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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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Returning to its sanctuary sofa after forcing herself to eat the weird sticky rice product fed to her (not that it tasted bad, but it was really weird), Song flops onto its back. The couch doesn’t make a satisfying sound, to the Terrans dismay. Verda’s still at the table, messing around with something Song doesn’t care much about. She sighs, hoping her captor won’t hear.
The disgusting weed must be laughing at her and her inability to find the hidden dictionary. She should’ve expected as much, since it’s a way for the weed to demonstrate her “superiority.” There must be some secret at work. Perhaps she simply can’t see because she lacks her proper sensors. Perhaps the weeds are using some data inaccessible to it? That would make sense. Stars, that’s annoying. She wishes Verda could be nice for a change. Maybe then Song wouldn’t have to fight as hard.
Speaking of sensors… Being without them doesn’t feel that bad right now. Song should be suffering a lot, but she isn’t. Even if she occasionally tries to mount nonexistent hardware, and even if not being able to see properly isn’t fun, at least she’s not crying on this very couch, unable to function. Having a proper hull would be much more tolerable, but for somebody who isn’t actually a ship, even if she occasionally feels that might be a better life, it’s all right. Song would rather not think about the implications of the nature of its additions for the time being.
Does Verda actually care? She must’ve gone to a lot of work to find somebody who was willing to learn Terran anatomy to build something that could fit an obscure and mostly unrecorded Terran technology to build something that probably doesn’t exist. Hm… Maybe that’s what was meant by Violet during her rant. Song knows she’s special, (or abnormal, anyway). She wouldn’t call herself that special, just… somebody who has no choice but to meet the requirements life gives her. Or maybe she is special and is better than any Terran who ever lived, simply due to being able to resist the weeds. Or maybe Verda’s just a mental weakling.
The Affini seem to oscillate between caring and indifference. One day, they’ll bend into quarters (they literally can do that) to prevent Song from stubbing a toe. On another, they’ll laugh at her problems and pretend nothing’s happening. At least Verda seems to feel guilt about punishing her unjustly. That’s… something. That isn’t very Affini, is it? Song wonders what her problem is.
Verda does care, in some way. She wants Song to submit, but only “correctly.” She wants willing obedience, that would persist without xenodrugs. That’s so strange. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the weeds. When Song wins this stupid contest, she’ll have to ask about that. There are going to be more juicy answers than a Terran can contain! She’s more than ready for that. Maybe then she’ll find out what’s really going on, and how the Compact works. Maybe she’ll be able to use that knowledge to trick Verda into letting her infiltrate the government in order to free humanity from the inside. That’s what a loyal Terran would do. Song is a good and proper Terran who doesn’t betray her people out of selfish urges. Then it’ll be obvious she hasn’t been wasting her time making the only weed willing to listen to her opinions angry.
The captive exhales slowly. That’s in the far future. First, she has to learn the language. After that, so many different books and discussions will be open that she won’t be able to predict the best next course to follow. In the meantime…
She reaches over to the coffee table. Do weeds drink coffee? The tablet assigned to the Song of Destruction is resting there. She picks it up with her right hand and places it against her raised knees. It’s off. She picks it up in both hands, positioning it optimally for maximum staring and searching for nonsense efficiency. With both hands occupied, she uses one of her things that starts with V and has a name she doesn’t want to think about to wake up the screen.
What? It’s a different shade of green! It’s extremely subtle, but she’s certain that’s what happened. She looks at Verda, who’s poking at the compiler and not paying attention in any visible way. Song flicks the screen. It goes home. In the middle of the screen is a picture of what looks a lot like a sunflower, but made of green petals with blue tips. Its caption is composed of Affini characters.
Song has no choice but to push the button. What else could she do? It’s sitting there… taunting her silently. It opens an application full of more Affini. There’s something identifiable as a search bar, which opens up a keyboard when she clicks on it. Typing random characters produces an error tone. Song resists the urge to reply in kind. She tries other characters and gets a similar result. Duplicating one of the words from the error messages produces more Affini, without an error. That’s a dictionary, all right.
Verda must’ve enabled it during dinner when Song wasn’t looking. Disgusting weed with disgusting lies… Clearly, she wants to… What precisely does she even want, beyond making her prisoner feel inferior? Or Verda was telling the truth and it was there the whole time. She can’t read or understand anything, and there’s no obvious pronunciation button. There’s nothing to learn from this dictionary, even though it’s now open… somehow.
“...”
The weed can’t hear her prisoner, or she’s pretending not to be able to.
“Verda.”
“Pet?”
“I’m-” not her pet. “Looking at the dictionary.”
“You found it?”
The mass of vines slithers over to the couch and looks over Song’s shoulder. She seems pleased. How can Song tell-
“Such a clever floret. Would you like to start learning to read?”
“All right.”
That’s as good as any other point of study. Verda extracts a chalkboard from her foliage and starts to write on it. The lesson goes on for quite a while. Verda explains in detail every different character, along with contextual variants. Affini is phonetic, except when it isn’t. The patterns between different parts of speech are extremely regular, except when Verda frantically objects and goes on a tangent about how some term is figurative and not actually a noun or a verb or… There’s a lot to take in, but Song is determined to learn and demonstrate that a Terran can learn the language of the oppressor. Sooner than she might have, Verda ends the lesson. She looks happy.
“Now that you’ve done so well, pet, I’m sure you’re tired and ready for bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
“It’s still time for bed, darling.”
“...”
“Tomorrow will be another exciting day and you need to be rested. Besides, sleeping now will help you remember.”
She glides to the bathroom, gesturing into it with one of her vines. Song doesn’t move until the weed scowls at her menacingly. She supposes that means she can’t stay up playing games for five more minutes. With one vine over her prisoner’s shoulder, Verda uses another to brush Song’s teeth in a humiliating ritual she suspects will be repeated every day for a long time. Until she can escape…
Song is escorted into Verda’s bedroom carefully, and Verda ensures gentle contact between vine and flesh at every point on the trip. Some of her longer vines have already laid out pajamas on the bed, which she lifts again as they arrive.
“Stand still, darling. First, we need to remove your backpack.”
“Why?”
The weed looks confused. “Because it’s over your clothes. Do you really want to sleep in that?” She gestures at its outfit.
“I’d rather wear something normal, but that doesn’t mean I…” Song realizes she doesn’t know what she’s even trying to argue here.
“We can put it back on once you’re changed, if we must.”
Verda smirks as she removes everything, leaving the Terran uncovered. Song hates that she’s getting used to being seen so fully. Weeds have no right to treat her that way! Verda calmly dresses her, lifting her into the air to make adding the pants easier.
“You’re so well behaved, Ember. I’m proud of you for being willing to learn to be good.” That’s sickening.
The backpack is restored, barely soon enough for Song’s taste. Stars, the change is more disorienting than being without the addition. If Verda just left it off permanently she’d be able to acclimate… and she’d be able to start healing from sensory dysphoria, which, it should be noted, is a temporary and curable disorder. Verda seems to have lost track of that in her quest for who knows what.
“And now, darling, it’s time for you to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Would you like some help with that, pet?” Verda smiles innocently.
“...no.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re tired enough not to need xenodrugs.”
The towering plant moves to the bed, where she removes the covers from one side and slides under the doubled part to the other. She lies on her half of the bed, propped up on her starchy elbow. A vine beckons Song in a comfortingly nonsexual way.
“Why do we have to do this?”
“Because it’s customary.”
“What if I’d rather stay on the couch? It’s very comfortable and I’m happier there.”
“Because a good floret would cuddle in bed. I’m certain you’ll sleep more soundly if I hold you. The way you clench your fists at night, darling…”
“You said I was calmer asleep.”
“That is a very low standard to hold oneself to. Darling, you have to relax at some point.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have said that before when you were not fine.”
“But I am this time.”
She sighs. “Ember, I will not touch you tonight, but I insist that you join me. Unless you’d rather I conclude that you’re not a good floret (yet)?”
“We’re not a couple and I think it’s really weird and messed up how you keep trying to sexualize me. I’m not your floret or your wife or your anything. I’m a F-” Song remembers the consequences of finishing that thought. Xenodrugs for two days, and worse than Verda’s done so far…
“I am not ‘sexualizing’ you. I am giving you the care merited by your position as my floret. This is pampering, you know. Haven’t I seen to it that you have no real wants? Haven’t I taken you to every specialist and expert I could find in hopes of easing your endless suffering?”
“That’s less than the minimum.”
“And what, pet, is the minimum?”
“Bottom surgery.”
“You said you don’t trust me enough for that.” She’s technically correct.
“Not trying to destroy my mind with xenodrugs.”
“If I’ve tried to do what you accuse me of then I’m a failure, am I not?” She’s a xeno, so of course she failed to break her captive’s immaculate Terran will.
“...” There’s no way to tell the weed that that isn’t confrontational.
“You have my sympathy that you know your limitations enough to decide that you can’t handle this. If you feel that much opposition to the idea of being near me…” Her torso loses some rigidity. “I suppose you don’t have to. You can sleep on the couch and I will consider our agreement void. But.” She makes firm and deliberate eye contact. “I reserve the right to say that you lost and continue to say that for all time. The materials we picked up today will be returned, and this opportunity will not reappear. While most pets do not make decisions, I will leave this one to you, my daring ‘free terran.’’”
She’s mocking Song! It’s cruel and unacceptable. The pilot can’t imagine what a month let alone longer of that on top of its present torment would amount to. She’s sure to demand more from her sooner than ever. Even if the present arrangement is a blatant attempt to acclimate Song to acting submissive that Verda hopes she’ll just get used to and not try to revert from… There’s more to this. Why is it so important beyond that? Verda’s always scheming something. One doesn’t become a high ranking official in a communist bureau without a lot of cunning. Stalin rose through the ranks, didn’t he? So did Verda.
Then again, she still hasn’t lied to her. It’s logical that she meant the explanation that she gave. She is in fact trying to get Song used to acting like a floret in order to prove it isn’t so bad. Maybe it could be better if she stalls a bit longer and makes Verda tired enough that she’ll give in and let her live an almost normal life, bathing herself and dressing herself like an actual person. That could be tolerable. Temporarily, anyway. If she didn’t have a fixation on taming Song, Verda might be a decent housemate. She knows a lot and probably has interesting stories to tell, if she could just see Ember as a real person and not a plaything.
This is a bit more than she thought she was signing up for. Song wasn’t anticipating having to actually sleep with a weed. Certainly, she’s survived it before, but it wasn’t fun. The xeno certainly isn’t comfortably soft and a decent cushion. That’s a xeno lie. She’s actually uncomfortable, and spiky. Unlike a hedgehog. Those actually are soft and not painful to be in physical contact with. Evlen would make it better, but he isn’t here right now. Song shudders.
“You’re cold. Pet, come here. I’ll keep you warm.”
“You say that as though I could ever want that.”
“You could easily want it, darling. Would you rather want it now, or want it once you’ve become more used to being around me?”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, little one. It’s a promise that I will keep you happy and safe, and guard you from harm to the best of my abilities, even if you’re scared of me. Though… I suppose the lack of sleep this conversation is causing might be termed harm. What do you think, Ember?”
“I’m not being harmed by talking.”
“Excellent, but I’m tired and so are you. Lie down, please. Sleep where you wish, but remember what I said.”
There’s no ambiguity in her tone. Song knows better than to refuse again. She’s getting better at reading Verda’s limits. That’s healthy. That keeps her healthy. Keeping Verda from getting angry and using xenodrugs is healthy, not collaborative. The resistance lives on as long as one Free Terran does.
It gets into Verda’s horrible xeno bed. The sensation isn’t surprising or unusual. Everything feels the way it did last time, or a bit softer. Being in the bed is more comfortable than being on top of it. The covers fit snugly over Song, pressing it gently into the plant matter below. That isn’t Verda, a fact for which Song would thank any god that existed if any did exist. The stuff below Song conforms to its shape, reminding it that its shape isn’t quite the same as it used to be. Another change courtesy of the weeds. It wonders how that’s going to work.
“Good night, my adorable second floret. Sleep well.”
Verda finishes tucking it into bed and retreats to her half, which she stays nobly faithful to. She even moves her center of mass as far to the other side as seems workable. If she didn’t, she did something close enough to it that Song can’t tell the difference. The weed’s breathing slows slightly, but it can tell she’s still awake. Verda can tell it’s awake as well. Instead of fighting a battle of awakeness, Song breaches and tries not to think about it. Morning will arrive soon and it will be allowed out of this horrible bed. It isn’t soft at all. It’s terrible and a Terran would be ashamed for thinking it was better than the couch. It snorts at the idea and slides further from the dimly illuminated affini behind it.
- 78
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- 80
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Cellulose & Steel