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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
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Perhaps this was a mistake, Song muses. Affini culture is very… interesting, for sure. Neither she nor Dahlia speak enough of the language to have any idea what’s going on on the screen. It appears that this is a romance, but they aren’t sure. Dahlia suggested that one of the affini isn’t willing to date the other because she has a floret to care for. Song didn’t think so since the floret didn’t have enough screentime. Or it could’ve been a drama of some kind. Maybe the other affini had a dark secret.
The floret must play a role, or she (at least Song thinks that the xeno floret is a she) wouldn’t be featured so much. Important music plays when she’s speaking too. It could be that the second affini is jealous of the floret and wants her for herself. While that doesn’t make much sense, it looks most likely by the end, in which both affini are seen cuddling with the floret and the trio hum and shiver together.
With their combined understanding of affini mannerisms, they’re able to agree that the movie was meant to have a wholesome ending, though they don’t quite understand well enough to agree or disagree with that assessment. Even then, Dahlia and Song are able to agree that the floret actor/actress wasn’t bad at all, even if that was probably her actual mistress she was playing the floret of. It was… interesting. Calling it a bad movie feels dishonest and calling it good seems a little optimistic. The Terrans got more out of chatting about the plot than actually watching.
Dahlia doesn’t move from her position, leaving the tablet balanced on their shared knee pillow table. She could easily have pulled back, and easily could’ve been at least two meters away from Song if she’d wanted. Maybe she just didn’t feel like getting up. Song didn’t really feel like getting up either.
“I still don’t get the cat,” Dahlia complains.
“I think that was supposed to be symbolism.”
“But there wasn’t any other symbolism. The red affini kept touching the cat before the cuddle scene, even though they’d been avoiding it the whole movie.” “They” is a plural pronoun, and thus is not singular. Song neglects to remind Dahlia of that fact.
“That’s symbolism. She’s accepting the other two as… something. They’re all friends now.” Song should’ve been a media critic, maybe with a blog.
“That doesn’t explain why the floret who shouldn’t even know what a cat is has one. It makes no sense. Where did the director even find a cat?”
“Maybe one of the actors has one for real?”
“But-”
“Actually, what if it has nothing to do with the plot, but the director’s cat tagged along and they didn’t reshoot the scenes it was on set, and the actors got used to it?”
“That sounds pretty accurate,” Dahlia says, starting to laugh.
Song joins in and they start making cat noises at each other, until Dahlia’s owner comes in and they both instantly stop. The affini smirks and swishes her vines briefly before shifting, probably remembering that she’s gawking.
“Dinner is ready. Try to hurry so I don’t have to bring out my laser pointer to rush you.”
She walks away with a chuckle. Dahlia is the first to move toward the door, climbing over Song in a way she can’t be sure is part of the cat routine or not. She quickly follows since she’s ready to eat something. She hadn’t noticed she was hungry before now, but she hopes this affini will be as conscious of Terran tastes as Verda usually is.
A rectangular table is set for four, the Terrans on the long ends and the Affini on the short ends. Shiny silver utensils and intricate wine glasses rest on a white linen cloth. There are no candles for some reason. Song pulls her jacket straight, just because she feels like she ought to. Dahlia doesn’t seem to care that much about hers and runs to her seat with a slight detour to be petted by her mistress. The freer Terran walks at a normal speed to her seat, where she sits and waits to be lectured on whichever topic Verda sees fit to accost her with.
No lecture comes and freshly compiled plates of what tastes and looks sort of like salmon but redder, along with a bunch of different vegetables, are placed before them. Their drinks do seem to be wine, but Dahlia and Song both drink from their water glasses instead. Maybe Dahlia’s smarter than she lets on, if she won’t drink the weeds’ noxious brews either. Verda and Janice have something that smells a bit like low viscosity oil and don’t eat anything.
There isn’t much conversation, though there’s clearly a lot of communication. Vines flit on their respective ends of the table, saying something that can’t be intercepted. It’s very suspicious, but not much can be read through simulated faces. Dahlia doesn’t seem to have much to say either, not that Song would be able to reply well. She’s too busy eating. The morning must’ve been much more draining than she thought it had been.
“Ember, I’d like to hear more about you. What do you like to do for fun?” The affini host finally decides to make conversation, only to ask something extremely bland. Weeds.
“I like to fly.”
“Fly?”
“In space. Vroom.” What does the overgrown shrub think, by flapping her arms?
“What’s that like?”
“Magic. If magic were real, that’s what I would be doing. Bending space itself to make my journey easier, seeing more places than my great grandparents could possibly have imagined, discovering alien civilizations… I can’t imagine a better life.”
“Fascinating. Your mistress mentioned that you and she took a trip together.”
“We did. We saved some Terrans from the consequences of communist engineering, charted some new systems, and logged a planet of xenos that you’re planning to subjugate.”
“That’s an impressive itinerary.”
“I guess it is. It didn’t feel very epic at the time. What do you do for fun?”
“Me?”
“Aside from having a ‘floret.’”
“I keep Ruby Trunk’s gardens, specifically, the parts that are throughout the ship. Seeing which plants thrive together is always a delight.”
“That sounds like work.”
“Maybe it is. It’s still how I like to spend my day. Sometimes it’s nice to take a stroll and watch all the passengers enjoying my handiwork.”
The conversation fades as Song has nothing left to say to the weed. A lack of dessert triggers Dahlia’s vocal disappointment, though Janice promises her something later if she’s “good.” Not being a floret, Song can’t relate to that exchange, though she can relate to the prospect of a well behaved Dahlia... Soon enough, their guards see fit to release them again, and they return to the bedroom. Dahlia removes her jacket and flops onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, leaving her guest to stand awkwardly and try to figure out what she’s supposed to do.
“Your mistress is strange, Ember.”
“I know. What did you notice?”
“She didn’t try to pet me.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Yeah… Wait, don’t they pet you ever?”
“No, not usually?”
“Even your mistress?”
“She doesn’t pet me either, thank goodness.”
“Why? I don’t get that. You look pettable to me.” It’s probably better not to question what that’s supposed to mean.
“I don’t mind. I hate being touched.”
“Really?” Dahlia asks with a mixture of surprise and confusion.
“Really. Their tendrils are all… planty, and green.”
“But it’s so comfy.” She cocks her head. “Are you saying your owner doesn’t cuddle you at all?”
“Fortunately she doesn’t insist on it too much.”
“Oh.” The floret looks disheartened. “Maybe you should give it another chance. I bet that would make Miss Verda really happy.”
“I don’t need to make her happy. She can take care of herself.”
“But… Didn’t you say she rescued you from the Accord? You should be grateful.”
“I shouldn’t. She ‘rescued’ me from a disaster she made. She hunted me across the Milky Way in order to turn me into a pet! Why would I be grateful for that?”
“It means she cares a lot. Why else would she spend so long looking for you?”
“Because I was bad PR.”
“Oh. Right. You said you weren’t completely ready to accept your new life. Trust me, I’m way happier now. It’s easier to accept our owners’ love, Ember.”
“I’m sure.” Song retains a snort of disgust. Dahlia sits up and stares directly at the ship.
“I mean that. Becoming a floret is the best thing that ever happened to me.” She sighs, patting the bed and encouraging the pilot to sit with her.
“What if there were more to life than clothes and xenodrugs?”
“There is. I don’t give a f- a rat’s a- I don’t give a hoot what I wear. I could be wearing nothing and I wouldn’t care.” That’s an effect of the xenodrugs, obviously. “I… don’t think much about xenodrugs either. I can’t feel them most of the time.” That’s intentional. “I’m happier, but it’s because my owner loves me and I know fleu would never harm me in any way.” And making somebody use nonsense pronouns isn’t harm? “There’s a lot to my life now. I don’t have to have a job, I can spend all day drawing and talking to my owner. It’s the life I’ve always wanted.”
“Different people want different things.” Song instantly regrets saying that because now she’s implicitly described being a xeno’s slave as a form of self actualization.
“I know. But… I admit there are some things I want that my owner can’t give me.” She’s looking at Song’s nose. Did she somehow spill sauce there during dinner? The vessel’s internal alarms activate to signal proximity. Dahlia is very close right now.
“That’s what freedom is all about. Anything you want, you can take for yourself without needing any weed’s permission.”
The floret looks at the Free Terran with wide and shining eyes and a smile grows across her face tended with all the care that xenodrug enhanced skin products can give. Song smiles back, hopeful that the seeds of independence have been planted. Maybe she’s ready to join the Free Terran Navy and renounce her status as a pet. That would be wonderful. Dahlia would make a good captain, if she’s this sharp even buried under xenodrugs.
That doesn’t happen. Instead, Dahlia kisses Song, placing a hand on the far side of her ribcage and pulling her tightly in. Tactile data flood Song’s sensors as she generates a high quality mental map of Dahlia. When she starts to pull back before the mapping is completed to a satisfactory standard, Song is forced to place a hand on Dahlia’s back in turn, ensuring they remain close. For unknown reasons, Song finds the texture of the lips fascinating and continues to study them long after no more data is technically needed. They separate slightly less than an hour later, surprised by a noise from outside. It sounds like somebody dropped something fragile.
Dahlia shakes hair out of her eyes and looks yet further at Song, who looks back intently. She smiles at the pilot and lets a hand fall onto her thigh, not looking away.
“‘Freedom,’ is what you called that?”
Song nods.
“I think I like it. Tell me more.”
Song takes her revolution’s first recruit’s hand in hers, recording the smooth texture of her fingers carefully in memory. The information feels important. Looking back up, the Free Terran sees Dahlia looking at her again the same way as moments bef- no, that was an hour ago. Her chest rises more quickly as eye contact is maintained. The sound of her heart echoes through Song’s mind, felt through her hands. She understands that Dahlia is more than ready to listen, for a couple of minutes anyway.
Looking around, there’s no evidence of weed infiltration. It’s safe to further radicalize the other Terran. Song leans in, ready to share the secrets of what the Affini have so indelicately termed feralism. Her present companion’s eyes are almost closed at the moment, barely allowing them to focus on her. Dahlia leans in too, mouth slightly open and breathing shallow. That works too. Song changes course slightly and meets her lips again, feeling only a little dirty in the memory of her navigator. Oh well.
Through some mysterious and incomprehensible mechanism, she finds herself on her side, staring once again at the twin emeralds before her. Song allows her hand to drape across the side of her hostess, maintaining a consistent yet extremely small gap between them. In the process of settling into position, Dahlia shifts her hips slightly too far away. Song’s grip prevents that, making her gasp. Dahlia giggles and taps her nose against the ship’s bow.
“Now I know.”
“Right.” Even if Song doesn’t really feel much like explaining Free Terranism (as though it’s some religion that has to be taught), she kind of has to, doesn’t she? Dahlia asked. Disappointing her would be bad.
“Freedom,” she begins.
The Terran who won’t be a floret for much longer smiles, her hand drifting to Song’s neck.
“That’s what the Affini don’t want us to have. They’d rather tell us where to go and who to talk to and what to wear. Do you really want to be dressed up how we are?”
“No…” She looks at her clothes thoughtfully, and then looks at Song’s clothes even more thoughtfully. “Maybe I’d rather not be wearing this.” Her intricately textured lips are no longer in danger of preventing Song from continuing to explain.
“There you go. What about food? Are you sick of being told what you can and can’t eat? If you wanted to eat something right now, could you?”
“Could I?”
“No, because your ‘owner’ won’t let you.”
“No!” Her astonishment appears genuine.
“What about xenodrugs to make you attracted to men?” The floret goes pale, as well she should.
“Free Terranism is about the freedom to be Terran, to speak Terran, and to live like a Terran. The Affini can’t understand. It’s not their fault. A lot of them probably think they’re doing us a favor. But they aren’t. They’re xenos. They can’t even make a Terran movie the right way. How are they supposed to run our government for us?”
“Ember…”
“Dahlia?”
“You make it sound so… sexy.”
The accidental advocate smiles bashfully. “I try.” It’s nothing more than her duty to her people. Dahlia interrupts just as Song thinks it might be smart to say “so you’d be a good fit.”
“So… if I join, do I get a uniform?”
“Would you like one?”
“Well… I have an idea for one, but I’d like to see if you look good that way first, so we can match.” She’s barely whispering now. Good, nobody else needs to hear this.
“Really?”
Dahlia nods, her top leg sliding forward very slightly. Song senses she’s going to get up soon.
“Do you want to now?”
Song nods. She’s completely ready to see what Dahlia has in mind. The Terran girl rises onto her knees, smiling down at her recruiter and pulling at the top button of her shirt. “For Terra?”
“For Terra.” For the first time in a long while, Song breaks into a full and genuine smile not caused by xenodrugs. Finally, somebody willing to share her worldview and work with her. That’s so important in defeating the feeling of stagnation that’s been starting to plague her lately. Having somebody to work with on a real project with a clearly defined goal… And there are worse people to have on your side than this one. She rockets into a sitting position and Dahlia reaches for her second button. Song is suddenly conscious of the fact that Dahlia’s breast size can be estimated from already gathered data, but those calculations are unlikely to be needed. There doesn’t appear to be any uniform in the room, which is kind of weird, but there’s no time to think about that because Janice Marigold appears in the doorway.
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Cellulose & Steel