Danger to Oneself and Others 6 - 8

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Chapter 6

Despite the danger slowly boiling under the surface of her every move, things had gone quite smoothly in the days leading up to the mutiny. This partially may have been due to Clara’s active effort to keep things from spilling over. Regardless, three days came and went. Each day, Clara was constantly on edge, always expecting someone to figure her out, someone to somehow get into life support and find it full of xenodrugs, someone to get suspicious about how they were feeling, or a strange taste in their water. Nothing came of it. Instead, Clara watched with cautious optimism as, more and more, the crew of Hyperion’s Lantern grew increasingly lethargic, calm, and at times rather uncoordinated.

Clara had been sure to pay quick and quiet visits to her two informants, had ensured their loyalty stuck and that nothing of additional concern was occurring within the mutinous splinter-faction. As predicted, there had been a good deal of grumbling when Trapper locked down the ship’s weapon supply, but the belief that the quartermaster was in their pocket had kept them from open defiance. Clara was confident that, when the time came, the mutineers would be too sedated and too unarmed to cause any real problems. From there, ship security—who would likely also be stumbling on their feet from sedation, but at least armed with non-lethal riot gear—would be able to handle the situation.

Really the only concern—and, admittedly, it was quite the concern—Clara had was what, exactly, would happen regarding the inbound ships. Clara was fairly certain that neither ship would just open fire on Hyperion’s Lantern while Decker and his loyalists were on board, but one they arrived, something was bound to give. Any peaceful solution to the matter would no doubt be predicated on a thorough investigation of the goings on aboard Hyperion’s Lantern, which would inevitably reveal Clara’s scheme. Of course, ideally, things would never come to that. Ideally, the affini were waiting inside the system and had received Clara’s message, or, if they hadn’t received the message, the arrival of two more rebel ships and the apparent conflict aboard Hyperion’s Lantern would spur them into action. If they weren’t inside the system, or if they continued to wait, things might turn bad quickly. Part of Clara wondered whether trying to train the other florets for combat might have been sensible after all. She wasn’t certain how much she could manage on her own, but three whole ships was doubtlessly too much.

Then there was the matter of what would actually happen assuming the affini did show up. The arrival of Annularia or some other affini warship would hardly ease tensions. Anything from the rebels uniting against the arriving affini ship—which was actually probably one of the more preferable outcomes—to complete chaos, to some sort of three way battle were on the table. And that was assuming there were no attempts to just scuttle one or all of the rebel ships. The reality was, Clara had mostly been operating under the assumption that if she sufficiently pacified the crew of Hyperion’s Lantern and successfully contacted the affini, then the plants would simply swoop in and fix everything. That sort of thinking was exactly what would be expected of a floret. Mistress would fix things, or, if the problem was sufficiently large, several affini would work together to fix things. It had been short-sighted of her, to say the least. Though, perhaps Clara couldn’t blame herself for it. Either way, she had done everything she could.

Without much in the way of pomp or circumstance, the day of the mutiny came. The night before, Clara hadn’t slept a wink, her every moment spent lying awake, expecting hell to break loose any moment. By mid-morning, Clara was almost desensitized to the feeling. Regardless, sitting around and waiting was making her anxious. She had to do something, anything to ensure her plan’s success. With that in mind, Clara stood from her bed, and set off toward life support. Of course, she was well-aware that further drugging the ship's water supply was unlikely to have much impact considering the imminence of her moment of truth, but there was one thing Clara could still do. She had actually considered doing it earlier, but decided diluting the water supply would likely result in a stronger concentration of dosage. But at this point, anything extra had to help, and really, Clara just needed to occupy her mind.

Arriving at the entrance to life support, Clara swiped her access card at the door, and, just as she was about to open it, heard the sharp sound of a throat clearing behind her. Panic shot through her, admittedly, she hadn’t exactly been caught doing anything unscrupulous, but any attention on her trips to life support was a problem. Whirling around, Clara came face to face with one of the last people she ever wanted to see: Sally. Forcing an aura of professionalism, Clara gave her former friend a stony, expectant look. “Is there something you need, Ensign?”

“I’ve just been curious, is all,” she began. Judging by her tone, Sally wasn’t just here to chat, not that Clara expected that to be the case.

“This is a restricted area, your curiosity outsteps both your rank and your clearance,” Clara barked.

A sly smile crossed Sally’s face as she completely ignored Clara’s pointless attempt at pulling rank. “I just find it interesting, is all. This is the fourth day in a row you’ve visited life support. Why is that?”

“I’m here on the admiral's instruction. There are rumors of insubordination among the crew. I’m here to ensure we haven’t been sabotaged.” Part of Clara wondered whether she was showing too much of her hand, but then again, she knew what side of things Sally fell on.

“Of course, sabotage, but, you know, I’ve been doing some thinking of my own, and I have a theory about that.”

A low growl rumbled in Clara’s throat. “Get to the point.”

Sally quirked an eyebrow, and nodded smugly. “You see, Lieutenant, a couple of days ago, I woke up feeling weirdly tired and relaxed, more so than I had in a long time. I actually slept in. And I noticed I was hardly the only one. Everywhere I looked, I saw clumsy, lazy and docile soldiers.”

Suddenly, the room was starting to feel hot, stifling. A bead of sweat collected, then rolled down Clara’s forehead as she came to a realization: Sally was entirely lucid. It was fine though, she had nothing on Clara. Even so, it was too late, right? It had to be. What had been set into motion couldn’t be stopped now. “I don’t see how this is relevant to me.”

Sally scoffed. “I lived as an ‘independent citizen’ of the Affini Compact for two years; do you honestly think I don’t know what xenodrugs feel like? I don’t know how you got them, but you’ve been dosing our water supply. And don’t bother denying it. I’ve been living off my pre-packaged emergency ration water. It’s been unpleasant, as there’s hardly enough, but wouldn’t you know, a half-day or so after I stopped drinking water from the shipboard plumbing system, I felt much more clear headed and alert.”

Was there even a point in playing innocent anymore? What could Sally even accomplish on her own anyway? Clara chuckled bitterly to herself, and shook her head. “It’s a real shame, two years as an independent, and not one affini had the common sense to break your will? Clearly they’re more fallible than I’d realized if they thought someone like you could be trusted with a will of her own. No matter, I’ll make sure they fix that; you’ll be a much more bearable person once you’re not allowed to leave your owner’s hab without a leash on.” As she spoke, she advanced on Sally, who began to nervously edge backward, toward the wall.

With creeping fear, Sally cast her eyes from side to side, looking for an escape, before returning to Clara with a defiant, but shaken expression. “Why the hell did I ever believe in you? You’re a stars-damned plantfucker to the core.” By the end, any semblance of menace had evaporated from Sally’s voice; she took another step backward, and stumbled.

Seizing her opportunity, Clara lunged forward, catching Sally by the shirt and pushing her into the wall. “That’s right. I’m a plantfucker. I’m one of their pets, and I love it. And soon, you, and everyone else aboard this ship will be too. You’re going to become Just. Like. Me. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

To Clara’s surprise, Sally did not continue to simply tremble and cower in the face of Clara’s intimidation. Instead, as soon as Clara finished speaking, all her fear seemed to evaporate, and be replaced with sadistic, gleeful satisfaction. Flashing a cruel grin, Sally sighed, and shook her head as all the tension in her body evaporated. She pressed a finger to her ear. “Did you get all that?” Sally asked; Clara froze.

An excruciatingly slow moment passed, before Sally’s earpiece emitted a sharp burst of crackling static, which a tired, familiar voice rang from. “That’s an affirmative.” Admiral Trapper replied. An exasperated sigh hummed from Sally’s earpiece, before the ship-wide intercom came to life. “This is Admiral Trapper speaking. There is a rogue element aboard Hyperion’s Lantern. Lieutenant Clara Bailey has been confirmed as an affini spy. I am hereby ordering ship security to arrest Lieutenant Bailey, and bring her to me.”

It took a moment for the reality of her situation to kick in. Abruptly, Clara released Sally, and took a few steps back, her mind reeling. She’d fucked up. She’d fucked up terribly. In what universe was it ever a good idea to admit treason? It didn’t fucking matter how well her plan was going. She just had to indulge those petty urges of hers, hadn't she? Ironically, it was that same overconfidence in her capabilities which had led to Clara’s domestication in the first place. If only recklessness could always have such wonderful consequences. In a daze, she watched as Sally smirked at her, then, unarmed as she was, scurried off—a smart move, considering Clara felt just about ready to throttle the woman.

The sound of footsteps called Clara’s attention. From each side of the corridor, a security officer dressed in full riot gear, bearing a stun baton slowly approached. Their movements were lethargic from all the drugs in their systems, but clearly a light dose of sedatives and empathy boosters alone weren’t going to be enough to stop the officers. Her mind kicked into gear as she backed away, creating what distance she could. It was only two; Clara could handle two, right? Just then, her own communicator buzzed to life. A frantic voice yelled into her ear. “Clara, it's Ensign Fredrickson—the Quartermaster—half of security is here demanding I turn over my weapons, what do I do?”

Cursing under her breath, Clara looked from one approaching guard to the next, before uttering a frantic response. “Just lock it down. It’s an armory, right? It has to have some heavy-duty protections installed. Don’t let anyone inside; I’ll think of something before they find a way in.”

Fredrickson made some attempt at a response, but Clara couldn’t pay it any mind. The guard to her left had broken into an unsteady run. As he reached her, the guard lunged, pushing his baton toward Clara with a clumsy stumble. Thanking Citrodora that her sedatives were actually working, Clara stepped to the outside of his thrust, bending one of her arms to simultaneously grasp the guard’s hand and join-lock his elbow against her own. With her free hand, Clara reached under the guard’s visor to dig her fingers into his eyes. As he reared back, screaming in pain, Clara moved her free hand back to reinforce her grip on the guard’s hand. Centering her weight, Clara twisted the man’s wrist upward and then away, putting the full force of her body behind the motion. A sickening crack rose over the guard’s scream, and Clara snatched the baton, then jebbed it into her assailant’s neck.

Panting, Clara whirled around to face the second, but she was too slow. Her eyes fell on him just in time for his baton to press into Clara’s chest. Electricity erupted into her, sending excruciating pin-pricks all through her body. Her muscles went limp, and Clara collapsed, twitching helplessly. Her head hit the ground with another explosion of pain. Clara could do nothing but watch as the second guard stooped to help up the first, then, seemingly just for fun, hit her with the stun baton again.

When the pain finally began to fade and her vision began to clear, Clara caught sight of the two guards, one of whom still nursing his snapped wrist, looming over her. The uninjured one noticed her returning focus, and gave her a swift kick in the gut as he spoke into his earpiece. “Yes, Admiral. We took care of it. Lieutenant Bailey has been subdued.”

A muffled reply came through the guard’s communication. It sounded like Trapper, though Clara couldn’t make out what, exactly, was being said. The admiral’s tone was dull, quiet, disheartened, she was almost mumbling. As she struggled through the pain to make out what Trapper was saying, and to come up with something, anything to get herself safe and back on her feet, Clara thought she caught a sudden burst of activity in the background of Trapper’s transmission. A voice shouted something, hard to make out given how far Clara was from the guard’s transmitter, but it sounded frantic. Another shout. More shouting. They were saying the same thing, over and over again, it was just one word. Whoever it was, they were getting louder and clearer with each passing moment. Then, Clara heard it, loud and clear. A single word, just as she’d thought, “Contact!”

If more was said, Clara had no chance of hearing it; the deafening sound of a ship popping into realspace right beside Hyperion’s Lantern drowned everything else out. Without warning, the entire ship began to shake and shudder. Clara could only laugh a giddy, maniacal laugh. Above her, the two security officers exchanged a panicked glance. “They’re here,” Clara sang with an eerie menace. Realization set in, and the two guards took off running, leaving Clara alone. With a pained groan, she rose to her feet, and looked around.

There was a very loud, very tempting urge in the back of her mind that suggested Clara simply lock herself in life support, lie on the floor, and wait to be rescued. As wonderful as that sounded, she couldn’t. Assuming Trapper hadn’t already revoked her access, Clara was certain it would be one of the first places any crewmates eager for a spot of revenge would look for her, and Clara was sure they could be granted whatever access they needed if it meant routing out a traitor. Besides, there was something even more pressing Clara needed to worry about: the other florets. The affini may have arrived, but Clara honestly had no idea how long it would take for them to board and completely pacify the crew.

Heading straight for detention to ensure the other florets would be safe until they could be rescued had always been a part of Clara’s plan. Now, though, she had a problem. The detention block was far, and Clara was a wanted woman. The affini were likely to keep the majority of the crew busy, but Clara had no delusions: there were plenty of rebels on board who would leap straight into an affini’s arms if they believed it would give them the chance to shoot a traitor dead. With that reality hanging over her, Clara considered her options. Her best bet was to make for her quarters, grab her pistol, then do whatever it would take to keep herself, and her wards safe.

Satisfied with her plan, Clara took off into a run. Paying subtlety or inconspicuousness no mind, she hurled herself through the corridors of Hyperion’s Lantern. Unsurprisingly, the ship was in chaos. Panicked crew members stumbled through the halls as quickly as they could with little direction or purpose. On more than one occasion, Clara heard some crewmember or other shouting frantically about the armory being completely inaccessible. In a perfect world, the chaos would already be contained. Clara would already be in the brig, conducting her song, enforcing calm and docility among the crew; as it stood, she was just thankful the halls weren’t erupting with gunfire.

Rounding a corner, Clara came to a skidding halt as she found herself face to face with two security officers seemingly waiting to arrest her. Just as they began to approach, however, the corridor they stood in was blocked off by an emergency bulkhead door suddenly descending and sealing itself shut. Another shudder rocked the ship; perhaps it was vines? Clara didn’t have time to wonder what was happening outside the ship, or even why the door had suddenly closed; she just counted her blessings and took off along an alternate route to her quarters.

As she ran, the ship began to shudder and shake with increasing frequency; it had to be soon, right? She wouldn’t have to hold out for long. Nearing her Quarters, Clara rounded one more corner, and sprinted down the hallway. She reached the door, and hurriedly withdrew her keycard; from a ways away, she heard someone step into the hall. Even over the din of the chaos, Clara heard the sound of a gun cocking. “Stay put, Lieutenant. Hands up,” Trapper commanded.

Wordlessly, Clara complied. She held her breath for a moment, waiting for the shot to fire. It didn’t come. Keeping her voice as even as possible, Clara called out to the admiral. “If you kill me, I don’t know what they’ll do to you. Truth be told, I don’t want to know.”

“You sold us out,” Trapper hissed.

“Under your supervision, I was kidnapped from my home, stolen from the person I love most, and forced into a position where if I even so much as complained, I’d be sent on a permanent space walk. This was my only choice.” In all likelihood, Clara was doing a shit job of diffusing the situation, but frankly, she was done. She’d spent so long planning and lying and pulling strings; Clara couldn’t keep it up anymore.

Somehow, though, her words seemed to be working. “I sent you on that mission. You wouldn’t have been made into one of those… pets if it weren’t for me. It was my fault. I was trying to get you home.”

Clara chuckled dryly. “Well, don’t worry. I’m almost home. Pulling that trigger isn’t going to change how this ends.” Some stupid foolhardy part of Clara decided she should turn and face the admiral, and apparently Clara was too exhausted to bother not acting on that impulse. Still, Trapper didn’t fire; she just stood in place with a conflicted look on her face. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? There are only two ways off this ship. I’m not going to let you make that choice for me; there’s only one person who gets to do that.”

Trapper grimaced, chewing her lip anxiously as she looked side to side. The ship shuddered again; Clara considered taking her chance, but decided against it. If Trapper panicked and shot her, Clara wouldn’t be able to make it to the brig. Instead, she simply stared the admiral down, glaring at her with defiant, unflinching eyes. With a sigh, and a shake of her head, Trapper lowered her gun. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” she ordered, then walked off.

Apparently, Clara had been holding her breath in for a long time as, when her mind finally processed that the danger was over, she noticed her lungs were screaming at her for air. With a deep breath, Clara turned back toward her quarters. As she moved to swipe her keycard, however, she noticed something. The panel leading into her room had been tampered with. Anxiously, she pushed it open, took a deep breath, and burst in with her guard up. It was empty. Clara breathed a momentary sigh of relief, before noticing the problem: her gun was missing. Someone had broken in and stolen it. She wasn’t sure how, but for some reason, understanding immediately crystalized in Clara’s mind. There wasn’t a shred of actual evidence validating her gut reaction, but it didn’t matter. Clara knew exactly what was going on; she needed to hurry.

Perhaps Clara had never felt such urgency before, perhaps her implant had something to do with it, perhaps it was all in her head, but Clara was certain she’d never sprinted so fast in her entire life. She threw herself through the corridors, paying no mind to the way the ship rocked and lurched, not even bothering to notice the slow trickle of gas drifting from the air vents. A new song now played over her own, louder and more forceful than any Clara could have hoped to produce; she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to the detention block.

Clara hung a right, then a left, then a right again, then practically flew down a long hallway before coming to a dizzying halt in the intersection leading to detention. Standing before the door, fiddling with the access panel, was Sally. An audible sigh of relief escaped Clara’s lips. She hadn’t been too slow, after all. Clenching her fists, she took a bold step forward, then another, then she broke out into a charge. Perhaps this was too bold, actually. Hearing the footsteps behind her, Sally turned, drew Clara’s pistol, and fired twice.

What happened next, Clara couldn’t exactly say. Partially because it simply happened blindingly fast, way too fast for anyone to properly parse. In fact, by the time Sally had drawn her gun and fired, it was already mostly over. What Clara did know, was that the moment she saw that gun, some unconscious instinct took over. From somewhere inside her, a vine emerged. It seized the pistol from Sally’s hand, redirecting her aim, then yanked it away, but not before knocking the rebel flat onto her back.

In a near haze, Clara staggered toward Sally’s prone form, pistol in hand. Upon reaching her, Clara stopped short, and gazed down at the woman who had lied to her, tricked her into leaving the comfort of her home, into exposing herself for capture. In that moment, more than anyone or anything, Clara despised Sally. “You were going to kill them.” It wasn’t a question. Sally didn’t bother to deny it. “You’re not going to hurt anyone ever again.” Gritting her teeth, Clara raised her pistol, aiming it toward Sally’s heart. She cocked the gun, and rested her finger on the trigger. Several moments passed in tense silence. The gun still hadn’t fired. And why hadn’t it? Sally deserved this for all the pain she’d caused. To Clara. To the other Florets. To Citrodora. “Citrodora,” Clara gasped. Then, a moment later, “Mistress.”

If Clara killed this woman, her Mistress would be disappointed. There was nothing in the universe which sounded worse than that. She raised the pistol with a trembling hand, ejected the magazine, and threw it across the room. Aiming the pistol away from Sally, Clara fired off the bullet in the chamber, just for good measure, then dropped the gun. As it clattered to the floor, Clara looked down and, for the first time, noticed the dark red stain spreading over her shirt. Oh, she’d been shot. She hadn’t realized. It hurt. It hurt so bad. All of it did. Tears filling her vision, Clara took a stumbling step backward, and slumped against the wall behind her. She sank to the floor, clutching the wound in her gut.

Pain, there was so much pain, every single kind. How had she not noticed how much it hurt before? She’d been so brave, so strong, where had that gone? It wasn’t fair. Clara wanted to go home; she wanted her Mistress. She didn’t want to bleed out aboard some rebel ship, only minutes away from salvation. What good was knowing she’d saved the day if, when all was said and done, Clara never got to feel her owner’s love ever again? Through teary, blurry eyes, Clara caught sight of Sally; she had sat up, leaning herself against the wall. Even so, her gaze looked so distant, so vacant. Out of the corner of her eyes, Clara noticed the gas drifting out of the vents, filling the room around her. Xenodrugs. Clara took deep, slow breaths, feeling a welcome calm wash over her. The pain was fading; she took a long look at her wound. Through the tear in her shirt's fabric, Clara could see vines working beneath her skin, halting the bleeding and stitching her back together.

She was going to live. It was going to be okay. Clara closed her eyes for what felt like the briefest moment, but it must have been longer. The next thing she knew, vines were wrapping around her, lifting her into the air. A relieved smile spread across Clara’s face. She was going home.

Chapter 7

Clara had forgotten how it felt. It had hardly been a week since she’d been taken from her home, but so much had happened. So much struggle, so much pain buried and crushed beneath the weight of her responsibility. She had needed to be strong; a floret wasn’t strong, so Clara had smothered that part of her with drugs and plans and the primal need to survive. For an entire week, she’d been stuck in fight or flight, without a flight option. For an entire week, she’d let the pain fester and chafe below the hard shell she’d built around herself. And now, she was in someone’s vines. It wasn’t Citrodora—wasn’t Mistress—but that was okay; she was safe.

Hot tears rolling down her cheek, Clara blindly grasped for whoever had found her. She found a mass of plant matter, possibly their chest, possibly just a particularly thick arm or neck. Either way, Clara hugged herself against her rescuer, nuzzling into soft vines. Somewhere above her, Clara heard a delighted gasp as a hand lowered to stroke her hair, causing her to melt further into the affini’s grasp. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt the urge to get back onto her feet and do something: to help somehow, to continue subverting the rebels, to simply free up resources for someone who needed help more than she did. She squirmed in place for a moment, groaning and pulling away, before she felt a quick, barely noticeable pinch, and a cool, relaxed feeling flooded her senses, causing Clara to slump forward into the affini’s arms once more.

From above her, Clara heard a distance, echoing voice fawning over her. “That’s it, dear, just relax now. We’re going to get you a lovely owner and a lovely new home.”

Thoughts swimming, Clara struggled to piece together the meaning of what this affini just said. Did they not realize she was one of the florets? Of course not, she was dressed like a rebel officer. In her drug-addled state, the reality that eventually someone would have to notice that she was already an implanted floret didn’t dawn on Clara. Instead, she simply panicked at the notion that they might try to give her a different owner than Citrodora. With great effort, she managed a weak, squirming struggle; in response, another set of vines curled tightly, but gently, around her, further restraining her.

From down the hall, Clara heard another affini’s voice calling out to the one currently restraining her. “Most of the ship is clear. We’re just cleaning up now. Are you good to deal with that one on your own?”

Clara felt the slow shifting and vibration of vines as the affini currently gently subduing her replied. “Oh without a doubt. This little cutie is behaving very well; a bit squirmy, but she’s very cuddly. Mostly she just seems scared, so I figured I’d take a bit of time to help her calm down.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of that. It seems like that floret who contacted us really delivered. We should wrap up here, though. Go ahead and sedate that one so we can pop her into a life support pod.” At that, Clara felt the fire inside her stir, then flare up. A life support pod? That was bad. That was where new florets went; she was supposed to be going home, not into some pod. With great effort, she pushed her mind up to the surface of lucidity. She could feel her implant kicking into overdrive as it worked harder and harder to filter out the heavy doses of xenodrugs coursing through Clara’s system. With a groan, she lifted her head, squirming. “No,” she choked. “No pod. Mistress. Home to Mistress.”

The rustling of leaves sang all around her as the affini holding Clara stirred and shifted in surprise. “What was that, dear?” Moments later, Clara felt a vine caress the back of her neck. At that, the affini holding her gasped, then stiffened. “Oh you poor thing, I’m so sorry. I should have checked.” Another bit of rustling sounded around her, and Clara felt herself suspended into the air, as she came face to face with her new affini friend. “My name is Arecaceae Telas, First Bloom, she / they pronouns. Can you tell me your name?” They asked.

“Lieutenant Cl—erm, sorry.” Clara blushed, she needed to unlearn thinking of herself as a soldier again, apparently. “Clara Sepal, First Floret, Miss.”

A bright smile bloomed acros Arecaceae’s face—literally, as she smiled, an array of flowers in her hair came into full bloom. “Oh my stars, it’s our little hero. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll get you to your Mistress, okay?”

Seeing Arecaceae’s smile, hearing her reassurance was enough to help Clara sink back into a state of calm relaxation. Even so, there was still one matter Clara couldn’t let go of, not just yet. “Thank you. But, um, what about the others? Are the other florets safe?”

With a smile and a nod, Arecaceae pet Clara’s hair and gave the exact sort of soothing, but slightly condescending answer which Clara would expect from an affini addressing a floret. “Don’t worry about them, little one. Everyone will be accounted for.”

Apparently Arecaceae expected that to be good enough for Clara, as she looked rather confused when Clara shook her head vigorously, and gave a borderline aggressive reply. “No. That’s not good enough. I have to keep them safe. I need to see them. I need to know they’ve all been accounted for.”

Worry crossed the affini’s face as she reached forward to nervously stroke Irene’s cheek. “Listen, you don’t need to worry about any of that, petal. Let’s just get you home to your owner, okay? You’re not responsible for anyone’s wellbeing. Keeping you, and everyone else both safe and happy is our job.”

No, she was wrong. How could Arecaceae even say something like that? Clara had spent days fighting, struggling, persevering through such a horrible, dangerous situation. She’d done all of it to protect them. Getting them home safe was her responsibility. Clara was the one who’d made sure this was even possible, not them. From the back of her mind she felt bright, burning anger explode outward. “It’s your job to keep everyone safe and happy? You’re doing a great fucking job at it, I see. If it wasn’t for me, those florets would be dead, and you want to tell me it’s not my responsibility? Take me to them.” Given the look on Arecaceae’s face, and the way her vines trembled, Clara had to assume nobody had ever spoken to her that way. Or, at least, no floret had ever spoken to her that way. She appeared simultaneously taken aback, defeated, and honestly, rather crushed.

The realization that she’d really, actually hurt this woman struck Clara with enough force to shatter her anger. All her energy and defiance simply flowed right out of her as Clara completely deflated, hung her head, and went limp. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I didn’t mean that.”

For a few tense moments, Arecaceae held Clara aloft as she felt herself coming apart again, tears streaming down her face as desperate need to be held and comforted rushed to fill the void left by her deflated anger. She could see quite plainly as the woman’s face went from shock and hurt, to confusion, to realization and understanding. From there, Arecaceae wasted no time pulling Clara back in close for a tight, soothing hug. “It’s alright, dear. I’m not upset with you. You’ve been through a lot, I’m sure. I’ll make a few calls, okay? I’ll make sure you get to see that the other lost florets are safe and sound. In the meantime, would it be okay if we at least started heading back toward Annularia instead of waiting around in this dreadful feralist gunship?” In response, Arecaceae received a quiet, whimpering nod as Clara tightened her grip around her rescuer. Just as Arecaceae’s hand again began to dotingly stroke Clara’s hair, she felt the rhythmic sway of the affini setting off down the corridors of the ship, carrying Clara with her.

For the time being, Clara allowed herself as best she could to dissolve into the soothing feeling of being held, carried, comforted. How long she spent that way, Clara couldn’t say, but It was so much easier, so much nicer than everything which had come before. So, why then, was Clara so incapable of allowing herself to once again fully submit to this sort of treatment? The weight of responsibility had been so exhausting; Clara didn’t want it, yet, for some reason, she couldn’t quite let go of it either. Part of Clara wondered if she ever would be able to; she’d been forced to rely on herself, and herself alone to survive. That experience was so entirely antithetical to the fundamental principle behind what the affini were trying to provide. And that sort of thinking wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to Clara, and it wasn’t fair to the affini either. Even so, knowing that her gut survival instincts weren’t being fair wasn’t going to silence them.

Thoughts like that were a precipice, a jagged, crumbling edge overlooking an abyss of dark, destructive thoughts; Clara found herself teetering on that ledge, called to by her worst impulses and bleakest, most pessimistic predictions. Luckily, before she could find herself tumbling downward, Clara was roused from her spiraling when Arecaceae came to a sudden stop, gently nudged Clara from her place nestled into the affini woman’s chest, and adjusted Clara’s gaze forward.

A tablet was suspended before Clara’s eyes, it’s screen displayed a split video feed showing seven different humans, each of whom was being tended to by at least one affini. It took Clara a moment to realize just what she was looking at, but just as understanding began to dawn on her, Arecaceae offered a brief explanation anyway. “They’ve already been taken off the ship. I was hoping I could get you to see them in person, but each of them was in a really bad state, we couldn’t justify waiting to reunite them with their owners.” After giving Clara a soothing stroke across her cheek, one of Arecaceae’s vines began to tap her tablet, slowly cycling through full-screened displays of each video-feed to give Clara plenty of time to take in the sight of each of her wards safe and sound, being carried back to their loving homes. Exhaling a slow breath, Clara felt tension in her body she didn’t even know existed begin to fade. She’d done it. They were safe.

Giving Arecaceae a grateful nod, Clara slumped back into the affini’s chest, and laughed. Then she kept laughing. When was the last time Clara had actually, genuinely laughed? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. It was finally over, so she laughed loud, joyful laughter. She laughed until all the air had been expelled from her lungs and then kept laughing until it hurt, and some unconscious reflex forced her to inhale into a loud, strained wheeze. When she finally managed to catch her breath, Clara looked up into Arecaceae’s eyes, smiled, and asked to be taken home to her Mistress.

“Of course, little one,” Arecaceae replied, returning Clara’s smile with one of her own as she set off once again. “Do you want something to help you relax? You seem—erm—you seem quite lucid considering the sheer quantity of xenodrugs you must have flowing through your veins.”

While the rather curious, inquisitive nature of Arecaceae’s tone implicitly begged the question of why Clara was so lucid, she honestly didn’t feel like getting into an explanation. Instead, Clara just gave a slow, but firm shake of her head. “I’d rather you not. I want to be lucid when I see my Mistress.” Clara wouldn’t miss the look of relief and joy on Citrodora’s face when they were reunited for the whole universe. “Did she stay behind on Annularia?”

“She did,” Arecaceae answered. “We decided it would be best if none of the owners of the missing florets were part of the boarding party. They weren’t entirely certain they’d be able to keep their anger and urges to take revenge in check,” she explained.

The polite thing to do, Clara realized, was probably to respond and continue the conversation. Then again, social expectations and norms for florets weren't exactly the same as for affini or even independent non affini sophonts. Thus, when she could neither think of anything obvious to say, nor muster up the drive to think of something to say, Clara felt no guilt in opting to instead wordlessly lean her head against Arecaceae’s chest and close her eyes. She’d forgotten how nice it felt to not feel the burden of expectation and obligation.

Arecaceae wouldn’t fault Clara for acting shy, or tired, or simply going non-verbal. She wouldn’t fault Clara for being nothing but a needy pet who’d expended the last of her strength. Even so, Clara still couldn’t truly relax. For one, as kind and gentle as Arecaceae was, this particular affini was not home. She was not Citrodora; she could never be Citrodora. Nothing could ever replace the comfort and safety Clara felt when cuddled up against her affini. Her Mistress. Her owner. Her everything. But that was okay, Clara knew she would be home soon. The second thing keeping Clara from relaxing was, unfortunately, far more complicated. Despite everything, that nagging urge in the back of her consciousness, the one which insisted Clara should be doing something, doing anything to make herself useful, had yet to go silent.

As Arecaceae carried Clara off and away from the oppressive, frightful, cramped halls of Hyperion’s Lantern, toward the welcome, safe paradise of Annulaira, her home, Clara hoped against hope that solving the first of her problems would also magically solve her second. She wasn’t so sure that would be the cause. A soft tug on her arm drew Clara’s attention up to Arecaceae, who looked down at Clara with patience, warmth, and what appeared to be some degree of pensiveness. “You seemed a little bit lost in your own head, so I wanted you to know that we’re about to board Annularia. I’m told your owner is waiting for you.” In that moment, at least, Clara had no doubt or conflict about how she felt: she’d never been so relieved, or excited in her life. Everything else could wait; Mistress was close.

Seeing Clara’s reaction, Arecaceae smiled down at her, then continued on her way. Finally electing to properly look around, Clara could see they were inside one of the gargantuan vines locking Hyperion’s Lantern and Annularia together. Arecaceae was carrying her up what was ostensibly a boarding ramp; looking up the corridor, she saw it: a bulkhead door, an affini bulkhead door. A vine reached down to ruffle Clara’s hair affectionately, and Arecaceae picked up the pace. With each passing moment, the door home drew nearer. For just the briefest flicker of a fraction of a second, Clara felt her worst impulses rear up, fabricating some scenario where this all could still be taken away from her. Clara silenced it. The next thing she knew, Arecaceae was reaching out with her vines to press against the door’s panel.

The doors opened. Fresh, sweet smelling air rushed into the corridor, banishing the stale, recycled air of Halcyon’s Lantern forever. Clara would not miss the stench of gasoline, rust, and body odor. Arecaceae took another long stride, and like that, she was on board. The bulkhead door closed behind her, and Clara was free. As though completely oblivious to the weight and monumental import of every single inch which Arecaceae carried Clara away from that place, closer to her home, closer to her owner, the affini woman casually stepped out of the airlock, and rounded a corner.

Standing in a wide, open hallway—one decorated with all manner of gardens and sculptures and fountains and dazzling architecture—wearing an expression of mixed worry, grief, anticipation, and hope, was the most beautiful, perfect person in the entire universe. Clara hardly had time to recognize her Mistress before Citrodora unraveled into a tangle of vines and flowers, and flung herself across the room at blinding speed.

The next thing Clara knew, she was being cradled in her owner’s grasp. Her hair was being stroked, every inch of her body was being caressed and squeezed and nuzzled. Citrodora was trying to say something; Clara was trying to say something—she honestly wasn't certain what, exactly. Neither succeeded. Each of them was their own discrete blubbering mess of tears and incomprehensible sounds of relief, love, and joy. The hurt wasn’t gone; Clara knew that. But as Citrodora reassembled herself into her humanoid shape, pulled Clara tightly into her favorite spot to rest against her Mistress, and held Clara in the exact way she wanted to be held, Clara allowed herself to really, truly relax for the first time since before she was taken. Reality itself may as well have been falling away around her, stripping away all of existence until the only thing left was this one moment. And, in that one moment, only one thing mattered: Clara was with her owner. All was right in her universe.

Chapter 8

The proverb “all good things must come to an end” is generally attributed to a poem written in the late 1300s by one Geoffrey Chaucer. Presumably, Mr. Chaucer had never met an affini. If he had, he might have realized just how wrong that statement could be. Nevertheless, for Clara, Geoffrey’s show of pessimism proved true, at least for the time being. Citrodora was holding her, petting her, cooing over her, muttering all manner of loving, kind reassurance and endless praise in her ear. Were one to ask a floret what heaven might be like, most, Clara included, would likely describe exactly that—or at least something similar to it. If she could have, Clara would have gleefully chosen to bask forever in the immaculate glow of her joyful reunion. She had her owner. Her owner had her. What possibly more could a floret want? What could possibly ever ruin such a perfect moment?

The urge to simply pretend that everything was fine, to sink into Citrodora’s control and allow her affini to erase all the wrongness, was beyond simple temptation; there was nothing in the whole universe Clara wanted more. The problem, however, was that she simply couldn’t, literally. Something was wrong, something with Clara, something with Citrodora; denying that was impossible. It was keeping Citrodora from taking away all the bad things which a floret was never meant to have, or feel, or experience. And, when the initial flurry of joy and relief from being reunited with her person was over, that wrongness became all the more obvious. Like a persistent buzzing through an otherwise functioning speaker, once Clara noticed it, that wrongness grew increasingly impossible to ignore. And, the more impossible to ignore it became, the more it ruined everything it so unwelcomely accompanied.

Citrodora could feel it too; Clara knew that. But really, that was actually part of it. Like many florets, Clara had long since developed an instinctive, intangible sense of her owner’s feelings. Wrapped up in her Mistress’ vines, held tightly against Citrodora’s chest, Clara knew she should have had no trouble picking up on Citrodora’s mood. To be fair, Clara could sense it. Citrodora’s inner mindscape was a churning mass of joy, relief, guilt and concern. And, as much as Clara wished her owner could never be anything but joyful and content, she understood that such feelings were hardly out of place, given all that had happened. The real issue was how distant and muddled that sense of her owner’s moment to moment attitude felt. Like a circle fitting through a square hole on a technicality, Clara could feel her mind slotting into Citrodora’s will, but it felt artificial, almost forced. She was peering into her owner through murky waters which had once been so crystal clear. The picture was there, but warped. And Citrodora could feel it too; even with her senses clipped as they were, Clara was certain.

And that was only the beginning. Clara had so much hurt, so much uncertainty, so much fear and anxiety and wrong thoughts. Was she a bad pet? Years ago, Citrodora had broken Clara, and put her back together new, better. Had Clara undone all of that in just a single week? It felt that way. Dependence, softness, vulnerability, meekness, they had all been gifts from Mistress. In return, Clara had discarded all Citrodora had done for her, and reassembled those broken, scattered pieces of herself into something else, something stronger, more willful than Clara had ever been. It might not have been her fault. It might have been her only choice. That didn’t change the fact that Clara was so much worse for it. Even worse than a feralist. Feralists were easy. One way or another, they broke without much effort at all. Could the same be said of what Clara had made herself into? Could Clara even break at all?

She wanted so dearly to break. She never wanted to make a single choice, or be trusted with an ounce of responsibility, or be given the slightest bit of independence ever again. She wanted to forget the pain, the struggle, the fear, and spend the rest of her life hiding in the long shadow of Citrodora’s control. Barely minutes had passed since Clara was reunited with the woman she loved most, but she already knew the terrible truth. That person she had created, the strong, willful, brave Clara who had saved three ships worth of rebels, and rescued eight captive florets, was still in there. She wouldn’t go away. She wouldn’t let Clara break, and would fight any attempt from Citrodora’s to do so. And who could blame her? The universe was a big, scary place; there was no telling when or how some new threat might emerge to steal Clara away. She needed to protect herself. And so, obviously, there was no doubt about it; Clara had been wrong to wonder whether she was a bad pet. The matter was already settled.

A vine cupped her chin, drawing Clara’s attention upward toward the most beautiful face in all of existence. Citrodora was looking down on her with a familiar, quiet, ever-present adoration. That should have calmed her down. It always used to, how, no matter what Citrodora was feeling at any given moment, whenever she looked at Clara, the adoration was always there. It was a rock-solid foundation, but one which could never be fully buried by other emotions, no matter how intense. Like a well-crafted bassline, that gentle, warm adoration always resonated through Mistress’ melody, reminding Clara that she was safe and loved. But this wasn’t the same Clara. She didn’t—she couldn’t—feel Citrodora like she used to; It just felt off. That made it so much easier to focus in on the other things Citrodora was feeling: the concern, the fear. Was she seeing it now? How Clara had been so irrevocably warped?

“Pet.” Citrodora’s voice was wrong, off in so many subtle ways. Of course, Clara could hear her Mistress just fine, but not all of her. The full range of Citrodora’s voice didn’t resonate through her the way it used to. Instead there was that buzzing underneath it. More vines were wrapping themselves around Clara’s face now, forcing her to look right into her owner’s eyes. “Clara, darling. My dearest, sweetest girl. You are my wonderful, perfect pet, and I will not have you self-depreciating.”

Between choking sobs, Clara gasped a halting response. “You can’t stop me.” Under most circumstances, the typical affini, or floret, or even happy independent citizen of the Affini Compact would hear that sort of comment, and assume it came from a defiant feralist radical. Under most circumstances they would be right. This was not a cry of defiance; it was a cry for help. It was not a show of resistance, it was a stricken, wounded statement of a reviled truth. “There’s something wrong with me,” Clara sobbed. Her words felt so out of sync and tune with Citrodora’s song.

Again, under most circumstances, a typical affini would treat such a statement as misguided trauma manifesting itself as self-hatred. Clara was, quite undeniably, traumatized by what she had been through. Nevertheless, that had nothing to do with her prior statement. The sadness in Citrodora’s voice was palpable. “You’re right,” she admitted. “There is something wrong with you.” Her vines tightened around Clara; it had hurt Citrodora to agree. With a shaky hand, Citrodora stoked Clara’s hair as soothingly as she could. She hummed soft, gentle sounds of reassurance into Clara’s ear, held her pet as closely and securely as she could. It would be a lie to say the gestures didn’t help. No matter what, Clara loved Citrodora; she had missed her owner so dearly in their time apart.

This was a happy moment. It had to be. Clara was so happy to be back in her owner’s grasp. She was so happy to be safe, away from those rebels. She was so happy the other florets were safe, so happy she would get to sleep in a comfortable bed, so happy she didn’t have to fight or struggle or worry anymore. None of that was enough to drown out the other feelings, though, only enough to hide them, but it was temporary. The buzzing was still there, and the wrong feelings would come back in force, because Clara was broken. “There is something wrong with you,” Citrodora repeated. “But I’m going to fix you.”

Clara shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m not how I was. I’m not the same Clara anymore. I want more than anything to be yours again, yours and nothing else. But there’s some other part of me now. And it’s stronger. And it won’t let me break.”

The vines holding Clara motionlessly against her owner stirred, then lifted Clara upward, maneuvering her so she was eye level with her Mistress. Citrodora cocked her head to the side and, to Clara’s surprise, a flirty smirk spread across her plant’s lips. “Tell me, pet. When did it become your decision whether or not you break for me?”

Once, a comment like that would have utterly shattered Clara. It would have sent the fractured pieces of her psyche scattering in every direction as her mind comfortably, instinctively split right open and bore everything that Clara was to her owner in an act of such indescribable vulnerability and trust. Instead, Clara blushed a little at how pretty her plant was, smirked a bit under her unfaltering gaze, but was mostly just overcome with wistful sadness over what she’d lost. Clara hung her head. “Mistress, I… you don’t understand. I’m not who I used to be. And this other part of me, it’s not going to just snap for you. Being on that ship changed me. I’m not just talking about trauma, but literally, physically.” Clara hung her head, sighing in defeat.

Citrodora narrowed her eyes. “Clara, my precious little flower. I need you to elaborate,” she insisted gently.

“I think it has something to do with my implant,” Clara explained. “It was the only thing that kept me from just shutting down without you. It made me stronger, braver. It made me want to fight them, to protect the other pets.”

Citrodora nodded. “That much was to be expected. As you…” she trailed off for a moment, her face betraying deep sadness. “When they took you from me, I sent your implant instructions to dose you with a suite of xenodrugs to boost your resolve, and to dig back up some of your old strength and courage from before. I am… sorry, my flower. I never meant for you to have to do so much all alone, it was just to help keep everyone safe. No pet should ever have to be responsible for the lives of others. No pet should ever need to fight, or need to be brave in the face of danger.”

Clara gently stroked her owner’s cheek. “Mistress, it’s okay. You had to. It’s the reason everyone made it back safe. But, the thing is, it went further than what you asked of it. It started actively cooperating with me, doing what I wanted it to. And, as I pushed it to do more and more, as I came to rely on it more and more, it started to grow. It started to change, to integrate with me so much that I’m not even sure anymore whether all the things I did were me, or it.”

For a while, Citrodora was silent. Clara could distantly feel her owner processing all she’d said, turning them over in her mind to make some sense of it all. Eventually, though, she seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “I am, admittedly, not an expert on the Haustoric Implant,” she began. “I have never heard of what you describe happening. But, no matter what you say, you are my Clara, my girl. And my sweet, darling Clara is not a fool, nor is she a liar. Besides, I had intended to keep this to myself so as not to worry you, but, I did notice earlier that your implant wasn’t responding to my tablet. I don’t know what happened, petal, but I do know we can find a way to fix it.” Dotingly, Citrodora ran a thumb along Clara’s cheek, smiling lovingly at her pet. “I was going to suggest we take you to the medical ward anyway, but now it’s especially pertinent. I’m sure one of Annularia’s implant surgeons will either know what this means, or know someone to call who does. We will find whatever the problem is, and fix it. I promise.”

A typical floret, a good floret, would hear their owner promise with absolute certainty that a problem was to be fixed, and simply roll right over and accept that as an indisputable truth of the universe. Clara was not such a pet. Clara could doubt her owner; she hated it. “But… what if you can’t? What if this other part of me won’t break?” Another question, left unsaid, bubbled below the surface of her thoughts: the question of whether or not it was even a good idea to kill the part of Clara that had kept her safe when Citrodora couldn’t. She hated herself for thinking that. It felt like thinking ill of her Mistress. It wasn’t Citrodora’s fault; it was those fucking stars-damned rebels.

Citrodora grasped Clara by the chin, reclaiming Clara’s attention, looking upon her with the sort of patient determination that could only be found in a being with literally all the time in the universe at her disposal. “You forget yourself, pet,” she drawled. “Perhaps it’s all the time you’ve spent around feralists.”

“Mistress?”

“In what universe does the Affini Compact fail to deliver on its promises?”

A whimper escaped Clara’s lips. “They took me, Mistress.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Clara regretted them, but it was too late. Citrodora deflated, her face twisting and distorting into heart wrenching grief and guilt. Clara couldn’t bear to see her owner like this. She rushed to apologize, only for a vine to press against her lips before she could speak. “You’re right, Clara, my love. I failed to keep you out of harm’s way. I failed you. I know it doesn’t erase the pain of everything you’ve been through, but I need you to know that, if you had failed, we wouldn’t have let them kill you, or any of the other florets. You were, regrettably, our ace in the hole, but you were not without a safety net.”

When all Citrodora received in response was a quizzical look, she continued. “I could spend hours standing here, detailing for you every single contingency we enacted, starting the moment we realized a kidnapping attempt was even a possibility, and ending the moment we boarded that ship to save you. Stealth tails, mass suggestion through comms channels—quite similar to your very clever trick with the biorhythms, though much more subtle and sophisticated—nanodrones, hunter-drones, long range bioweapons programed to ignore florets, not to mention the precautions taken from the very beginning, like those literally built-in to the Haustoric Implant, they would not have been able to kill you.”

Clara could hardly believe what she was hearing. Was it all for nothing, then? Citrodora, vigilant as ever, answered before Clara could even ask. “The reality is, Clara. The thing keeping us from swooping in and claiming the ship was not our worries over your safety, but over theirs. We value all life, you know that. But, personal attachment inevitably leads us to value the lives of our pets most of all. When a florets life could be taken with the pull of a trigger, things like tranquilizers or stun weaponry aren’t always reliable enough.”

Citrodora fell silent for a moment. She attempted to continue, but the words didn’t come. She took a deep breath, clearly ashamed of what she was about to say. “If, at any point before we arrived, any of the rebels made a credible attempt on your life, or the lives of the other florets, they would have been dead before they hit the ground. And that is why we needed to wait. We needed to hope you, or someone else found a way to pacify the rebels without them getting violent…” A hiccuping sob leapt up in Citrodora’s throat. “Flower, I am so sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t fair to anyone. But I need you to understand this. You will never be taken from me again. Changes in policy will be made. We’ll learn from this, we’ll be better. And, even though I can’t promise you that no floret will ever be taken like this again, I swear to you that you will not be. I don’t care if I have to bring the entire affini armada with us as protection whenever we leave Annularia, I will make sure you are safe, and feel safe, no matter what.”

As desperately as Clara wanted to believe her owner’s words, there was still one thing she couldn’t let go of. “Mistress?” she asked. “I know… I know you say you can fix me. But what happens if you can’t?”

Delicately, Citrodora placed a small kiss on Clara’s forehead, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “It will not come to that. But, in a hypothetical world where it could, know that I would do everything in my power to make you as happy, and cared for as possible. There is nothing you could ever do to make me not want you, Clara. You’re a good girl, a good pet; you are loved. And there is nothing you could ever do to change that, either.”

Clara sniffled, then nodded. “You’re sure you can fix me, Mistress?”

A thoughtful hum resonated outward from Citrodora’s core, with it, a slow breath. The scent of her Mistress surrounded Clara, and she could feel herself begin to relax. A single bark of laughter erupted from Citrodora’s throat. “Well, it seems your body still knows how to respond to its owner.” A small smile starting to creep across her face, Citrodora pulled Clara closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. Without warning, vines wrapped around Clara’s face and head, and forced her to look directly into the gleaming cyan of her owner’s fractal eyes. Even if she wanted to, Clara could look nowhere else.

As she stared ahead, Clara saw a predatory gleam begin to twinkle in those gorgeous eyes. A finger began to softly tap against Clara’s cheek in time with an all too familiar beat. All around Clara, vines began ensnaring her, encasing her, blocking out all light save the glow of Citrodora’s eyes, drowning out all sound save a familiar song, and that irritating buzz, but it was okay, the song was growing louder with every moment. The outside world was gone; it was just Clara, and her Mistress.

Clara felt it now, the intangible force of her Mistress’ consciousness wrapping around her own; it wasn’t as clear as before she was taken, but it was far stronger than what Clara had been feeling. With waxing confidence, Citrodora began to speak in a slow, deliberate meter, aggressively drilling her rhythm into Clara with every word. “Let me make a few things perfectly clear to you, since you seem to have forgotten. I am your Mistress, and, with the right amount of time, dedication, and support, there is not one problem your Mistress cannot solve. I have all three in spades, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure your continued wellbeing and happiness. You are the most treasured, and beloved of all my possessions, little Clara. I adore you, and I will not allow you to suffer. This is not something you have even the slightest bit of say in, and there is nothing that you, or anyone can do to stop me. The universe itself could stand in my way, and I would simply bend it over my knee, then collar it. You are a pet; more importantly, you are my pet. That can never change. If some part of you has forgotten that, then we will find a way to remind it, or it will be removed. I will find a way to fix you, my little flower. And when I do, I will break you all over again, only this time, I will do it right. This time, I’ll make sure that never, ever again will there be any room for any part of you to question exactly what you are, or who you belong to.”

Surrounded by her Mistress’ will as she was, Clara could finally properly hear her owner’s song. That awful persistent buzzing would return, she knew that. It wasn’t gone for good. But, for the time being, it was smothered by the crushing weight of Citrodora’s ownership. A peaceful smile spread over Clara’s face as she looked up at her owner with distant, blissful adoration. “Thank you, Mistress. I love you.” For the first time in so, so long, Clara’s voice sounded right in her ears; she was speaking in perfect time with the rhythm reverberating all around her.

Citrodora smiled. “I love you too, flower. Let’s get you to the medical ward so we can see a surgeon, okay? It’s time to get you fixed, pet.”

It was such a simple, silly moment. A tiny oversight in Citrodora’s grasp of terran idioms, uttered with such appropriate, and entirely coincidental context. It was enough to send Clara into a fit of  uncontrollable giggles. That was when Clara understood; things were hard, but Citrodora was here. Citrodora was here, and Citrodora was capable, and confident, and determined, and loving, and nurturing, and kind, and also she was massive fucking dork. And so, Clara was going to the pet surgeon so she could be fixed. Clara was absolutely certain things would work out. She just hoped she could manage to stop laughing long enough to explain why.