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Cellulose & Steel	By : Not-Taylor Category: Misc Books > FemmeSlash Views: 1028 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own HDG or its characters and I don't make money from this work.

Chapter List
- 66
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- 68
The early afternoon’s light starts to redden, indicating the dusk is approaching. This must be the same time as yesterday, though it feels earlier. Now that Song thinks of it, how would she know that? She hasn’t had access to a reliable clock in days. Not being able to tell precisely when things happen is troubling. Getting used to being a fleshy deckcrawler again won’t be easy.
“Tdaiyn.” Not again. Can’t Verda fall into a vat of defoliant or something? “We’re going out for dinner.”
“Why.”
“Because I want to, and I don’t think we ought to lock ourselves away from society just because you aren’t fully at your best yet.”
“I d-”
Song doesn’t want to go, but somehow, saying that feels like a bad idea. That might give the impression she wants to stay “home” and cuddle her “mistress.” The affini finally looks up from her work, a curious expression on her face until she figures out her prisoner doesn’t want to continue.
“We’ll be meeting one of my friends. Hopefully you and fleur floret will get along and be able to play together while my friend and I catch up.” Did the weed just say “floor floret?” As opposed to a bed floret?
“Floor?”
“Yes. Oh, I’m sorry. Janice Marigold, fourth bloom, who is the affini I’m telling you about, uses fleu/fleur.” It sounded like she said flew/floor.
“That… can’t be real. What the fuck? That doesn’t even make sense!”
“Fleu uses floral pronouns, darling.” The enemy of all that is good and Terran in this universe shrugs. “Other florets have taken to using Miss as a pronoun when addressing Affini. You could follow their example when referring to fleur. Do not, however, use the term mistress.” She frowns as though she’s smelling food that recently expired. “Fleu won’t respond well to that.”
“I see. I think that’s stupid. Plant isn’t a gender.” She instantly realizes that she said something factually incorrect.
“As we’ve discussed, that doesn’t matter. You will be a well behaved floret and you will treat those around you with respect. There will be no negotiations, pet.”
There goes any hope of the rest of the day being good. Maybe Song should take the victories it has, considering it has its past back, and Verda did keep her word regarding that, and the xenodrugs seem to have had no unanticipated side effects. Stars… Verda told the truth?
Vanessa told the truth? That’s not good. They’re plotting something. Surely they want to trick Song into surrendering to them. If Terran laws are still in effect (as they should be, logically) then only somebody in right mind can surrender and make treaties on humanity’s behalf. Naturally they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from drugging every official who would sign the original document, making it invalid. If Song is truly the last one left… then she has the sole responsibility of protecting Terra from the weeds who want to use her to steal its resources for themselves and enslave the population. The vessel reminds herself to stay strong for everyone back home.
“I would like you to put on something nicer for tonight.” She can’t be serious.
“No.”
A tendril passes by Song’s face, twitching gently and withdrawing. “You shouldn’t need a bath before we leave. Either you can wear the outfit I’ve chosen or you can take a bath and return to what you’re wearing now. The decision is yours, pet.”
“I’m not your pet. I’m not your doll either! You can’t just play dress up with me!”
“You know I can. This is not a game, darling. I’m ensuring that you’re presentable in polite company. Would you rather wear nothing?”
Xeno scum. Song knows better than to say her thoughts out loud.
“Then come to the bedroom and change.”
The plant woman turns with more grace than should be possible at her size and starts moving toward her bedroom, beckoning her “chkcha” with a vine on the way. Is the alternative really a bath? She has to be lying, right? She isn’t. Song isn’t that dumb, even if she was dumb enough to get into this situation instead of taking the chances she’d been given to kill all the weeds. All of them. Even Verda, who, despite not being insane and evil, is still insane.
“Ember. We will not be late.” The statement echoes through the doorway with unnerving finality. Verda knows that she can ensure that she’s correct. Since (as far as she knows) the slave garments are just cloth and contain no xenodrugs, Ember reluctantly follows into Verda’s torture chamber. The Terran forces down her oldest memory of this place and the returning humiliation.
“I’m glad you’re willing to cooperate, darling. Your clothes are on the bed. I’ll brush your hair once you’ve changed.”
“What? No!”
“Your hair is tangled and messy. We can’t have that, can we, tdaiyn? You’d look so much nicer with it cared for. Would you like me to braid it for you?”
“No! Get away from me!”
Without turning around, Song runs backwards toward the door, only to feel it shutting just as she reaches it. There’s no escape. The sagging of Verda’s green shoulders is more terrifying than that by far. She slaps everywhere on the frame that she can reach, looking for some way out.
“Darling… I hoped you were more willing to cooperate. If having your hair braided and out of the way is such an unpleasant prospect, I can style it another way. Would you like to put on the clothes yourself, or would you rather I helped you.”
“I don’t want your ‘help,’ weed.”
It doesn’t matter. Song already feels the strength leaving her legs. There’s nowhere to go. Nobody will help. The most sympathetic affini would laugh at her for being upset about changing into something nice. But it’s happened before. She’s dressed herself or been dressed every morning. She can handle it. Somehow, the idea of changing out of pajamas is easier to stomach than the idea of changing out of regular clothes. Song shudders.
Verda gestures to the outfit again. A black skirt, a white blouse, and a tan jacket are lying there, waiting to be worn, along with a pair of shiny black shoes. That’s weird. Those aren’t Affini colors. This can’t be a good sign. The writhing vines that make up Song’s guardian continue to convulse as usual.
“Fancy.”
“Yes, pet. I want you to look nice.”
“By Terran sensibilities.”
“That’s right.”
“So this is dress up.”
“In a way, I suppose that could be true. We can debate philosophy once we’re on our way. Now, Ember.”
“...”
There’s no point in attempting to delay. Feeling a little ill despite how normal the clothes are, Song changes quickly. Verda pulls on the garments slightly to arrange them just how she wants them to sit while restringing her prisoner. She then carefully combs her hair with hundreds of frantic tendrils. It only takes a minute. The weed coughs. When Song turns toward her, she feels a slight pull on her head and a familiar rustling sound before being lifted toward the mirror.
“What did you do to me you evil plant?”
Most of the Terran looks fine, good even. Everything is cut well. The exceptional part, however, is Song’s hair, which is also cut, sculpted into some strange xeno idea of niceness. It’s swept to the side and around her neck, almost like a scarf.
“You needed to be trimmed, Ember. Would you prefer your hair were parted on the other side?”
Each day’s fresh horror stings in a new way. Song can’t bring herself to reply. At least Verda hadn’t attempted a “””tomboy””” cut. This one isn’t bad… but that doesn’t make it a good thing. She didn’t even ask permission (not that she’s technically obligated to). Song feels the ends of her shortened hair. She was growing it out too…
“No…” She sounds much less defiant now, dressed for an interview and styled by somebody who doesn’t understand Terran culture. If there were a god to pray to, she would be trying now.
“I’m glad you’re content. We can be ahead of schedule if we leave now.”
The weed cheerfully slips a slim yet sturdy collar around her prisoner’s neck, holding the leash tightly and starting for the front door. No matter how hard Song digs in her heels, she can’t budge. Instead, she’s dragged along until Verda gets bored enough to pick her up and carry her. The next time she touches the ground is on the tram, where she’s placed next to Verda.
Their trip isn’t especially long, though it takes them up a deck. Here, the sky is blood red and humid. Strange instruments play in the background, though the sound disappears as they walk away from the elevator. After a couple of stops on another tram, they reach an open area surrounded by apartment buildings. Song can tell because of the swimming pools between them. Offices most likely wouldn’t have those, though the Affini are insane enough they just might, in retrospect.
The affini pulls her prisoner close as they approach one of the buildings, whispering with a serious tone.
“Behave, pet. You represent me as well as yourself. Remember that you’re my floret and conduct yourself accordingly. I will not warn you again.”
The Terran blinks in confusion and they continue. On the third floor of one that has a garden of what looks like tumbleweed, Verda knocks on the door on the far end of a long hall of uniform white wooden doors. It’s quickly opened by an affini who might be five meters tall, wearing what looks like a necklace of shark’s teeth. She and Verda embrace briefly, with Verda somehow appearing on the other side, as though she’d phased through the other weed.
“Hopefully I’ve been introduced to you, cutie. My name is Janice Marigold, fourth bloom (fleu/fleur). Who might you be?”
“I might be the herald of your inevitable doom, weed.” The Free Terran pats herself on the back for coming up with that quickly. Giggling erupts from somewhere in the apartment.
“I’m sorry, let me ask differently. What’s your name, blossom?”
“I am the Song of Destruction.” Verda deflates in the background before being distracted by something further away.
“Oh. Of course. May I a- Where is your connivent?”
“I don’t have one. I’m not a floret.”
“I remember who you are now. Why did your mistress tell me your name was Ember?”
“Because I told her to call me that.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I wanted her to.”
“But that isn’t your name?”
“No. I’m the Song of Destruction.”
“Very interesting, but do you mind if I call you Ember? I think that’s a very pretty name.”
“I don’t care.” What the affini calls her is of very minor importance compared to not picking a fight.
“Good, thank you, little one. Maybe you were told that I have a floret myself. Would you like to meet her?”
“All right.” It’s an excuse to get away from this pseudogendered weirdo, isn’t it?
Janice escorts her smaller guest into a sitting room full of Terran themed artifacts. There’s a model of a spherical starbase, a pyramid of cups, a pad of paper with some chalk next to it, and various other things, all arranged neatly in the context of some very generic furniture that screams “nuclear family.” The room is thoughtfully put together but bland and uninspiring. The lack of personality sets Song on edge. The next room, through a pair of sliding doors which have been open since their arrival, is occupied by a bed much like Verda’s, a dark toned wooden dresser, and not much else. It’s probably standard for Affini decorating. Not too bad, all things considered.
Seated on the bed is something that freezes Song completely. It’s a Terran in an outfit similar to hers. The difference is that she actually looks good in it. She looks extremely good, as a matter of fact. She turns away from her tablet, which she was doing something with, and stares back with wide green eyes. She clearly wasn’t expecting them to just walk in, which is really weird since she wasn’t living alone and affini don’t usually wait after knocking.
Neither of the two move. Song can practically hear the other’s breathing. No wait, that’s Janice’s biorhythm. It sounds almost dissonant in a weird way. Maybe the Terran is staring at the weed and not at Song. That would be comforting.
“Dahlia, I’d like you to meet somebody. This is Ember, my friend Verda’s second floret. Would you be willing to entertain Ember until dinner, so that Verda isn’t distracted for a little?”
Dahlia Marigold (who comes up with these ridiculous names?) thaws instantly. She stands and smiles, extending a hand to her guest.
“Yes, Uteh. It’s nice to meet you, Ember. As my caretaker mentioned, I’m Dahlia (she/her). Can I ask your pronouns?”
“No.”
“Oh… All right.”
She looks to her warden with confusion. She shouldn’t be confused. Isn’t it obvious what Ember is? Maybe it isn’t? Oh no… Janice disappears momentarily before answering the implicit question hanging on the air.
“Darling, Ember is between pronouns. Miss Verda says to use she/her until Ember asks for something else.”
“Right. Well, it’s nice to meet you Ember?” She’s clearly really hoping Ember will shake her hand. Of course, Song does just that. It would be rude to refuse when she’s trying to be hospitable.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Dahlia.”
Song senses something shifting inside of her affini hostess, but nothing visible changes anywhere. Janice smiles and leaves with a brief encouragement, necklace tinkling as she walks.
“Have fun, you two.”
“Yay! Well, what would you like to do, Ember?”
“I don’t know. Do you have experience in hijacking military vessels? We could do something very fun if you can cut through Affini security protocols. I could take care of the rest.”
The black haired floret bursts into laughter, shaking a smaller version of her owner’s necklace in the process.
“That’s cute. Seriously.”
“I have no idea what slaves do.” Song is dissatisfied. She could’ve said something much edgier if she’d thought about it a little. It probably wasn’t a very productive comment either.
“Slaves?”
“Florets.”
“Oh. Why did you call us slaves?”
“If you wanted to leave, could you?”
“Of course. But why would I ever want to be apart from my owner? I get sad if I’m away from fleur for a few hours.”
“See?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Anyway… How did you end up on this ship?”
The weed’s pet gestures to Song to join it on the bed, shifting toward the foot in order to make room. The bed is springy, how grass is always described and not how grass actually feels.
“My owner was a consultant on Earth, right after the Affini took over. I was trying to lead a feralist cell, but we were captured on our first attempt at a raid.” She laughs a little. “I can’t believe I thought we could accomplish anything with that. At least my owner and I got to meet that way. Then fleu decided fleu’d rather hunt the Rebel Navy and here we are.” She shrugs and sighs. “How about you, Ember?”
“I’m a pilot. My crew and I fought from the day the Affini invaded until a few weeks ago when we were captured. Verda and I met when she and some others came aboard after the docking cables-” The Terran officer starts to shiver and doesn’t bother finishing the explanation.
“So you just got here? Wow! That’s so long to be running.”
“It… was. I didn’t mind.”
“Are you happier now that you don’t have to run any more?”
Incontrovertibly. “It’s complicated and that’s a long story. Is it all right if I’d rather not talk about it?”
“Sure. Sorry for being nosy.” Her left hand flops weirdly close to Song’s leg, which makes the ship retreat very slightly. Hopefully the traitor is too distracted by xenodrugs to notice.
“What do you do for fun? I’m already bored half the time and I can only listen to so much music before my head explodes.”
Dahlia giggles. “What do you mean? There’s always stuff to do.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” she begins, making firm eye contact. Song refrains from blinking for the duration. “Um, computer games, talking to friends, movies, plus, you know…” Further eye contact. “I like going for walks.”
“Where do you walk?”
“Outside. There’s a park. There’s no way you missed it.”
“I didn’t. Is the sky always that color?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. There was a vote just before we moved in, I think.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Some time this year? I don’t know. Uteh worries about that for me.”
“Uteh?”
“It’s an Affini word. I think it means My Beloved Owner, or some sh- something like that.”
“Don’t worry, you can swear in front of me if you want, Dahlia. I don’t mind.”
“No no no! It’s not about you. My owner doesn’t like me to any more. It’s an uncivilized habit.” She nods reverently.
“Your ‘owner’ isn’t here,” Song says very slowly.
“And? Fleu still cares and wants me to be good.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes fleur happy.”
“But does it make you happy?”
“Making my owner happy makes me happy,” she replies with a puzzled expression. This isn’t going anywhere.
“If you say so.”
“I get the impression you don’t trust your owner much, yet, Ember.”
“We’re approaching an understanding.”
“Oh. Good.” She smiles. “That’s nice. Have you kept up with your friends from your ship?”
“... I’ve met a couple of them. They aren’t coping as well as I am.”
“Aw. I hope they’re able to be happy.”
“So do I, Dahlia. We were together so long, I just don’t want them to suffer.”
“That makes sense. I didn’t really have anyone like that on Earth, so when I moved out here… Uteh and I were on our own. Until I made new friends, that is.”
“Was that easy?”
“Yeah, it was. Everyone’s so much friendlier now that we don’t have to worry about being strong and dangerous, and having jobs.”
“Oh. I’m glad you’ve made friends.” They must be really boring people after the weeds got into their brains. Song’s crew are going to continue to suffer until she can rescue them. Even if it isn’t realistic…
“So do you want to…” Song waits for the end of the sentence, which is delayed by the effects of the floret’s xenodrugs.
“Do you want to… watch a movie?”
“Which one? I have no idea what you have here.”
“All of them! The Affini made sure that everything would be stored in some server. It’s great. I can watch whatever I want.”
“Did they ever make any?”
“They must have. I think? I don’t know, I never checked.”
“What about one of those?”
“Sounds good!”
This might not be how Song wanted to spend the day, but it’s certainly better than a lot of the alternatives. Verda’s voice melts into Janice’s as they speak in Affini, none of the words making any sense. Occasionally one does sound like something, but never enough words in a row to make sense of. With a smile, Dahlia falls onto her side, sliding up the bed to prop herself up on a mountain of pillows. There’s plenty of room for both of them since the bed was built for an affini, but she stays relatively close in order to prop up the screen between the two of them. Song draws herself up next to her, hopeful that something good will be on.
After a great deal of thoughtful clicking, Dahlia props her tablet on a pillow placed on one of her knees and one of Song’s. Credits in Affini overlay what looks like a perfectly normal beginning of a Terran movie. They don’t have popcorn, but it’s almost dinnertime anyway… right? Didn’t Verda say that was why they were here? For the moment, that matters less than the story onscreen.
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Cellulose & Steel