She couldn't show up empty handed though, as that would make her failure somehow even worse. The pieces of her mask in her pocket feel somehow heavier, and her boots made of lead as she trudges across the room to pick up the wilted rose from the bed. Her hands are shaking near uncontrollably as she carefully examines the dying flower. How long has it been sitting here? It hardly had its pungent floral scent anymore, and the room didn't reek of it either. Some petals crack off the withered plant and fall weakly at her feet. She stares down at them before dragging her gaze to the door. Viola's anxiety is through the roof, half expecting Deacon himself to be barging into the enclosed room and punishing her for daring to let the petals of the precious plant fall to the floor. Dead or alive, it was not to be wasted.
Well. It was too late now. The petals were already on the floor, and she couldn't put them back on the rose. The mask was already broken, and she couldn't hide her face. Hands still trembling, she keeps the wilted rose in one hand, and turns fully to the door. She shouldn't keep the spymaster waiting for much longer. At least since she was in the familiar halls of the Machine, she didn't have to wear her mask and risk everything, as much. Viola left the room, keeping her head low. She still wasn't to be seen, but at least the loose hairs that didn't tie into her low ponytail hid her facial features somewhat. With her free hand, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws the largest chunk of the broken mask. The walk to Deacon's office feels like a death sentence, and her feet don't feel any lighter. She finally reaches the large set of doors and she halts.
Viola spares a look around, making sure no others are around. The hall is eerily empty, but it at least gives her the briefest moments of privacy. She takes a deep breath, and pushes her shoulders back to stand up straighter. She may not be wearing the mask of the Violet Rose, but she still was that. Even if she didn't believe it currently, she had to act like it if she wanted to have any chance of surviving this encounter. She tenses her jaw and swallows back any anxiety, willing her trembling hands to shake less. She wasn't human, she wasn't allowed to be human. The Violet Rose moves and pushes open the doors. They seem heavier than usual, or perhaps it's the guilt weighing her down.
The sight before her is alarmingly normal. The spymaster's back is turned towards her while he observes the outside world from the window. His desk is pristinely organized with various documents and piles of papers, and the room reeks of the overwhelming scent of fresh cut roses. A bouquet of every color of rose possible sits neatly on his desk. A violet rose sits nicely in the center of the arrangement. Viola's silver eyes focus on the vibrant colors of it, the wilted one in her hands feels suddenly extremely inadequate. It takes all amounts of self control to keep from letting her shoulders fall from insecurity. The silence in the room is deafening, and Viola remembers that Deacon is waiting on her to break the silence first. The longer she waits, the more he waits, and the more that is unacceptable.
“Reporting back from my mission, Sir.” The Violet Rose starts. “The target got away, however I will be sure to continue pursuit once our presence to the target has subdued.” Viola feels extremely exposed, and scared. She can't hide her facial expressions behind the safe blank barrier the mask provided. Had Deacon been facing her, she was certain that he would see the mild flinch of her features as she not only reported failure of the mission, but failure of stealth. Then again, she was almost certain the machine had mirrors in his eyes or something, as he always seemed to see her even when facing away.
“Elaborate.” Deacon commands, his mechanical tone unchanging, however it sounds harsh to Viola's anxious mind. She can feel his soulless gaze despite his back being turned, and she wants to run away, or perhaps be a small child again, pleading for forgiveness for having broken a family Urn on accident. Of course, she didn't have either of those luxuries. She straightens her back, overcompensating her posture to try and keep it together. She waits a moment before answering, silently clearing her throat before speaking.
“There was an altercation with the target. The escapee and I had fought, and they had ran. They are aware the Armada is after them. I will pursue them again once they are given a false sense of escape.” The Violet Rose answers, speaking slowly as she carefully picks out her words. The disapproving silence from Deacon weighs down on her, and when she's about to speak again, he does so first.
“Do you know where they escaped to, then?” He tilts his head slightly, the shifting of the fabric that shrouds his neck the only sign that he had even moved. Viola's heart sinks.
“No, sir.” She answers after a guilty pause before doing so.
“Then it is not a false sense of escape. They escaped.” Deacon corrects sharply, the word Sir barely having left the Violet Rose's lips. She visibly flinches, daring to take a step backwards out of fear from his tone alone.
Viola doesn't speak, awaiting more verbal lashings from Deacon. Instead of a verbal lashing, however, he shifts from his spot at the window. He turns to face her. With the primary light source of the room being behind him, his dark blue uniform almost looks black in the lighting. Would the robes of Death himself pale in comparison to the shadow Deacon cast upon her?
The empty sockets of Deacon's mask stare at Viola's face, taking in the chunk of mask in one hand, and the withered rose he had left for her in the other. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to, before Viola matches her mask and cracks, speaking out of turn.
“It won't happen again, Sir!” The Violet Rose speaks suddenly, her tone far from measured or monotone. It gives away her anxiety and her fear. “I'll track them down, and I'll be sure that they won't even know what the Armada is at the end of it all. I won't fail you again, sir. I won't fail the Armada again!“ Her pleading may as well be accompanied with tears and being on her knees at this point. It was a pitifully human display of emotion.
Deacon lets her beg, watching silently as he stays unmoving and unspeaking. It drove Viola crazy, wouldn't he say something already? Couldn't she get her punishment over with so that she could move on with her life, and improve her performance? The fact that the masks couldn't emote only made it worse as it made it impossible to know what the clockwork was thinking.
”I had that rose you're holding clipped while it was in a perfect bloom. You return it to me now as nothing but decaying garbage.“ Deacon finally speaks, and of course, it doesn't regard a single thing that she had just pleaded about. The hand that holds the wilted flower shakes ever so slightly as yet another flaw is pointed out. ”Why is it you're returning this useless excuse for a flower to me?“
Viola hesitates, trying to think of an answer. She swallows thickly, the noise of the action filling the room somehow. ”I return to you from my mission, and am here to report on it.“ She starts cautiously, ”Due to the circumstances and flaws, my timeliness for returning was inaccurate for which I apologize. Due to the altercation I had to... make repairs, which delayed in efficient travel or further pursuit of the target.” She wishes she could look away from his stare, but she finds that she can't look away for the life of her.
“Your repairs are insufficient. You have broken not only the rule to keep your mask on at all times, but you are showing your imperfections to me now without a single attempt to correct yourself.” Deacon answers coldly, taking no sympathy for her excuses. “Any machine worthy of the Armada understands that even through injury, pursuit must be made. Machines do not tire, and we will not stay dead.”
The words sting, and Viola flinches visibly, finally finding the strength in shame to look away from the Spymaster and instead look at the ground. Her trembling hands had caused more wilted petals to scatter at her feet and she kept her grey eyes on those. She wasn't a machine, she wasn't a clockwork, and she could very much die... but, she was the Violet Rose, and the Violet Rose was a clockwork- free of the human imperfections of its living motor that powered it. She knew that apologizing again wouldn't result in anything good either.
There's a shifting of gears and the sound of papers rustling. Deacon has some form of paperwork pulled out on his desk, and he leans with one hand on his cane and the other splayed on the papers in front of him as he looks over them. Viola can feel his gaze return back to her just as quickly though.
“Stay at attention, I did not give you permission to cower.” Deacon corrects, sharply. “And wear your mask as you're expected.”
Viola quickly assumes the posture for attention, hesitating for a moment as she figures out what he means when asking for her to wear her mask. It's broken and unwearable. She does what she can, taking the large piece that she had already in her hand and bringing it up to her face, holding it up dutifully. It's at least easier to soothe the shaking from that hand by pressing the cool material to her face firmly to provide some extra support.
Her posture is immediately tested, pushed to its limits as electricity suddenly blooms in a sharp pain from her left side. Viola's mouth opens in a silent scream, any noises thankfully contained. At least she was able to do that correctly. The whirring noise of Deacon's sparkshooter recharging echoes in the room as Viola does all she can to maintain her posture and not falter to the still lingering twinges of volts flickering through her. She knew this was a test, she needed to prove that she was useful to the Armada still. She knew that she had failed, greatly. She had to succeed in at least one thing, it was her only choice to survive.
The brief reprieve from pain is short lived as Deacon lets loose another charged shot into her body, hitting her shoulder of the arm that held up the mask to her face, quickly followed by another shot to the other shoulder for the arm that held the wilted rose. With how badly it was being shaken, it was hardly a rose anymore and getting closer and closer to being a deflowered stem. She didn't have time to think about that, though. The only thing the Violet Rose was able to do was to focus on perfection. Staying perfectly still, and perfectly silent despite the pain that wracked her body. Machines did not feel pain, Machines did not scream.
Machines did not scream.
She repeats the thought in her head over and over, and so loudly she hardly hears the spymaster when he speaks. Viola immediately chastises herself internally for such a stupid mistake. Her organics were betraying her, and her posture was weak at best. The shard of a mask that covered her face was slowly lowering with each shot, and it was clear that Deacon was not impressed by this, nor her lack of an immediate answer to what he had said. The Spymaster regards her silently, and impatiently.
”I... I did not process what you said, sir.“ Viola admits meekly, her voice quavering. How bad would it be if she simply turned and ran? The answer would be very. She knew damn well that Deacon had enough of a charge in that weapon of his to be just shy of killing, and making surviving worse than death. No. She couldn't run. Deacon nods at her statement, pointedly no longer looking at her and instead regarding the papers on his desk.
”It seems I should add processing and hearing issues to your growing list of imperfections.“ Deacon hums, very clearly not just to himself. ”I had asked you if you were aware of how many times you have failed the Armada.“
That was a loaded question if Viola had ever heard one. If she said yes, she knew she would be told to recount them, and force her to point out all the flaws that she knew she had that perhaps even the spymaster hadn't seen. If she said no, then she would be incorrect and appear to be oblivious to how delicate the work of a Rose was for the Armada. She was meant to be elite, to be the Violet Rose, the Armada's only human made perfect enough to be a machine. After a heavy moment of consideration, she speaks.
”Too many times, sir. I promise it won't happen again.“ She ensures, speaking confidently enough for that answer at least. Viola fully intends to not fail no matter the cost. She couldn't afford another failure. Apparently, neither could Deacon as he ever so slightly shook his head.
”Your promises do not yield results.“ Deacon's posture shifts as he aims the pistol yet again, the shot being fired before Viola can even flinch. The bundle of electricity finds impact on her knee, hardly any skin or muscle to prevent the feeling of the charge hitting bone underneath. She doesn't cry out, however Viola does crumple to the ground, falling to her knees violently. Tears spring to her eyes, but she does all she can to fight them. With blurred vision, she dares look back up to Deacon. Despite him standing behind his desk, it felt like he was towering over her.
It didn't take long for that to be felt even more so, the machine moving from his desk to stand in front of her kneeling form. Viola trembles as he adjusts some settings on his sparkshooter idly, before pointing it at her. In close range, with whatever settings he had changed, this was going to hurt. Her fists ball, bracing for the inevitable impact of electricity. The dead flower in her hand crunching in her fingers, and the sharp edges of the shattered mask cutting into the soft gloves she had to wear. She doesn't have to wait long, as Deacon rapid fires into her. One right after another, each time shifting where they hit. Nothing was safe as she resorted to simply curling up on the floor and taking her punishment.
By the time the shots were done being fired, Viola's hand that held the mask was bleeding. The porcelain had fully shredded the glove and moved on to chewing through the partially calloused hands of the Violet Rose. The wilted rose she had once held was nothing more than a pulverized pile of dust on the floor, as Viola wasn't even aware anymore of her own screams. She wasn't sure when she had started screaming, or sobbing between the screams, but she was very much aware of when she stopped. She had stopped doing so after the electricity had stopped. She wasn't sure anymore of anything, time lost to her agony.
It was only when the shocks finished jumping from nerve to nerve, did she stop her pitiful display of suffering. Deacon crouches and grabs her face in his gloved hand. The grip is cold and painful, squeezing her jawbone harshly as he forces the girl to look up at him. Deacon finally speaks, his tone the equivalent to a whisper for a machine. His usual commanding tone, now a soft cool one.
“Do you want the pain to stop?”
The offer should have been considered too good to be true. Deacon was not a machine of mercy, as machines did not understand such a concept. However, the idea of not being in pain was too good an idea for Viola to ignore. It was all she could feel at the moment, and it felt like it was all she knew. She gives a weak nod, flinching as his tight grip on her face prevents the gesture from being apparent. With a soft sob, she agrees.
“Please.” Viola whispers, voice cracking.
“Good. Then I can assure you, that you won't fail the me again.” Deacon confirms, letting her face go and standing upright. He makes a point to brush himself off as the door opens. Two clockworks that Viola can't bother to get a glimpse of take her in their arms and hoist her to her feet, dragging her slowly from Deacon's office. The shattered piece of her mask and the dust of a former violet rose on the floor are the only signs that she had ever been in his office. The last thing she sees before the double doors close is Deacon's back to her, facing his desk and delicately plucking the violet rose out of the bouquet. “Glory to the Armada.” He dismisses.