Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lily hated the Lottery.

When she got the letter that had contained her Lottery Ticket, her sternum ached. On one hand, the Shelter was safe from the xenos, those plant… tentacle… monster… things… the Cosmic Navy had told everyone about. On the other, the reality of going to the Shelter was, supposedly, nightmarish. You weren’t required to go, they only asked that anyone who did showed their Lottery Ticket. You were, however, required to work, to sleep in bunks with your assigned sex, to use your government name and identification number, and most of all, absolutely no frivolous belongings. It was cramped and dirty. The food was free, but designed for maximum nutrition over taste, or texture, or smell, or anything that made food appealing.

Then again, the war was getting closer, and the apartment she had lived in before was deemed essential for soldier occupancy. On the same day that the Lottery Ticket arrived, Lily had received another piece of mail: Vacate the premises immediately, it read, or the Crobuzan Planetary Defense Force is permited to use force. Her sternum had ached even more when she opened that particular piece of mail.

Lily knew it was some nerve reinterpreting emotional hurt, and that the pain was irrational. She breathed deeply, and felt her heart slow, like they showed her in therapy. It didn’t help.

Her hands shaking- no more than usual- Lily gathered her medications, some neutral-looking shirts and jeans, and her prized possession- a stuffy, pink and weighted, of an extinct Terran salamander that used to live near CDMX Development’s headquarters- into a suitcase.

The stuffy had drawn her eye after she had read about its model in a paleobiology textbook, then passed it on her way to the factory where she worked- had worked, until that day. It never grew up, fully, like Lily. Like all people, really, but like Lily most of all. She had never named her. She was sure the stuffy was a her, but she could never decide, never remember, what to call her. She should name herself, thought Lily, zipping the suitcase. It’s only fair.

Then came the layers. Lily had no need of a jacket, of course- she would spend who knows how long- maybe the rest of her life- inside, sealed from attack and escape like a school. However, the law of supply and demand would mean that clothes would become very valuable indeed, and so Lily walked the twelve blocks to the Shelter in sweltering autumn heat, broiling under ten shirts, two stiff pairs of sturdy denim pants, four pairs of boxers' briefs, six pairs of socks, and one secret, guilty pair of panties. Her suitcase clattered behind her on the poorly maintained Crobuzan sidewalks. Desperate people looked her over, approached, asking for rolling paper or tobacco that she couldn’t afford to make a habit of.

They all knew where she was going. Only one kind of person travelled like this. Occasionally, a set of yellowed teeth would grin and wish her good luck.

Nobody asked to deprive her of her Ticket. Wherever they slept at night, desperate Crobuzans knew that the Shelter was no better- and it’s better deal with the devil that you know.

When she finally arrived at the entrance to the Shelter, a basement-level structure deep in the heart of downtown Crobuza City, Lily was exhausted, thirsty, and hot. She saw a keypad on a pole, and fumbled for any sort of buzzer. 

“Can I help you, sir?” Came a crackly voice from the speaker embedded into the same pole, ten feet from the thick metal door that marked the entrance to the Shelter. Lily noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a drone lifting off from a nearby roof, and she answered quickly before the operator decided that he didn’t like the look of her dark face, her kinky hair, the eyes she knew were empty-looking and desperate.

“My name is Micheal Bennet,” she lied. “ID number FFA6B8. I, uh, won the Lottery.”

“Ticket please,” came the bored voice. The Crobuzan government didn’t strictly care who had the precious paper, just that it was accounted for. “Scan it under the keypad.”

She fished in her back pocket- then the other. Then a third, in her second pair of pants. “Sorry,” she squeaked, shoving the crumpled Ticket under the reader.

The door slowly unlocked with a buzz and a pneumatic hiss. “It’s quite all right, uh, Micheal Bennet,” the voice said with an attempt at sympathy. “I know it’s a big change, but you’re safe now. I’m buzzing you in.”

The Lottery was a propaganda effort, of course. Transparently, with only a thin gilding of altruism. Every citizen entered, every day a new drawing of a dozen addresses to send tickets to. Safety, room and board, food, income. The truth was that they needed workers to grow the CPDF’s food once the war reached the surface, and to make the guns. And since a Lottery Ticket was only good for three days, when the majority of “winners” didn’t show, they just shrugged and put their addresses back in the pool. Every day they hit one or two people desperate or gullible enough to redeem them, and that would do until they ran out of room.

As the door shut behind her, Lily despaired that she was one of the unlucky few. The room was kept neat enough, with another speaker in its chrome-like walls. She felt her ears pop as air- fresh air, recycled, not smoggy and gray– an amenity that the bigwigs coming up with the program didn’t even think to advertise– was pumped into the room. Then, an internal door unlocked.
“Just equalizing pressure, Micheal,” came the voice. “Come on in.”

Lily began to cry.

---

Six Astronomical Units away, the primarily Affini crew of the retrofitten Cosmic Navy ship (rechristened Avicennia) and, of course, their primarily terran florets, many the former operators of said ship, were waiting for a sophont to begin speaking.

“Darling,” intoned Paledia Xennium, Third Bloom, the improbably young leader of the Committee for the Domestication of These Cute Ferals, gently, turning the page on the printout. “Could you please deliver your report about this system to the assembled officers?”

Trish Hvalwar-Xennium, Second Floret, smiled at her owner’s command. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she stepped forward towards the center of the vaulted, annular chamber, not quite sized for Affini but comfortable enough. It had once been a luxurious officer's mess-cum-war-room, so it was no stranger to hosting large crowds. “Gladly. Lights, please?” The lights in the large bridge dimmed, and a holographic projection of the system appeared in the air above Trish’s head.

“Two populated planets- The second and third. The second planet is known as Crobuza to the local sophonts, with one major city and a network of smaller outposts providing mining, industry, and general exploitation. If you will look at Figure A–” A chorus of rustling paper filled the room, the gathered sophonts catching up to Paledia– “You will see that Crobuza’s moon serves as the system's primary naval base. And Figure B, just below it, shows the street layout of Crobuza City, the local capital.”

“Very thorough, Trish. Thank you,” praised Paledia. Trish was almost glowing as the chamber broke into polite applause.

“Thank you, Paledia. Now, the third planet is known as Gild-Leaf to the local sophonts. It’s primarily devoted to agriculture in its many forms. As such, the environment there will need significant attention- Although Crobuza’s native life has been more or less supplanted by Terran forms, Gild-Leaf’s is merely in decline, and may be rescued.” That was Trish’s real passion. A former seaman, she submitted willingly to the Compact when it was clear that they would be able to save her dying, exploited world, and help her save many others. “If you’ll examine Figure C…”

At the back of the bridge, two sophonts were paying only half attention to the report, while one was lacking their facilities entirely. 

One, Drangea Vallie, First Bloom, was distracted by a longing that she was intimately familiar with. Stars, I want a Floret that looks at me like that, she thought. When the crew of the Avicennia-- Then part of a larger fleet action-- had encountered their last feral planet, Drangea had been too busy to find a troubled sophont to give special care to, even though every one of the ones she had worked with was so achingly cute. The Terran Accord generally treated its citizens barbarically, but that planet– supposedly having independently rejected the Accord some years ago, and fought hard against it besides– had welcomed the Compact with open arms. The visit was short– mostly consisting of dropping off administrators and cargo to help transition the planet into the next phase. Drangea was busy writing the actual treaty the entire time, and then she had to move on. 

“...Figure F, here…” continued Trish. Drangea supposed she was being incredibly unfair to Trish by being so lost in thought that she had missed… Maps of mining stations in the asteroid belt between the two populated planets, and a map of the Navy base, too. Trish really had been impressively thorough.

The other two sophonts– An affini and her floret– were busy playing. The floret bounced upon her owner’s knee, giggling softly as her owner cooed at her. The floret did not wear a collar-- they were out of fashion in the home fleet-- but their clothes were soft-looking, full of ruffles, and a soothing color in infrared and terran visible lights

The thought, the longing, almost physical, like an ache in her core, came to Drangea once again. Stars, they’re so cute when they’re having fun. I need a floret that looks at me like that.

Chapter Text

Lily hated the Shelter.

Intake hadn’t taken long. It had required that she repeat that name, that lie, too many times, to too many people. The receptionist, whose name was Brandon and who was not cold on purpose, just doing his shift at the job assigned to him. The bed-placement manager, who had assigned her bed 192, a top bunk in one of the barracks style men’s dorms- A divider away from Brandon, who slept in bed 214. The nurses who had her medically examined for fitness to work and chemically washed to prevent disease. The work-assigner who saw that she had been a factory worker and put her on machining. The lie was as easy as a breath, a rehearsed fiction she has practiced for as long as she could remember. Her suitcase was put into a locker, her stuffy at the bottom, safe from prying eyes. Only she knew the truth.

It was as those pathetic few- desperate enough to enter the bunker, unfit enough to stay- had described it. Crowded. Dirty. Warm, but not unpleasently so, as soon as she had shed most of her garments in a shower stall. Those, at least, had doors. The toilets did not.

One pair of shoes. One of socks. One of trousers. Two of underpants- She still wore her panties under the boxers- and one scratchy polyester-blend collared shirt. That was to be her uniform until they let her leave.

If.

That night, after dinner, Brandon popped his head over the wall. “Hey, new guy. Matt?”

“Mike,” Lily corrected automatically. She died a little bit inside, resisted a cringe, felt that damn autonomic twinge in her chest.

“Mike,” Brandon said, smiling. “Sorry about earlier, man, I just see a lotta homeless guys tryna scam their way in. Procedure, y’know? Gotta follow it.”

She smiled back, uneasily. She felt her nose start to clog and her tears about to well and–

“Yeah,” she said with a discreet sniff. “I getcha, dawg, I’ve just had a long day.”

“You wanna hit the pool or sum’n tomorrow? i’m off and you’ll be doin’ a half day of trainin’ is all,” Brandon rambled. “Or maybe cards? They got a lotta cards here, real big with the security guys. you can fleece ‘em outta good food that way, too, since they’re just hired help to keep us winners in line. Let ‘em in and out all the time so i gotta rapport.”

Lily tried not to notice that his eyes were the color of her mothers’ nose, or that his skin- so dark in the dim lights of the dorms, but reflecting what little light there was- was beautiful. “Yeah dawg,” she said casually. “Let’s hang out after work. Cards sounds cool. Y’all play hold ‘em?”

He grinned. “Do we ever.”

---

One Astronomical Unit away, the crew of the shuttle Avicenna was boarding the Cosmic Navy vessel Funerary Rite. Except…

Except Drangea was left behind. She had never been much of a fighter, face to face. The poor things desperately trying to hurt her were always just so adorable, she had almost gotten a vinetip blown off once or twice because she stopped to squeal at some poor little seed. Or worse, she'd almost let one of them hurt themselves. No, the Funerary Rite was an important vessel to capture, and without the complications a mere lawyer would bring. It was the adorably tiny flagship of the local fleet, smaller still than the shuttle that and the Rear Admiral in charge demanded that he see to the fight in person. The perfect little seed, really– lots of these Navy soldiers were, being already accustomed to orders and desperately mistreated to become such. But the Rear Admiral in particular was perfect for someone special; he was a true believer who was desperately committed to seeing his decisions through. If only they were good decisions. Nothing domestication wouldn't fix.

Drangea sighed dreamily as she had opened her current book– 101 Ways to Entertain Your Little Sprout. The cover was emblazoned with pictures of crafts, dolls, and daisies. She began to read.

---

“Hey,” called Brandon. “Mike! This way!” The recreation room itself was well-furnished and large, with the bare concrete walls painted over by murals, sanctioned and unsanctioned, and the tiles freshly laid, few yet broken by the parade of trampling Lottery-winners. The poker table was round and felted green, made of real wood and surrounded by chairs. A girl, maybe twenty, was dealing. Uniformed men were grumbling. Brandon was all smiles. Lily tried to put on a smile, too, but it was getting harder every time she had to hear that name. At least Matt was a fresh one she thought despairingly.

“Hey dawg,” called Lily as she approached. “you winnin’?”

“You bet your bottom ass dollar I am,” he said cornily. “In fact, please do.” He laughed boisterously, the clipped sounds halfway to a giggle.

Lily smiled. A real smile. She was going to give Brandon every dollar she made that day if she got to hear that laugh again.

Something went wrong. An alarm sounded. Everyone scrambled. The light went red. “Personnel to stations,” came the announcement. “Personnel to stations. Code Green. Code Green.”

Brandon grabbed Lily’s wrist and pulled her to a stairwell alongside the other civilians. They flew down one, two, three flights of bare concrete and huddled on one of the factory floors, with small tables each furnished with a sewing machine.

The noise hurt. The light hurt. The closeness hurt. The fact that Brandon was still touching her hurt.

Lily hated Code Green, whatever that meant. Everything had been almost okay, and then... This. The worst part of the deplorable Shelter. Hands down.

---

Twelve thousand kilometers away and moving rapidly, the Rear Admiral was being treated kindly by a very patient Trish. “No, see,” she explained. “The ‘Fini just want what’s best for you. You don’t have to hurt people anymore. Doesn’t it weigh on you? The people you’ve hurt? You can put the burden down, now. It’s okay:”

The Rear Admiral glared at her in contempt. The repurposed office- his office, was filled by two of the filthy xenos, standing guard behind Trish, who sat in one of the guest chairs. Disgustingly, they let him sit behind his very expensive darkwood desk and pretend to be in charge. “Are you finished?” He growled.

“What do you think?” asked Trish brightly. “Just let them take care of us. We have a treaty and everything!” She slid a piece of paper and a pen across the table. “Don’t worry,” she added in a mock whisper, with accompanying wink. “It’s not domestic.”

“Seaman Hvalwar,” the Rear Admiral started imperiously. “This is rank insubordination, high treason, and frankly, revolting.”

Trish sighed. “I hoped that you wouldn’t say that.”

Two vines appeared on her shoulders, soothing tension as one would… A lover. A lover in pain, a comforting gesture from the xenos. He spat at that, onto his nice carpet. His nice carpet. He had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but he reached inton his belt… and suddenly, there was a pinch, and he felt very tired. very, very tired indeed.

He put his head into his arms, and he slept.

Drangea had studied the human face, and she had made an aproximation of a frown as she watched the poor sophont drool. “I had hoped that it wouldn’t come to that,” she said, delicately, as she retracted a vine from beneath the desk. “If he had read the preliminary draft, he would have seen that I added a stipulation that would’ve even let him play with his ships, after some therapy.”

Trish sniffed wetly. “Yeah,” she said, her voice shaking. “I thought that was nice of you.”

“Trish, darling, are you okay?” Asked Paledia delicately.

“I was just scared of him my whole adult life, you know?” Said Trish as a half-formed sob died unborn in her throat. “And I always knew… I knew he was like this, but I thought everyone hated the killing. The brutality they– we-- were forced to use on smugglers and civilizans without papers and…” She sniffed again.

“Trish, he’s the one that forced you,” said Drangea. “Listen, I know you think the best of sophonts, but sometimes… They’re not ready to acknowledge their mistakes. Sometimes they’re as deeply rooted into who they are as your Mistress is to you. It takes time, sometimes, to get better.” She patted the sophont on the head. “I’ll draw up a new treaty and try again in an hour or two, yeah? The Class Zs will have worn off, and we’ll see if he’s a little more receptive, or if we need to be slightly more assertive. You get out of here, so he won’t try to hurt you again.” She looked meaningfully at Paledia. “Okay?”

“Let’s go, darling,” said Paledia, grabbing her floret by the hand. “Let’s find somewhere to color, okay? And then we can swing some.”

“Okay,” sniffed Trish. “Was I brave today?”

“Of course,” said Paledia soothingly. “Of course.”

The ache returned. Drangea had, once, asked Trish to be her Floret, too, but Trish said that she didn’t like her like that. This feral sophont, too, was cute in his own way, but Drangea didn’t swing that way, so to speak. With something approximating a sad smile, Drangea turned away and started searching the room for other hidden weapons.

Chapter Text

Lily hated Brandon.

She thought. It was all confusing. The way he was friendly to her, but not to her, to him. To Mikey Bennet, not Lily Chinka. And the ways he was unfriendly, too. The way he always wanted to touch her, the way he always asked her to do things after work even when he knew she was busy or tired, the way he saw her wearing blue jeans and a white shirt and said she looked cool.

She did not look cool. She looked ugly. No, she looked normal, like they said in therapy. But Brandon couldn’t know that she looked normal.

She decided that he was bullying her.

Since the Code Green, only soldiers were allowed to leave. There had been no bombs, no shots fired. But only soldiers were allowed to leave, not even the security guards who weren’t even winners and could've been soldiers and didn’t even have to stay.

Brandon still let some people in, but only CPDF. No more winners had come for a week, not even really hungry and desperate ones.

The CPDF, she thought idly at work, her hands already familiar enough with the the CNC machines to assemble a sidearm in her sleep, are really into gardening. Always talking about how hard the damn weeds are to pull, and how the damn shrubs are keeping their squads busy across the city, but they managed to get away.

It made Lily scared, that fact that only soldiers could leave. It made her feel small. It made her miss her friend, the secret.

It made her feel lonely.

And Brandon... He kept trying to embarass her. Asking her about paleontology and paleobiology. Asking her to play a game she doesn’t know, and then falling over himself to lose anyway by giving her pointers.

She was sick of it. She was tired and stressed and all alone and she needed to cry but there was nowhere private there was only somewhere big and empty where you could hide and hide and hide from the Shelter.

The gun factory after hours was empty and dark and she preferred it that way. She cried. And she missed her friend. And she missed Brandon, the bully. And she missed being small, so she had needed this.

Someone opened the door.

It was dark, still. She didn’t see it, she heard it. A doorhandle. She forced herself to stop crying and get really quiet. She was scared. She didn’t want to be found.

The door creaked open. Heavy footateps, walking purposefully. The sound of metal grabbed inexpertly, skittering across plastic. The echo of metal on tile, lots of small impacts. A swear, a man’s swear, and a man’s grunt as he picked the bullets up and pushed them into the clip. One, two, three…

She was too little to count. Too little to help. She sniffled.

“Who’s there?” Came the voice, wild and panicked. “I’ve got one of the guns, show yourself.”
She didn’t know him. Not by voice.

She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. The lights were on central power, they would turn back on when the workday started in the morning.

He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t shoot, without exposing his plans, whatever they were. Everyone would know.

The big footsteps walked purposefully again. First away. Then past her. Then away again.

The door opened. The door shut.

Lily started crying again.

---

“Oh, stars,” said Drangea. “This… lottery… It directed you to a bunker?”

“Yes’m,” said one of the willing sophonts, a previously unhoused woman in her thirties. Her pink skin was stained dark with old dirt around the fingertips and elbows, and her shirt was full of holes. She had two dogs with her. A week ago, this would have been her life. Today, it was her evening stroll. It was laundry day, she had explained to a bemused Drangea, so she was wearing old clothes.

When Drangea tried to gently explain compilers, the woman had just laughed and told her that laundry day made her happy, and that she didn’t want to recycle and remake clothes every time they got a little dirty. Drangea had conceded the point as a harmless habit she did not understand, and asked about her life under the Terran Accord.

“The bunker’s right downtown. I reckon that’s where you’ll find the base of the other, uh, sophonts. The uh, cats.” She smiled.

Drangea smiled back, and saw a flicker of fear pass the sophont’s face. No matter. She picked her way across the street. “The ferals?” she clarified.

“Those guys, yeah. The rebels.”

---

Brandon was bored at his desk. Mike was off doing something else- not work, the factory was closed for the day- but something. Exploring, maybe. Poor guy looked a little panicked when Brandon asked if he could come, frankly.

Slowly, over the course of a week or so, the trickle of new arrivals stopped. Brandon didn’t know what had happened, but even the CPDF stragglers had slowly stopped showing up.

Which was why he was mildly suprised when there was a buzz at the door.

---

Lily threw herself at the door, scrambling for the exit with a snotty nose and so, so much pain in her sternum. She tried to creep up the stairs, although there was no way that whoever it was could hear her. On the B1 landing, she stumbled on an untied shoelace and almost fell, but saved herself on the railing. She ran after that, up the last flight, through the door.

A gunshot rang out. A scream, a woman’s scream, the poker dealer's scream.

A wrenching of metal from the direction of the entrance.

---

“Hello, darling,” came the bubbly warble from his speaker. “I seem to have a Lottery Ticket.”

“Hello,” said Brandon apprehensively. The keypad’s camera didn’t show anyone in front of it. “Didn’t they stop distributing those?”

“Oh, yes. but I asked ever so nicely. May I come in?”

“Scan it under the keypad. Thanks.” He tried not to let the confusion show in his voice

A beep and a bang from deeper in the Shelter. The Ticket was legit, distributed today. Then, a scream.

“I’m sorry to do this, sugarplum,” said the voice from his console. “But I’m going to have to come in now, okay?”

People were running. Yelling. Brandon gathered the strength of will to press the button that opened the door, but his panic was rapidly building.

“Uh, yeah, there’s just an airlock,” he started to ramble.

A massive metallic screech interrupted him as a shaggy, squirming, uncomfortably liquid thing ripped the airlock’s inside door off of its hinges. It collected itself into an eight foot tall pile of green snakes- vines, maybe, of a billion different plants- and threw its mass above the crowd, clinging to the ceiling as it made its way unerringly to the center of the chaos. Now, people were running from it. It was a storm with two eyes, a binary system of panic, where those caught in the middle didn’t know what to do. A thick pollen started to fill the air as it passed, causing the people who inhaled it to sit, bleary eyed and fold-legged, letting the chaos unfold around them.

Brandon caught a whiff. Seems to like flowers, and cirus, he thought, command of his limbs rapidly leaving him. I like flowers.

---

Lily was the only one moving against the tide. It was easy to locate the gunman, he would be where everyone else wasn’t.

She hated the noise, and the panic, and the moving, and the pushing, but she had to be a big girl. She made the guns, she hadn’t stopped the gunman from taking one. It was her responsibility to help. The funny yellow mist in the air– A leaking AC unit?-- Was not helping her concentration, but it did help her bravery, pushing down the panic and the anxiety and leaving the cold– no, warm– certainty that she can, should, must, and will help the screaming lady.

It made the noise and the pushing stop, though. People sat in waves, allowing her a view of the cop-type gunman, laying on the ground, thumb in his mouth and firearm nearby. Curiously, the safety was on– she could see the red from here-- and the clip was taken out.

And then, five feet away, cradling the poker dealer and rapidly becoming soaked in red, was a vine-monster. One who was quickly working bandages, towels, and tweezers in some of its many limbs, squirting and injecting liquids with others, restraining and reassuring the woman with yet more, and cooing with a smooth, crude approximation of a six-eyed human face.

A deadly silence filled the room as the pollen set in.

Lily began to cry.

---

“Don’t hurt her,” yelled a snotty, stumbling, sleepy sophont. Odd, Drangea thought. They should be calm by now.

“I won’t, little one. I’m just trying to help,” she said. “My name is Drangea Vallie, First Bloom, she/her.”

The sophont looked like they were surprised by what came out of their mouth next. “Lily,” she said shakily. “Lily Chinka. She… her.”

“Lily? That’s a beautiful name.” The bullet removed, the antiseptic applied, the bandage tight and the healing begun, Drangea set her charge down. “She’ll be fine in a few moments, little one. You’re very brave, Lily, to have tried to help.”

Lily looked up, tears still flowing easily from her eyes. “‘M sorry, miss Drangea,” she sobbed. “I was so scared.”

“It’s okay, Lily. Could you please come with me? It will be a big change, but I promise that you’ll be safe.”

Lily nodded imperceptably, her gaze lingering on Drangea’s hypnotic eyes. “Can we bring my friends?” she asked in that cute little voice sprouts always used when they were sure the answer was ‘no’.

“Of course, Lily, Let’s find them together, okay?”

And so, Drangea, Lily, an out of it Brandon, and Lily’s best, nameless friend left the Shelter. For good.

Chapter Text

Lily loved Drangea Vallie, First Bloom, She/her.

Just being near the Affini made her happy. Looking at her, smelling her, touching her, it made her feel relaxed. Brandon was asleep in her bulk somewhere, and her stuffy was in her arms. Lots of Affini swarmed the Shelter when they heard what it was, but Drangea was just listening interestedly about the Terran Thalassocnus and the Gilt-Leafer Xenourvogel. On occasion, Drangea spoke to a passing Affini about tiny flowers and the Affini Vee’ee’tea she was taking them to. Sometimes, she asked questions, about diet and Brandon and fossil deposits and her stuffy and interesting papers and her.

When Lily got tired, Drangea Vallie lifted her onto shoulders formed from braided vines, and let her keep talking until she fell asleep, content.

Drangea strolled into the vet’s office. A new building. sized for the Affini and their florets, the vet’s was comfortable and well-lit, with a dog-eared terran woman at the front desk and a mural across the back wall that read Welcome! You are safe now. in the local dialect of the language the Terrans called English. Drangea was familiar, of course, but her study was primarily in the floret-grade translations of contracts and treaties. Lots of tiny little martial governments this far from the Terrans' homeworld. A play area took up one corner of the lobby while there was a broadcast set stylized after a human television in another. The lobby was suprisingly empty, but that would not last long, with the feralist bunker breached. With both of her- the, she corrected herself, sophonts asleep, she was not inclined to either corner, instead simply checking in, waiting to be called, and rousing Lily and Brandon in the mean time.

Lily awoke easily and brightly, her eyes sparkling. Brandon was the opposite, sleeping heavily and, once his bleary mind processed what his bleary eyes saw and bleary heart could not accept, opened his mouth to scream. A quickly-timed bloom in his nose prevented that, inhaled with the breath that he intended leave as a cry. Class Es that induced mild euphoria and calm drowsiness.

“Hello, little one,” she said to Brandon once he was calm. “Could you tell me your name?”

“Brandon, uh, Melville. 55A712,” he said with a shy smile, dialated eyes, and a blush.

“Lily says you’re her friend.”

“Friend,” agreed a giggling Lily, who had clearly caught a whiff of the Class Es, but was such a little sprout that she had clearly arrived in this state without Drangea's help. “But mean sometimes,” she said, suddenly serious, before giggling vacantly once again.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Brandon. She meant Mike, he thought, and unless his friend was hiding a secret from him, she was calling him– them– by the wrong name, which made him feel some kinda way.

“My name is–”

“Drangea Vallie, First Bloom?” called the terran receptionist. “The veterinarian will see you now.”

The three walked– with some persuading, on Brandon’s legs' part, and a nonzero amount of swinging for Lily– to the exam room door, set directly into the lobby, where an Affini vet was waiting.

His form was sculpted and beautiful, more humanoid than even most local affini bothered with. A definitive set of bipedal limbs, a face more skillfully sculpted than Drangea’s own, even the suggestion of a pale terran lab-coat, woven from petals along his form, over darker petals that imitated a t-shirt and vines tightly woven but losely hung around roots to simulate trousers. An impeccable bedside manner, making his patients comfortable with a familiar sight. “Hello, Drangea. Hi Lily,” he cooed. “Hi Brandon. Hi, little friend,” he even added to Lily’s stuffy. “My name is Doctor Roganveilla, Twentieth Bloom, he/him. What pronouns would you like to go by?”

It was unnessecary, of course. That information was noted in the intake form. Still, Dr. Rog strove to make every sophont comfortable, so he let them mumble answers.

“Now, Lily, I noticed you said he/him,” he tisked. “Is that true?”

She flushed. “No, Dr. Roganveilla.”

“What’s the real answer?”

“She… her,” she said.

“I thought so,” he said, smiling. "And you, Brandon? Were you telling the truth?" "Think so," murmured Brandon as he blinked rapidly. "Now," continued the Veterinarian. "We'd just like to evaluate your health and wellbeing, and your candidacy for florethood. All that means is that I’ll be asking a few questions, and we’ll see if you need special support. Is that okay?”

Brandon and Lily mumbled shy assent, and he began.

---

Lily was, to put it mildly, the cutest little sprout Drangea had ever seen. Her life had been poor for a very long while, with bad, painful nerves and a dead-end, miserable job. She had all of the hallmarks of a traumatizing upbringing, and Drangea desperately wanted to make sure that. She decided to file for a generic wardship immediately, and a Notice of Intent soon after. The contract would be very special, indeed.

Brandon was different. Not wholly- an upsettingly bad life, with no home, a body he hated, little education, and fewer prospects in the Accord. But he was coping better, and he could function on his own, if someone could pursuade him to take some Class Gs. His (for now, thought Drangea) dysphoria and self-hatred ran deep, an upsetting undercurrent to a friendly but guarded personality. Still, he was not a danger to himself, he just hadn't found a way to maximize his happiness just yet.

When asked about each other, Brandon’s answers came easily. Lily was shy, she was anxious, and she liked being alone. When she was evicted, she chose the Shelter over homelessness. She was interested in Paleontology and Paleobiology, especially Xenopaleontology, and she was bad at poker, because she always wore her emotions on her face.

Lily’s answers were tougher, and not just because they had to coax her to speak her mind. Brandon was friendly. He liked to mess with uniforms, because he hated injustice. He protected her, even, especially, when she needed it but didn’t want it. But she also didn’t understand him, or know much about his past. He seemed to want to spend every moment with her.

They were friends, Lily concluded, but she thought, sometimes, secretly, that she might hate him.

Brandon was silent after that.

Dr. Rog took copious notes.

“Well,” he said, finally. “I think we can get Brandon some literature about Class Gs and gender identity.” Brandon’s eyes went narrow. “Particularly It’s Okay to be a Girl. Lily, however…” She looked like she was about to cry. “Lily might need some special help. You’re young, right Drangea? She would be your first Floret?”

“Yes,” Drangea answered measuredly.

“You’ll probably want some literature too, on their proper care and the application process. I know there's the training, but...”

“No need, Doctor. I’m familiar with the intricacies of the process. I'm the legal writer for the Avicennia, and I drew up my friend Paledia’s contract with her second floret myself.”

“What if I just say yes?” Asked Lily in a small voice. “What if I’m scared to be away from Drangea, now?”

“Well,” said the doctor, exchanging a look and a smile with the other Affini. “That’s different, and something you’ll have to discuss on your own. You’re your own sophont, for now. You can sign your own contracts.”

“Can I leave?” asked Brandon abruptly. He was looking away, flushed. “This seems private.”

“Not before getting your homework,” said the vet. “Let’s give these two some space.”

---

Brandon and the vet exited to the back of the house, where affini technicians cooed over and coddled hurt humans resisting treatment like so many scared cats. Brandon shuddered. He was just glad the weed hadn’t “prescribed” “Domestication”, like the soldiers spoke about. That his life belonged to him. He didn’t care about the Class whatevers, the “homework” he was getting about being trans. He wished he was a girl, but he wasn’t. Someone like Mike– like Lily, she knew, and that was okay. Great, even. But he knew, too. He would always be a dude.

So why was he so happy that Lily tried not to call him one? She had always preferred the gender neutral “dawg”. It was why he stuck with her after the first night, why he felt drawn to her. The reason, surely, why he had… Some feelings he couldn’t admit to himself.

It doesn’t matter, he thought as the vet explained what was in each of the volumes the Afinni printer- the Compiler- was spitting out. He could never be a woman, and he would never see Lily again. Right?

Lily kicked the ground. “I like you, Drangea,” she said shyly. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and your vines are soft.”

Drangea smiled. Lily did not react. “I like you, too, Lily. Did you mean what you said? Do you understand what florethood means?”

“No,” she admitted, clutching her stuffy. “Can you teach me? Please?”

“I will. And if you still decide that I’m the one for you, we’ll talk about it.”

Lily smiled. She didn’t hate that idea.

Chapter Text

Lily loved Compilers.

Clothes used to be too expensive for how quickly they fell apart. Now they did not fall apart, and they were free. Food used to be too expensive for how hard it was to eat. Now the best food ever was also free. Her new bedroom had all of her favorite things in it: copies of rare books and issues of journals that she liked, stuffies of her favorite animals, a downright luxuriously pigment-rich coat of pink paint, and a small grey plastic figure of Drangea that they had designed together and would paint together too.

It was perfect.

She was Drangea’s ward, for now, because Drangea wanted the contract to be even more perfect. Right now, she got as much little time as she wanted, with whatever she required to feel safe, including the padding she had shamefully longed for for years, with flower and paleomammal and xenoarcheosaur designs. She started going to classes where she was more comfortable handling things as an adult, now that she had a semi-structured outlet for her little time. Her body no longer ached, and her hands no longer shaked– shook. Her meds were replaced with unfamiliar Affini-made upgrades, and Drangea was helping her remember to take them– and her Class Gs.

Her Class Gs were magical. They were slow acting, so that she could get used to them, but fast enough that she felt changes week to week. She hoped Melville was taking theirs, wherever they were. They deserved that much, if what they said to the doctor was true.

---

Brandon was not taking his Class-Gs. Brandon was grateful that the weeds– the Affini, he corrected himself, they deserved that much– had given him an apartment and a compiler and all of that, but he didn’t need the meds. Still, he read the books, so when his BXWC social worker called every Monday morning– some fox woman– video-called to quiz him, he could give the answers.

“Do you understand, yet?” She always pleasently, condescendingly, asked at the end.

“I still won’t take Class Gs,” he would say. “Sorry, I know you really want me to. I’m just… still a dude.”

She scratched something on an unseen clipboard and said “All right. I understand. New medication is always hard to accept, and your plan for happiness will only work if it’s yours.”

That was a fucking lie, he wanted to scream every time. Was it Lily’s plan to be hypnotized, or something, by the Affini who saved that woman? Those Florets who were “prescribed” forced Domestication, was it their plan?

No, not even an independant sophont got their own plan. An Affini got their own plan. He was forced to make a plan that they liked. If you didn’t… You became like Lily. They found someone to control you.

And they claimed that this arm-twisting was for good reasons. For his mental wellbeing. As if he was… was a pet who couldn’t make his own decisions. In the Shelter, he was told where to sleep, what to eat, but it was for the good for the community. Now, they told him where to sleep (not under the bridge where he had camped as a teenager, for example, due to to the toxic waste the Affini were purging from the local water supply) what to eat (disgustingly healthy compiled foods, entirely unlike the deliciously greasy and obscenely high calorie fast food he used to be able to scrounge from the garbage– and locally grown hobby garden veggies weren’t any substitute for a California King Burger that someone decided they didn’t like the synthmayo on) and what to do (take drugs he didn’t want); they claimed it was for the good of whom? Himself? He didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

Then, every Monday evening, he was forced to check in with Roganveilla.

“Hey, Doc,” he’d say brightly. “I’ve been treating myself kindly, as you suggested, but I think I’m still a man.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Rog would say. “Have you been giving it some thought, or have you been simply rotely memorizing the literature without taking it in? I know Peyon has been quizzing you…”

“I really have been thinking about it deeply,” lied Brandon, every time. “And I still identify with the gender assigned to me at birth.”

“I will see you in seven days, then,” Rog would say, an unreadable emotion on his constructed face.

---

After six weeks of this routine– Lily blissful, Melville uncooperative– Roganveilla, Drangea and the Xenra social worker, Peyon, had a meeting at a local soda fountain.

“Lily’s wardship is ending soon,” tittered Drangea. “We’re still working out the exact details, but our ownership contract is in the works, and we’re planning on signing this weekend.” Rog already knew, of course-- he was performing her surgery, and had already been consulted about ramp-ups-- but Peyon was Lily’s social worker, too. She deserved an update, and Drangea was more than happy to brag about her little sprout. Both of the other sophonts gave a polite congratulation as Drangea slipped a vine into the carbonated mineral water, relishing in the artisanal citrus flavoring. Two local variants, sweet and sour, were mixed into the soda, and she deeply enjoyed the interplay across her senses. She really must compliment the sophont who ran the establishment.

“...not taking their class Gs,” Rog was saying. Drangea had gotten distracted again. "Lying to themself, to others. I'm dissapointed."

“I’m afraid that we will have to file for wardship on their behalf,” said Peyon, shaking her head sadly. “Since you and Lily are taking the leap soon, do you think that you can take another ward so early?”

“Of course,” said Drangea. “It’s my understanding that Lily likes them, too. They aren’t a sprout, as far as I know– that’s always been where my preferences lie– but I’m still happy to help.”

Peyon smiled around her soda, a bean-based concoction that smelled earthy and sweet. When she finished sipping, she set the glass down, pushing it around nervously. “And the, uh, papers? We’ll need a signature from both you, and Lily too, if we file for wardship before you file your floret documents.”

“Of course, Cutie," said Drangea. “Melville and I will probably be negotiating terms in person, after Lily and I have filed, so that shouldn't be much of a hassle.”

The shuttle Avicennia had already left for more work. Drangea had elected to stay behind; she had wanted to look after Lily and provide her services to the less legalistically inclined sophonts of Crobuza. She had a lot of practice, these days, with the fine minutiae of individualized sophont needs and dynamics, not just generic Notices of Intent and Wardship forms. How many hours in a row a floret was allowed to isolate himself in his room before his owner was allowed to forcefully intercede. How many days of the week a floret was allowed to brat before xie was to be “punished”. How many weeks of a year a floret was allowed to make her own decisions, and when those weeks were to be. (Never in the Winter, for example.) A simple (but personal, of course) Wardship contract with a struggling independant who needed to learn that they were allowed to change was nothing.

And, potentially, everything.

---

Lily was as excited for her implant as she had ever been. A part of Drangea, always with her. Even at university, even when Drangea was at meetings that Lily couldn’t go to yet. She was excited, and scared. It would be a big change, but Drangea promised to keep her safe. Lily believed her, obviously, but…

But it didn’t change her feelings. Not the continued, residual shame at being little sometimes. Not the fear that she would never be a functional human being, that Melville wouldn't think that they were a functional human being. Not the craving, probably unfulfillable, of an academic career. Being safe didn’t change any of that. Not like the implant would!

To become Lily Chinka-Vallie, First Floret (Hyphens were all the rage, these days, and she had put ever so much work into her names) was something Lily would cherish forever and a day. Her contract signing was on Saturday, and she'd already be loopy. Her appointment with Roganveilla was on Sunday. Today was Tuesday. Only three more sleeps until the contract, four until the implant.

Why couldn’t the weekend come early?

Chapter Text

On Monday, ahead of his usual check-in, Brandon's inbox pinged. He opened it, his eyes struggling to stay focused on the ancient OS' slick, modern font, not yet up to the Compact's accessability standards.

Dear Mx. Melville,

Brandon rolled his eyes.

Dear Mx. Melville,

It has come to my attention that you refuse to take your Class G xenodrugs. Given that they are for your own health and wellbeing, you have been prescribed a Wardship with

Brandon’s blood froze. His sternum ached. His heart thumped in his chest, a pulse on every fingertip. A fucking Wardship? They were fully going to Domesticate him, take away his rights. Fuck. Fuck.

Given that they are for your own health and wellbeing, you have been prescribed a Wardship with Drangea Vallie, First Bloom (she/her) and her floret, Lily Chinka, First Floret (She/her)

FUCK.

They got to her. It was inevitable, but some part of him hoped that Lily would eventually want rights, at least.

and her floret, Lily Chinka, First Floret (She/her), effective immediately. Please be ready to sign your Wardship Contract at 10:00 AM.

10:00 was when his appointment with Peyon was, normally. It was 9:57 now. Now that he had a comfortable bed, he spent hours moping in it every day.

Fuck.

at 10:00 AM.

Yours,

Peyon Doishiin, Independant (She/her)
Bureau of Xenosophont Wellness and Care, Crobuza City, Crobuza, Crobuza System

P.S.: You are permitted to gather your belongings, but

A knock at the door.
“One moment!” He called, his voice quivering. His eyes found their place for the last time.

your belongings, but not your clothing.

Well. Shit.

He raced to the door, so that they didn’t think that he was resisting arrest, or whatever, and he opened it.

It was Lily. She looked…

“You look great,” he choked. Happier, more herself than the carefully unisex garments she wore in the Shelter. A frilly, layered pink and white dress with blue balloons on the outer skirt, a long-sleeved white undershirt, stockings, soft leather shoes. “You have, uh. You’ve got boobs.” That was fast, he thought. Kind of scary, honestly. Her face was mostly unchanged, but her body fat distribution had changed so drastically that she was barely recognizable. Was she shorter? Lily, for her part, nodded, not attempting to speak. Maybe she couldn’t, he realized. Sometimes the Affini did that, taking away your speech as punishment. “I, uh, just saw the email. Do you want to come in?” She nodded again, and stepped inside, just a foot or so, leaving the door open to the apartment building’s hallway. Somewhere nearby, a sophont had their radio turned too loud.

“Do you want, um, breakfast?” He asked.

“No, thank you,” Lily said softly. Okay, so she could speak. “Drangea wanted to take you to a diner and talk.”

“Sure, man. I ain't really got anything to grab that can’t be compiled,” he babbled, then realized what he had said. “I mean, uh, sure Lily. Now?”

“Now,” she said, and turned, and walked out into the hall. “Please.”

He went to his compiler and made some socks, not bothering with shoes that he knew he wouldn’t get to keep. When he stepped out, he realized that he had forgotten the way to the elevator, since he had only been inside once.

He hadn’t left his apartment in seven weeks, since they gave it to him. He lifted his hand to his chin and felt stubble, then revulsion. He had also avoided the mirror in his bathroom for seven weeks, another luxury of being homeless before.

He reeked. The shower, too, land of nakedness and intimate familiarity with his form, was a foreign domain to him.

“Is it okay if we go to your place instead?” He asked lamely.

Lily tilted her head. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll tell Drangea .”

Fuck, she thinks so, too, he thought. Fucking Compact.

—

Lily hated this feeling.

Seeing Melville again. They looked the same as before, not like Lily. She hadn’t wanted to look too different, just stop some hair growth, take an inch or two off, maybe B cups. With seven weeks of dosage, she was close.

Melly's weren’t even that sophisticated. A simple hormone treatment that the Accord had been capable of, just faster. Telling their body that it could express different genes, if it wanted. But no, they looked the exact same. They really hadn’t been taking their medicine.

Lily felt sorry, and then felt bad for feeling sorry, and then felt weird about both of those feelings. She was big today, so she could handle all of this emotion right now. Brandon, though, was awkward, and sweaty, and panicked looking, and looked as if they might try to touch her for comfort, something that she didn’t want but didn’t want to reject, either.

Lily started walking down the hall. “I’ll show you the way,” she said as sweetly as she could manage.

Melly followed her.

—

Lil Sprout 🌱

Ngea, theyre making me sad :(

?I’m sorry, Darling. Do you still want to do this

.We can find another Affini for their wardship, if we must

No, i dont want that. i want them to be okay

Help them be okay i mean

They want to meet at our place not the diner

.Okay. I’ll start heading back home then. See you there

💕

♥️

—

Drangea closed her phone, then flagged down and apologized to the waiter on staff. Xi was understanding, obviously, floret problems were floret problems. She thanked Xim, gathered her bag, and left, her water barely drank.

Drangea walked home– across the street, then around the corner– in contemplative silence. She was proud of the sprout that her floret was becoming, proud that she could handle emotions in a healthier way than hiding from the world or recklessly throwing herself at armed men.

Melville, on the other hand… Melville needed some help. Clearly. Perhaps a Class Y concoction to help learn from a more mature sprout would do the trick..? But no, that was for them to hash out as part of the terms of the contract. Pruning maturity was not altogether the same as pruning a growth, you needed more care. Her own desires notwithstanding, she didn’t know whether sprouthood would help Melville in the slightest. Still…

Drangea was sitting at the kitchen table as the two sophonts walked in; one quiet as always and the other talking her ear off about some game.

“The blocking dice are the key, though,” Melville was saying. “With all of the different skills, everything except the attacker going down is modifiable, whether it means you don’t move when pushed or blocked, or don’t go down on a mutual hit, or what. Five sides of the dice having variable results based on skills means it’s… It’s, uh... Hi, Drangea.”

“Please, Mx, Melville. Sit.”

The two sophonts pulled up chairs. Tiny, normal chairs, places already set with breakfast, although Lily’s high-chair was conspicuously looming at about chest level. The table was actually quite a bit lower than usual, Drangea sat on a cushion instead of her normal chair, her mass spreading across the floor. She still hadn’t mastered the humanoid form in idle moments like this, although she was just getting the hang of keeping her legs when sitting in the straight-backed wooden chairs that Lily liked when she was big.

“So, Mx. Melville,” Drangea said, after what must have been an awkward thirty second lost in thought. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Drangea. How, uh, are you. How’s, the, uh…” They glanced uncomfortably at the high chair, then at Lily. Then, they gulped their orange juice before they said something they regretted. “How’s, uh, the family?”

Perfect. “Lily and I have been fine. And you?”

“I’ve been doing pretty badly,” Melville admitted quickly. “I feel like I’ve been rotting like a discarded log, only waiting for the bugs to find me. My brain keeps telling me that you killed me that day, you know? That the Shelter was blown and the scary aliens won and we all died, and that this is some sort of afterlife I’m too miserable to enjoy. I can’t look at myself. I can’t go outside. Did you do something to my juice?” They suddenly asked, horrified.

“A tiny dose,” said Lily, smiling shyly. “Of something that would help you open up.”

Melville’s face went ashen from dread, and they glanced at the door that had locked, automatically, noiselessly, behind them.

“Lily,” they said slowly as they scooted their chair away from her slightly. “The weeds really got you.”

“Language, Mx. Melville. Please,” admonished Drangea. “If it wasn’t Lily, it would’ve been the restaurant staff. From now on, you are not permitted to lie. That is the fundamental tenet of your Wardship; if this is to work, that part of the contract must be non-negotiable.

“You need to stop lying to yourself, Mx. Melville. You need to examine, truly examine, the ideas that we are trying to impart into you. The idea that you can change, that nothing is set in stone.”

“I prefer Mister.”

“I know you do. But you haven’t actually thought about it, have you? It’s not the new title that bothers you, it’s the disruption of the default assumptions that everyone has always made, the rock in the current, that is bothering you. Am I wrong?”

Melville couldn’t deny it, so they said nothing at all.

Or tried to, anyway. A lie of omission was still a lie. “No, Drangea.”

“Good. That’s a good first step. Let’s talk about your Wardship.”

Chapter Text

Lily hated that she felt guilty.

She knew she did the right thing, but she didn’t like to trick Melly. They trusted her. The implant was supposed to help her not feel terrible, right? When was it going to start working?

She needed some time away from big girl feelings while Melly and Drangea hashed out the terms of the contract, so she wandered over to the living room and began playing with blocks.

It took a moment for Ngea to notice, focused as she was on talking to Melly, but once she did, she called for her.

“Lily, sweetberry, are you big or little right now?”

“I’m… li’l,” she said. “Scared.”

“Do you want your Class Es?”

“No, N'gea.”

A pause. “Lily, I’m sending a small dose of Es and Ys to you, okay?”

“Ogey,” she said, as the in-plant in her neck went tingly. “No bubble-you please.” 

“As you wish, Sprout.” And N'gea went back to talking to Melly.

Lily made a line. The blocks spelled N-J-A. She giggled. “N'gea,” she said, giggling. “N’gea!”

“Yes, sweetberry?” came the Affini’s call. “Do you need a change?”

“Spelled it!” She giggled again.

“One moment, Melville.” There was a rustling as the Affini came to see what had her sprout so excited. “Aw, sweetberry, that’s not N’gea. N’gea is N-G-E-A.”

Lily giggled. “N’gea!”

“Someone doesn’t need their ‘bubble-you’s,” Ngea cooed as she picked her floret up and discreetly slipped a vine under her skirts before putting her back down, apparently satisfied with what she hadn’t found. “N-G-E-A, sweetberry. Melville, where were we?” 

Lily looked at them, and then at the TV, and then at them, and then at the TV. She crawled over, then whispered to it.

“Habby?” she asked. A friendly, not-quite-human face appeared on the screen, the avatar of the apartment block’s half-implemented AI. Its smile was too wide, but its mouth was so small she could lick it.

“How can I help you, Lily?” it asked, the bottom lip flickering out of sync with the words.

“Is Mumday.” 

“Yes, it is. Aren’t you smart?”

“But… Me and Peypey talk Mumdays.”

“Do you want to talk to Peypey?” it asked gently. “Or are you worrying your little head about something that you need to be big to think about?”

She sat silently. 

“Why don’t you have a drink, sweetberry?” Habby commanded. The ‘piler in the kitchen beeped to get N’gea’s attention. “Would you like grape, orange, or apple?”

“Orangea,” she said loudly, pronouncing it wrong on purpose. 

“Orange, sweetberry,” said Habby gently. 

—

“Orangea!” called the sophont from the other room, and the Compiler opened with a paper cup full of orange juice and a note that read “Class B: forget appointments.”

Drangea sighed. “Please bring that to her, Melville. It seems you two are not as different as I would like.”

It looked like the sophont was biting something back, then it all burst out. “I wish you would stop calling me that,” they said, then stood and walked over to the Compiler. 

“What would you like to be called instead?”

“Brandon. Coming, Lily!”

“That’s not happening,” Drangea said as they walked carefully, with a full cup, to the living room door.

“I would like it in the contract that you call me by my preferred name at all times,” said Melville.

“Think about a name you prefer,” said Drangea. “And I will add the provision.”

“Brandon,” they said, ducking into the living room to bring their friend their juice.

“No,” called Drangea. When they returned to the table, she continued: “Think about it. Actually think. What name would make you happy? Not a name that makes you comfortable, because you’re used to it. One that makes you happy.”

They shifted uncomfortably in their seat. “Do I have to?”

“It is, as of now,” Drangea said, writing on a sheet of paper. “The second nonnegotiable part of your contract. You are now required to think about what makes you the most happy, instead of what causes the least change.”

“Martha,” they blurted. “I’d like to be… Martha.”

“Good start,” said Drangea, noting down both the requested and required clauses. “Now, let’s talk meds.”

—

Lily loved oranges.

The orange juice was yummy. The oranges from the town were yummy, too. The oranges from the ‘piler were not as good, but that’s okay. Maybe she should ask N’gea to grow oranges for her! 

She toddled into the kitchen, where Melly n N’gea were having grown up talks. Melly looked sad. N’gea had stopped wearing her face. “N’gea,” she said, tugging at the Fini’s vine. “Can you be oranges?”

“Perhaps, sweetberry, but not right now. Momma’s busy with Martha right now.”

“Dirt!” Lily said. “Dirty dirt!” She stamped her foot. “Dirty dirty dirt!” 

N’gea’s demeanour shifted instantly. So did Melly’s. Smelly Melly, always taking N’gea away! 

“Lily,” said the Affini softly and dangerously. “What are the rules about cursing while small?”

“Dirt!” cried Lily, one last time, before the pinch of injection made her unable to form the word, to even think it. She sat. It was hard to do much else. Momma was there to catch her, to pull her close.

“Lily,” said Momma gently. “You’re being very naughty right now. Please let Momma and Martha talk, okay?” 

Lily sobbed a little, snuggled closer to the Affini, and fell asleep in a warm bed of clutching vines. She smelled oranges and lavender.

—

“Do I have to do that?” asked Martha, gazing at the brown shape tangled in Drangea's vines.

“If you want,” replied Drangea. “I prefer sprouts, certainly, but I won’t force you unless I think it’ll be genuinely and truly more helpful than retaining your so-called dignity.”

Martha’s eyes narrowed. “So you won’t outlaw it in the contract?”

“No. I will not rule out any treatment that could be beneficial. In fact, that reminds me…” Drangea slid a paper across the table. “Class Gs are to be taken weekly, on Sundays. They are to be hormone-replacers only, and you are free to cease treatment, even take counteracting Class Gs, afterwards. But while you are under my care, you will take them. Is that clear?” 

Martha exhaled. They clearly did not like the idea, but, well, some sophonts truly did not know what was best for them. That’s what the job of a dedicated contract-writer was, to navigate what the signees wanted and what they needed.

“Yes, Drangea. But I’m not calling you Momma.”

“I didn’t expect you to, dear. Now, drink more of your water.”

“You can’t make me,” said Martha, suddenly a little wild-eyed.

“Yes, I very much can. Drink.” 

They drank.

—

Martha was scared, and angry. “I’m scared, and angry,” they said. “And I would like to not be scared.”

“We went over the contract in detail, Martha,” said Drangea. “You practically designed it yourself.” 

“Don’t lie to me, Drangea, you know I didn’t,” they snapped. “Every step of the way, you held my hand and forced it.”

“It’s for your own good, Martha,” said Drangea. “I promise. You will feel much better after all of this. I know it’s scary, and it’s a big change, but it’s temporary, and you’ll be safe.”

“Yeah?" Martha growled. "How long until Rog helps you put one of those implants into me?”

“I don’t know,” said Drangea, stroking her sleeping floret’s locs. “Perhaps never, if you can prove that you can function as an independant.”

That last desperate hope was the only thing keeping Martha from hitting their head against the table as they re-examined the document for the final time. They didn't want to be deemed unsafe to themself before they had even started.

The contract’s terms were clear: Martha Melville was to live as themself until two of Drangea, Peyon, and Roganveilla decided to let them discharge. Interviews would be regular. Lies would be disallowed, including self-lies. Eventually, they got Drangea to concede on some points– some drugs were disallowed by contract. Class Os, for example, whatever those were, and Ps and Ms and Ses and Vs. Drangea had fought for the Class Ses, but when Drangea had demanded wardrobe control, Martha started wildly naming letters, not knowing what they did, and Drangea relented on a few. Overall, Martha was pretty happy that they had negotiated off about a fifth of the classes. Still, all of the drugs that Lily was hopped up on, Bs and Ys and whatever, those were on the table. 

Still impressive, their little– small– ugh. Their token, but successful, resistance. 

The contract stated that they were to get their own room, free of intensive surveillance (although they suspected that the word intensive was defined in some legalistically unfavorable way), and be allowed to compile whatever food they needed, but included a strict curfew to accommodate family dinners. Otherwise, they would roam free, implantless, in Crobuza City, hopped up on mandatory weekly Gs, the hormones and twice daily Ds, the truth serum. If there was All of these goddamn letters, they thought despairingly. How does Lily keep them straight enough to ask for them?

It was the best contract they were going to get. They signed BMartha Melville, 55A712 on the paper, then passed it back to Drangea. “I’m still angry,” they said. “But not scared. Do your worst.”

Drangea crossed off the sequence of numbers and letters, then signed for herself and as representative of any florets that would be affected by the move. “You never know,” she said mildly, her voice coming from deep within the inscrutable vine-pile, devoid, for now, of face or limb. “For you, my dear, even my worst may be helpful.”

Martha did not know what to say to that.

Chapter Text

Lily liked Martha.

She was mean, sometimes, like Brandon, but this time, Lily understood why.

“Saplings should strive to shelter sprouts,” she said after Lily woke up. Lily didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded good. Martha was smart, like Momma, and she was worse at lying than Melly. When she wanted to touch you, or talk to you, it was because she liked you. Even if you didn’t want to, or couldn’t, respond or consent, she couldn’t help herself. She always had to blurt out her thoughts, act on her impulses, within reason. So it wasn’t her fault that sometimes she grabbed Lily’s wrist to lead her, or when she blurted out that Lily looked pretty.

“Shuh shuh shuh,” said Lily, giggling. Her dose of the Ws, she thought (letters were still hard), was coming down, the half-life intentionally short to function as timeout, not state. Still, her mouth hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

Martha checked the timepiece on the inside of her wrist– newly compiled, Lily didn’t remember it before– and leaned into it, murmuring something into a microphone.

Wait. Where was Momma? “Wh… where Gea?” she asked, her eyes darting around a pink room entirely too empty of Affini for her tastes. She suddenly noticed that she was clutching her Ambystoma friend, and that felt good.

“She’s busy,” said Martha. “I’m Martha.”

“‘Member that,” said Lily impatiently. “Where N’gea?” Good. Her mouth was getting better at consonant clusters. Not long now.

“She’s filing my Wardship contract right now,” said Martha. “She’ll be back soon, okay? I’m s’posta watch you and Amber ‘till she does.”

“Not ‘er name,” said Lily, and pulled her stuffy closer. “She don’t like that.”

“What name does she like?”

“Dunno. Not that.” Lily was losing her patience.

“Easier to say, though, innit?” said Martha gently.

“No. Go away. I want Drangea,” Lily said.

“I feel sad,” said Martha matter-of-factly, but with a blush. “Because I missed you. Still, I understand. I’ll be in the living room.”

Lily humphed. “And I’m big again, so I’ll watch myself, thank you.”

“Um,” said Martha, then she fell into flushed silence. The look on her face said that she had more thoughts, but she was clearly working her jaw, trying her best not to blurt them in front of Lily. She raised the timepiece again, whispered into it, then left, still speaking.

Lily still liked Martha, even if she was a little short with her. She was honest.

Lily felt guilty, wet, and a little embarrassed that Martha had seen her like… like this.

A shower was probably in order, she mused. And maybe Drangea will be back by the time I’m through.

—

Martha sat– failing to fully lounge, like they wanted, and watched the floret cut of some animated Terran fantasy thing. Lily wasn’t allowed full cuts of movies while she was little, so floret cuts were all that were currently showing on Finiflix, since they didn’t know the owner control password.

“I’m hurt,” they spoke into their recorder. “Because I thought that she would be happy to see me. Instead, she asked for you. And I’m upset. I feel humiliated being forced to be the baby-sitter for the girl I…”

Drangea would review the logs later, to make sure that they were keeping them. For now, Martha was forced to speak their mind, but they were mercifully not forced to speak it to anyone in person. Still, the truth was going to come out eventually, and any hesitation would look bad on their Wardship hearing. “The girl I like. Stars above Drangea, you could’ve warned me about how grumpy she is when she comes out of it.”

“She’s not, usually,” came a voice from the flatscreen. The apartment’s Hab AI, plugged into all of the devices, but not all of the functions, yet, of the building. “But she fell asleep in her owner’s embrace, and woke away from it. You have to understand.”

“I don’t, actually,” said Martha. “I don’t have to understand what it’s like to be a floret, and to act like Lily does when she needs to relax.”

“Sure, sure,” said the Hab AI. Habby? Is that what Lily had called it? “Do you want to continue watching your cartoon?”

In another part of the apartment, the shower turned on. Martha could hear Rhythm and Blues through the walls, and a voice– not altogether different from the one they had first heard two or so months ago– sing along.

“Maybe,” Martha grumbled, but that wasn’t enough for her filter, or lack thereof. “Yes. Please.”

About ten minutes later, the front door had opened. Martha, still idly watching the cartoon and speaking into their journal, was greeted by a humanoid form, relaxing into a familiar mass of shapeless vines. Something was different, though.

Oh, they thought. “You kept your face on this time,” they blurted rudely.

Drangea nodded. “It’s growing on me. I’m getting closer to perfecting it,” she said, the two eyes visible in her face sparkling. Of course, those eyes were over the Affini’s hairless brow ridge, not under it, but she was definitely getting closer. “Might just keep it one of these days.”

“Move your eyes lower,” Martha said. “They should be about level with your ears and the bridge of your nose. You know, like glasses?” They gestured at the screen, where a wise, bespeckled old wizard in a cerulean robe emblazoned with five pointed stars was reading from a heavy tome and wagging his finger.

“Right. Glasses. Gotta remember to be able to wear glasses,” Drangea murmured as her eyes and the petals in her “eye sockets” swapped, each pulled deeper into the Affini’s body and replaced in their new spots.

“That’s creepy as hell,” said Martha. “I would like if you did not do that again.”

“No,” said Drangea. “Where’s Lily? Showering?”

“Showering. She’s out of the drugs you pumped into her.”

“I know. The faucet is sproutproof,” Drangea said. “And there’s the implant, too, of course, that alerts me.”

“Right,” Martha said, rolling their eyes.

Suddenly, the water stopped. The music only went on for another moment, and then the smell of citrus and steam filled the apartment. “N’gea? Lily called, thundering down the hall, clad in only steam and dignity. “You’re home!”

She threw herself at her owner shamelessly, sinking into her embrace.

Martha flushed. “Put some clothes on,” they snapped, looking away as their cheeks grew warm.

Lily’s voice from inside of Drangea was genuinely innocent and curious. “Why?” She asked. “It’s just us.”

“I don’t–” Martha had started, before she began to back away and pull her wrist to her mouth.

“No,” said Drangea. “You will speak your mind where we may all witness it. That is the spirit of the contract, if not its letter.”

Martha ground their teeth, then opened their mouth, then ground their teeth some more. “I feel like a petulant child,” they said, trying to change the subject.

“Martha Melville, as your Warden I command that you respond to my floret.”

Fuck. A direct command, in sniffing range. It was a lost cause. “I was going to say that I did not want to see Lily naked, but I could not finish, because it would have been a lie,” they said weakly. “However, I also did not want to speak the truth.”

“Young lady,” said Drangea. “You have lost your private journal privileges for the night. If you have a thought, you will speak it aloud, to me, Lily, or Habby.”

“I’m lower on the hierarchy than a floret,” said Martha, the words forcing themselves out entirely too loudly for their own taste. “Typical.”

Drangea did not react, only humming quietly to Lily. “Sweetberry,” she was saying. “Do you want to meet for dinner with Peyon?”

“I get to talk to Peypey today?” squealed Lily excitedly.

“Yes. Did you forget?” Asked Martha.

“Musta!” exclaimed Lily.

“Then it’s settled,” said Drangea. “You’re coming too, Martha.”

Martha wanted to protest. But they didn’t have to. The temporary dose of whatever it was, the truth serum, they forgot the letter, was wearing off. And so were their prescribed meds. They had a half life of around twelve hours, or so they were told, but would build in the body over the course of a week until they were maximum strength.

It was a small mercy, then, that the contract negotiation was their first dose. If they just didn’t eat or drink or breathe at dinner, they would be able to say they enjoyed the first day of their Wardship.

Chapter Text

Martha didn’t know how to feel about the clothes that Drangea picked out for them.

They looked… Good. Martha had to admit that. Was literally forced to. But they felt alien on their body. A simple black sundress, with accompanying padded bra and feminine undergarments. Simple socks. Boots, like they preferred. It was a compromise, for their first night out.

Drangea didn’t let them shave or pick themself, although her hairstyling was passable. Small, unpracticed cornrows that looked kind of cute, in an ameteur way.

She, herself, had put on her best humanoid guise, although it clearly took a lot of effort. Two firm legs, two roughly jointed arms, instead of many undulating and grasping limbs. She was even wearing a purple three piece suit, compiled for the occasion. A tad formal and maybe a little strange, but she wanted to be sure that she maintained her form through the night.

Lily, being big, was allowed to dress herself. She chose a long coat over a tank-top and stretchy pants, patterned with some Terran paleomammal or another– Horned, with large pink noses and spots all over their bodies, a fleshy protrusion near their back legs and a square something or other around their necks. Horses, maybe. Martha wasn’t sure what they looked like. Lily’s locs were freshly redone and her smile was infectious as she bubbled over with excitement. “You’ll really like Peyon when you meet her for real,” she said. “She’s so cute, and funny. She’s another xenosophont, like us, right, but she’s a Xenra. An Independant, who travelled on the Avecinnia with Drangea and Dr. Rog, but none of them had really met, right? Because Drangea was a high-level legal writer and Dr. Rog mostly dealt with florets and Peyon mostly dealt with other Independants.”

Martha felt their smile drooping slightly as the ramble continued. It was the longest they had heard Lily talk about any animal still living. “What did you call us? Us and Peyon?”

“Xenosophonts?”

“Lily, they’re the Xenosophonts. We’re just sophonts. Who are we xeno of?”

“The ‘Fini,” answered Lily automatically with a shrug.

“Right, but…” Martha looked around. Drangea was pretending not to listen. “Lily, that’s my problem. Why are they the default?”

Liky shrugged again. “They know better.”

“Stars above, girl. You’re in deep. You let ‘em take you into they world fast, and you ain’t even care.”

“If you hadn’t noticed,” Lily said primly. “I’m a floret.”

Martha opened their mouth. Words spilled unbidden, as if the dam between their thoughts and their tongue, the dam that they had felt repair as the drugs wore off, was overflowed. Not broken, exactly, but some water spilled over the top. “I want to apologize, because I feel bad. I fucked up, I’m gettin’ in the way of you and your Momma,” they started. “But the truth is that I’m not sorry. I’m worried, girl, and I’d be cappin’ if I said it was just about you.”

“I accept your apology,” said Lily.

“I just said I ain’t sorry,” blustered Martha.

“I accept your apology anyway,” said Lily with that damn smile on her face, that beacon that they had coaxed from her that first night.

Martha laughed. Lily flushed. Martha flushed. Drangea ushered both out the door.

—

Drangea walked down the street with her sophonts. Her sophonts, a perfect little domestic sprout and a half-dead, half-pruned, half-feral ward that she was not sure she could surrender, if Roganveilla asked. Drangea was proud of them both, of the progress that she had made with them, that they had made with themselves. The wardship would go supremely well if she could keep this pace up. The only thing to do was keep moving forward.

Which she did. Physically. With terranmorph legs, and feet, and, oh Everbloom, a hinge joint.

Walking is hard, she decided, as she ushered her sophonts into the very diner that they were meant to have gone to that morning.

“Martha,” she began.

“I changed my mind. My name is, uh, Alex.” Her cheeks were darker, now, after having been called by her name in a public place.

“You cannot get around genderfeels with a neutral name, sweetheart,” said Drangea gently. “Martha, you know what a Xenra looks like, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Fox people with three eyes.”

“So you’ll be able to find her for us?”

“Yeah,” she said, scanning the booths. “There.”

“Good job,” Drangea said encouragingly. “Let’s go see her.”

As Drangea pushed her sophonts towards the table, she could hear Lily murmur “Good job, Martha,” bittersweetly.

—

Lily had so much to tell Peyon. She couldn’t believe that she had forgotten that they were supposed to meet today– it was Monday, after all. They always chatted on Monday. She wanted to talk about dodos, her new favorite archosaur. She wanted to talk about her feelings, but that would feel weird with Martha there. She wanted to talk about how she could feel her implant grow, and her body change.

When the group sat, Peyon was not in the mood to speak about any of those things. She was clearly in a business-minded mood, twirling a straw around a glass of ice and checking emails on her phone, a ream of documents spread in front of her, stuck to the table with a pen and a wet spot. Still, she smiled when she looked up. “Hey, Lily! Martha! What’s up?” Peyon had a whole side of the high table to herself, whereas the other was occupied by Martha in the window seat and Drangea taking the aisle with a lapful of Lily.

Lily beamed. “Hey Peypey!” She leaned over the table meaningfully, and Peyon laughed, letting off an orange-y, lemon-y smell that Lily always went wild for. “I’ve been good. What’s new with you?”

“Just doing some paperwork for another case,” she said, gathering her things. “Technically, you aren’t supposed to see it. Confidentiality, and all of that.”

A terran independant wandered over with a notepad, smiling. “Drinks?” she asked. “More water for the lady?”

“Yes, please,” said Peyon. “Drangea?”

“What if I want the juice,” asked Lily, looking up at her owner. “Is that okay?” The juice was her favorite way to take Class Ys.

“Water, for my sophonts and myself, please,” said Drangea, and the waiter left. “It’s too early for the juice, Lily, and you aren’t dressed for it. Besides, don't you want to talk to Peyon?”

"I can drink and talk," Lily moped, mimicking the sophont in the corner. Martha’s head was in her hand, and she was gazing out the window.

Lily wondered what Martha was thinking about.

—

Martha hated this meeting. This diner, this whole charade. Most of all, they were beginning to resent their name.

When the drinks arrived, Peyon took hers and Drangea distributed the other three.

“This one’s mine. Lily, here’s yours. Martha,” she said.

“Heather,” Heather corrected. “Am I allowed to choose that one?”

“Heather,” the Affini said, not dignifying the question with a response. “This one is yours.” Peyon took out a notebook and wrote something in it. Presumably her name.

Drangea pushed her water over with a grip of vines, five in total, woven below their tips to resemble the pad of a human palm. She was clumsy and unpracticed with her form. “I didn’t do anything to this,” said Drangea. “I promise.”

“You don’t have to promise. I’m in pollen-range, I’m trapped, and I have no rights. You can do whatever you want to me and I can’t stop you. Who gives a crap about what you did to the water?” They laughed nervously, but Peyon just gave them an enthusiastic double thumbs-up, and Drangea nodded crudely.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” she said, in that motherly goddamn way of hers. “Drink up!”

They drank.

“How have you been?” asked the Xenra.

“Good,” said Lily brightly. The social worker’s pen didn’t move. Well, of course it didn't-- Lily didn't need her. She had Drangea.

“I feel like a danger to myself and others,” Heather said dryly.That set the pen off, of course.

“Well, it’s a good thing that you’re with me, then, isn’t it,” cooed Drangea, discreetly pulling the still-rolled silverware out of Heather’s reach and shoving a flower under their nose. “Sniff.”

“No,” they said, inhaling through their mouth in the process. Fuck.

“Good girl,” said Drangea. “Now, tell us what you really feel.”

“I feel awful, okay?” They snapped. “Is that what you want to hear? That I’m miserable and I need a smart Affini to own me?” The words made them feel some kind of way, but they knew it was too early for the drugs to have taken full effect. They would have to be very careful about the rest of the conversation.

“You say it angrily. Do you really believe that?” Asked Peyon curiously.

“I… I don’t think so. I think that I will never be a girl, so this is just a waste of everyone’s time.”

“You’re already a girl, Heather,” said Peyon gently.

“I don't think I am," sniffed Heather.

“Nongirls don’t pick two girl names,” said Lily lightly, sipping her water. “In a row.”

“Fuck off, Lily,” they growled. “Nobody asked you.”

“Heather!” admonished Drangea. “I’m surprised at you! That was uncalled for. Apologize!” The floret crawled into her owner’s shirt, suddenly frightened

“I didn’t mean to scare Lily, but I can’t apologize,” Heather said miserably, putting their head down on the table. “I’m not sorry.”

The rest of the night passed like this. The two sophonts probed Heather. They snapped at them. They said that they did not mean to snap, but that they were not sorry. And again. And again. The food arrives. It’s eaten. Heather pokes at theirs. The plates are taken away. Heather scowls. They growl. They scream. They cry. They plead. Nobody tries to help them escape. Lily does not speak for the rest of the night.

At the end, Peyon asks them the same damn question. “Heather, do you understand yet? What we are trying to help you with?”

They grind their teeth to keep from responding as long as possible. Peyon saw their jaw working, she must have. And then they say “Yes. I think I’m starting to get it.”

By the time they are in their unfamiliar bed that night, they’re sure that they will wake up with an implant in the morning.

They aren’t sure how they feel about the idea, anymore.

—

Peypey

!Hi Peyon

Um just wanted to talk becuz we didnt get to

.Um. i think

I might be defective or sumn

!Ok call me

As a friend

!But i do have class tomorrow so

Chapter Text

Peypey

Hey!

!!!!Hiii

D ya wanna get lunch? Today? One? We can talk, sophont to floret?

Coffee shop on 4th St and Crobuza?

!!!Yea, that sounds good. See you there

---

Lily loved homework.

Her Affini teachers were always kind, and the courses were always accessible. The Xenosophonts teaching their own culture and language courses were even treated with authoritative respect by the Affini who came to learn from them. Not even Peyon got that, really, acting somewhat as a clerk to the Affini who were interested in her assigned sophont’s cases, who were allowed to overrule her choices if they thought she was too incorrect in her assessments. Too lenient with a feral, or something. She was a trusted assistant in the Affini’s system of government, but real decision-making power could be wrenched from her by an Affini who knew better. The professor of Xenrani Evolution 101, on the other hand, often told Affini that they were mistaken in zir field of expertise. The usual response– comfy condescension, maybe a tiny bit of flirting– instead became listening to explanations and re-examining biases. Even zir owner, who took and retook the class with pride, was once gently corrected about timelines when he mixed something up.

Lily’s sternum ached when she thought about it. She wanted to be a respected academic, to know things, to do primary research on Xenopalentology and teach them to interested students, especially Drangea and the stupid bully Heather. First, however… She had to learn about what had come before.

Lily was a model student. She always made deadlines, and lectures, and she loved any extra work she could scrounge. Whenever they thought that she could handle it, the professors were happy to oblige, clearly excited to talk about their personal studies and point her towards extra reading, like their papers, their friends’ books, the cutting-edge research that was changing their fields. The classic literature that shaped one of their civilizations’ languages, like Quixote and The Stone’s Story and Shakesphere did for Terrans. Papers about ancient pre-domestication cultures, and books about far off sophonts domesticated long ago. Lily took it all in joyfully, and when she got home, she compiled plushes of her favorite recent xenopaleoart and reconstructions, sometimes having a good time deconstructing the theories she deemed outdated. Always, always, her Ambystoma mexicanum stayed.

She was always big at school. She couldn’t afford otherwise. One day, some of these sophonts would be peers in her field. She couldn’t be too much of a floret, or they wouldn’t respect her. They'd treat her like Heather did.

She shouldn’t have to be ashamed of her choices, she decided. She would talk to Peyon about it.

—

Heather did not want to think about her… their feelings.

Why were they thinking about their feelings so much lately? Was it the forced truth thing? The Gs? The implant they were sure they could feel invading every corner of their nervous system?

They stayed in their room all day. It didn’t lock from the inside, of course, but the two sophonts they survived near, who both insisted that this counted as some sort of life, were too polite to openly enter without knocking. Whether Heather consented to being joined in their little den of garbage and misery was irrelevant, but Drangea and Lily did knock, when they knew Heather was awake.

They raised their watch to their mouth automatically and spoke. Heather had been happy, in a sense, fleecing the dirt outta cops and playing their part in a tiny community that needed them. Now everything was weird and uncomfortable. Their nipples ached and their chin burned. Some days, they felt a little shorter. Some days, they were convinced– truly convinced– that their heartbeat was lying to them and they were a walking corpse that everyone was too polite to shoo.

Two months ago they were content, and now everything was changing so fast.

Their mouth felt dry. They thought they felt sticky air settling on their vulnerable mucous membranes like so much smog in a factory-worker’s lungs. They could taste it now, they thought, see it in the air. It was unsubtle, now that they noticed it. That must be it. The Affini wanted them to be miserable so that they would leap into her vines and declare her the only thing that made them happy, and then they’d get a sippy cup and some juice or something.

They ignored the growing heat in their loins as the sponge attached to their flesh inflated in some twisted, hormonal– not to mention forced, clearly– reaction.

Think. Think. Thinkthinkthinkthinkthink. Okay. Oh-kay. Block the door with the bed. Cover the vents with chairs. The Hab AI hadn’t been installed in this room yet. It was supposed to be this afternoon. The room wasn’t floretproofed, either, although that could change at any time.

She was– they were– having a heart attack, or something. The xenodrugs were killing them.

The bed was too heavy to move. The vents were too high to block. As a compromise, they covered the door with chairs and hid under the covers.

They sobbed.

“Heather, honey?” came a voice from the other side of the door. A knock.

The door swung outward, into the hall and the chair shoved under its handle clattered to the floor.Fuck! Dirt! Fuck!

“I was listening to your journal,” said Drangea gently. “And the crashing in here. You’re having a panic attack, sugarplum. I’m going to give you something for that, okay?"

“No! No, fuck, shit, dirt, no, please don’t,” they said, standing and backing away from the door. There were no windows, no other doors. Fuck. Shit. Dirt! Dirty shitty fuck! They dropped to the floor and tried their damndest to squirm under the bed.

The last thing they remembered was being dragged across the floor by their ankles and screaming snd screaming and screaming.

When she woke up, Heather was at the vet’s. She din member how she got there. Momma was holdin her nice, the way they weren ready ta say.

“What was that, sugarplum?” asked Momma. “Say that again.”

“‘S nice,” said Heather louder, wiggling. “Momma should hold me more.”

“Yeah? You like being Momma’s little girl?”

That made Heather feel funny. “Yes,” she said. “Love Momma!” She reached for Momma’s face and saw that the clock on the inside of her wrist was clear plassic, now, essept the black lines inside, and it didn move. Momma shushed her gently, pushing it towards her face. She started to chew on it.

—

Lily liked the coffee shop just okay.

It was full of sophonts, right now, and loud, but everything was built larger since the Affini arrived. It wasn’t quite crowded, and the noise covered their conversation just fine. Neutral, Lily decided.

The line at the counter moved quickly and easily. So fast, honestly, that she hadn’t thought about what she wanted.

“An, uh, orange juice, um, squeezed, pulpy… Not compiled, please… And, uhh… Two ham, egg, and cheese croissants?” It was decadent what she could get when money was no longer an object.

“Coming right up, cutie,” said the Affini behind the counter, and she winked. "Is your owner nearby?" Lily shook her head. "Momma's busy." The Affini clucked sympathetically. "Poor thing. Let's get you your food." Everyone in here was so effortlessly humanoid, or vulpoid, or insectoid. It made her ache. She wouldn’t change anything about Drangea, but she hated that Drangea had to put in so much effort to be like them, that she thought that Lily wanted that.

She’d have to say something, she decided. When she talked to Peyon.

When her number was called, she collected her tray and sat. A moment later, Peyon slid into the booth with two cups, one of water inside of one half full of ice.

“Hey, cutie,” Peyon said. “You wanted to talk?” Her ever-present papers were replaced by some romance book folded around her index finger, and her primary eyes focused on Lily as the third facilitated carefully pouring her water.

“Yeah!” Lily took a bite of her first sandwich. “Um. How have you been?"

“Busy,” groused Peyon. “So many seeds that need to be persuaded to accept help. So many independants, too, who’re too scared to admit that they could use a tiny bit of support. Lots of terrans are messed up, and scared to admit it.”

Lily nodded minutely. “Like Heather.”

“Like Heather, yeah,” said Peyon, her voice softening. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“I want… I want her to like me,” confessed Lily. “Like-like me. But sometimes she makes me feel bad about myself, or is mean to Drangea, and then she’s not sorry. But then Drangea keeps ignoring me for her…” She took a bite to hide the quiver in her voice.

Peyon chewed idly on a straw. “And have you talked to either of them about this? Gotten their thoughts?”

Lily swallowed roughly, then dropped her sandwich. “No. Are you dirty crazy? I want Heather to like me."

Peyon flipped her novel onto the table and grabbed Lily’s hands. “Look at me. Look. She does like you, you clueless sprout. And she likes Drangea, too. You know that she’s forbidden from hiding her feelings. Have you ever heard her say, then, that she didn’t like you?”

Lily sniffed, feeling very small. “Nno, but…”

“Stay with me, Lily. I need you big. When you two were at the vet’s for the first time, what did she learn there?"

“She… She learned I was Lily… And she learned that I liked Drangea…” Lily trailed off. Remembering was hard, sometimes. “And… And…” Suddenly tears welled in her eyes, and the noise in the room dipped as she felt the eyes of half of the Affini in the room on her. “And I said… I said that she was mean, and sometimes I hated her,” she squeaked.

Peyon nodded slowly. “She thinks that you don’t like her, darling,” she said gently, as Lily felt a calming tingle down her brainstem. Thanks, Drangea, she thought. A sophont in line laughed loudly and abruptly, as if by the flip of a switch, the noise of the room rose back to its previous level.

“But… She’s mean to me about being a floret, and being little,” Lily floundered. “And sometimes it’s like she takes Drangea away from me on purpose!”

“Is that because she doesn’t like you, or because she cares too much about you?” Asked Peyon. “Domestication is a big change, for both species and sophont. What if she’s just scared for you?”

"It’s not just for me,” said Lily quietly.

Peyon nodded. “Right,” she said, sipping her iced water. “It’s for lots of sophonts, herself included. Just talk to her. And to Drangea, too, if you feel like you want more attention.” Peyon picked up her book and mock-scowled, miming using her chewed up straw as a pen. “Or I’ll have to have a serious talk with her about your contract, young lady. I bet she’d be all too happy to make sure you’re never out of her sight again, and draft an intent to domesticate anyone who ever makes you feel bad ever again.”

Lily smiled weakly.

Yeah. Talking to Heather and Drangea. That’d work

It was scary, thinking about telling people what she wanted.

—

Heather was big again. They didn’t know when it happened, or what happened while they were small. All they knew was that it was embarrassing, and Drangea and Roganveilla kept talking about them like they weren’t there.

They also felt a fluffy, warm, heavy feeling around their crotch and decided not to investigate, for their own sake.

Eventually, they realized that one of the two Affini had noticed that they were back, and had asked them a question.

“Uh, come again?” they said quietly. “I was trying not to think about the fact that I’m pretty sure I pissed myself.”

“That’s what we were asking, sugarplum,” said Drangea gently. “If you needed a change.”

“I want normal underwear.” They couldn’t say need anymore, because of the dirty truth drug. “And I want to scream, because I hate that I can’t lie.”

“It’s okay, sugarplum,” said Drangea, putting their feet onto the table. They did not resist.

“Up. Do you remember what happened?” she asked as she pulled Heather’s pants down to their ankles and started unfastening the whatever it was down there. “Thank you, sugarplum.”

“Vaguely.” They got the uncomfortable feeling that they weren't supposed to.

“You had a panic attack,” said Rog matter-of-factly. “Would you like to hear some of your thoughts?"

Heather went cold. “You get those files, too?”

“Of course I do. I’m your veterinarian.”

“Then… I suppose I would like to hear them,” they said carefully. Rog held up the watch, and they noticed that the one they were wearing now was a sprout-grade fake, with… were those teeth marks?

On the file, they were talking about their occasional delusion of death, and an aerosolized xenodrug that was making them miserable. They heard themself admit that they would be happy with a sippy cup, but that the xenodrug was killing them. They heard the scrape of wood on wood, and then the door open, and a crash, and then the rushing of air and an occasional jostle. Then panicked swears, and finally a scream, before it stopped abruptly and the only sound was Drangea’s voice, quietly soothing them. In the current moment, Drangea kept at her work

“Heather,” started the doctor.

“What happened next?” interrupted Heather. “That doesn’t explain how I got to the hospital. Drangea, I’m cold.”

“One moment, dear, and you will be all warm again. Momma’s got you.”

Oh. Oh.

“Heather, you know that we would never try to hurt you, right?” continued the doctor, in that condescending doctor voice combined with that condescending Affini voice.

“Right, but you always just define the hurt out of your dirt, you don’t care about my feelings.”

“Down, Sugarplum,” said Drangea. Heather laid flat, turning their face to the wall so that their flush wasn’t obvious. “Is that what you think?” Drangea asked. “That we don’t care about your feelings?”

“I… won’t say,” Heather said, surprising themself.

A beat. “Well then, I suppose that that’s the truth,” said Roganveilla with a sigh. “Let’s schedule a follow-up to talk about her continued wardship. I trust you’ll be able to handle her until then?”

“My sugarplum is usually so well behaved,” cooed Drangea.

“Stop calling me that. Preferred names only. It’s in the contract,” Heather said carefully. It wasn't quite a lie, and their brain let them get away with it, just this once.

Drangea nodded, and that was the end of it. She finished her work, gathered some documents from Roganveilla, and left with Heather in tow.

Chapter Text

Heather decided that Drangea was hiding something. She wouldn’t talk about the time gap between the end of the log and when Heather came back to herself, but Heather knew that she wasn’t asleep that entire time. She hadn’t opened her eyes to wake. She– they, dirt– had chewed on their sprout watch, at some point. This costume they had on wasn’t just because of Drangea’s proclivities.

“I’m annoyed with you,” they said to Drangea. “Because I want you to be more honest with me. Also, I want to be a girl.” Their mouth closed so forcefully that there was an audible click of teeth meeting teeth.

“I know,” said Drangea delicately. “And that’s perfectly okay. With that admission, I think we can start working on discharge papers.”

“Also, I want to be called Holly,” said Holly.

“You’re fond of plant names, Holly,” said Drangea, bemused.

“Fuck you,” said Holly.

“Lily wants to meet up,” said Drangea, suddenly. “Are you okay with that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Drangea hummed. “Yes, but not forever. You live with her, for the moment.”

Holly thought it over. “Sure. Okay. We can do dinner?”

“I’ll tell her,” said Drangea, a blue light emanating from near her core. “Soda fountain? They serve food, too, supposedly.”

“Okay,” said Holly. She felt warm at the thought.

—

Lily was nervous.

She hadn’t talked about all of the things she had wanted to with Peyon, but she had tried her best, and she had a good start.

The soda fountain had a large front window facing north, and the sun was low in the sky, casting striking shadows as sophonts walked past the window, or stood for a moment to watch and wave and coo at another sprout playing blocks on the mat that took up most of the actual space just inside of it.

She sipped her apple soda. It was no orange, she decided, but she liked it.

Drangea and Heather walked past, hand in vine, Heather squinting against the sun and wearing a sprout-y outfit. Lily fought down a surge of jealousy.

When they sat, Heather flushed and thrusted out her hand, turning her face away. “Holly. She/her.”

“Oh!” said Lily with a smile. “That’s great.” Lily shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Holly’s going to discharge soon,” said Drangea. “We talked about it. She wants to try independence again.”

“Um, can I talk about me?” said Lily, flushing. “It’s just… I called this meeting and…”

Drangea cooed. “Oh, oh, of course, sweetberry. We didn’t mean to step on your feelings. You know that you’ll always be my little sprout, right? Even after Holly leaves.”

“Sorry, Lily,” said Holly novelly as she looked away.

Lily flushed deeper. Her face burned, her chest ached. That nerve again. She hoped the ‘fini could figure out a drug to stop that response. “Sorry, I just…” She pushed the straw around in her glass. “I wanted to talk. Because I’m jealous, and I feel bad, and I want to not feel bad. And I think I deserve the juice after a hard conversation,” she added hopefully.

“We’ll see,” said Drangea, pursing her lips. “Go on, sweetberry.”

“I like you!” Lily blurted, standing up and pointing across the table. “I like you, and I want to be your friend, Holly, but I don’t like that you make me feel bad sometimes! About being a floret, a sprout, and a sophont who believes in the Compact! It’s starting to affect my confidence, something I had to fight very hard for! And then you always say you ain’t sorry!”

“I can’t…” Holly swallowed loudly, then gently pushed Lily’s fingertip, an inch from her nose, away. “I can’t help it, right now. I’m on that truth dirt, right–” (“Language,” chided Drangea.) “– So I’ve gotta work on meaning it. I’m sorry about all of the times I’ve made you feel bad for who you are and what you believe. I’m… Starting to believe in them, too. I just needed, need, more time. It’s not like I liked the Accord any better. It was plenty worse, but… It was familiar.”

The fire in Lily’s core went out. “You’re… Sorry now?”

“I am, I think. No, I’m sure. I’m truly sorry, Lily.”

“And another thing!” Lily’s finger swung accusatorily towards Drangea, but she was smiling now. “I miss you,” she said softly. “We signed the contract together, and then you immediately went to help another sophont. Can you take a break from work for a while after this?”

“My work is important, sprout,” said Drangea. “I can’t promise more than a few years.”

“That’s enough time,” said Lily. “I think. It was just so soon, and I like Holly, I like-like Holly, but you spent the day after the surgery negotiating her contract and filing paperwork. And you didn’t ask me first.”

“You what me?” asked Holly.

I know you know what’s best for me, generally,” continued Lily. “But sometimes you forget to ask me what I want in the moment, and you just assume that I want you to force yourself to look Terran, or to live with my crush, or to go to bed when you have work.”

Drangea undulated around the table and smothered Lily in a hug, taking her floret deep into her form. “I know, sweetberry. I know,” came her voice from somewhere to Lily’s left. “I’m just… I’m new, and I want to help as many sophonts as possible. We’ll spend more time together once Holly’s discharged, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” Lily said, sipping her apple soda again, barely even jostled by her Momma's warmest kind of hug. “Love you, Drangea.”

“Love you too, sweetberry,” said Drangea.

“You like-like me?” asked Holly.

“Can I have the juice now?” asked Lily.

“Stars above Lily, what is the juice?” demanded Holly. “Someone please answer me. I feel ignored!”

—

Drangea was proud of her two sophonts for figuring out what they wanted. Lily was happily sipping on her juice, and Holly, upon learning what it did to you, politely declined it with a stammer and a flush.

Her independence will not last long, Drangea thought. She would have to file a Notice of Intent immediately after discharge, but she’d like to see how long Holly could make it. It was clearly important to her, and she wouldn’t dream of taking away the lesson that the failure would eventually teach her. Still, there was no doubt in her mind that Holly, or whatever she called herself later, would be hers. Just… After some alone time with her sprout.

She, Roganveilla, Holly, and Peyon would sit here tomorrow, talk about future plans, make sure Holly could function on her own for the time being. Then, one final sleep, and she’d be free.

Once Lily had toddled away to play with the sprout in the window, Holly turned to her.

“What are you hiding from me? Am I a sprout too?” she asked furtively. “Will that affect my discharge? Do you care about my feelings?”

“You looked very happy as my little sugarplum,” said Drangea dreamily. “But whether you’re a sprout outside of my meddling… You’ll have to figure that out yourself. I’ll do what I can to provide you legal protection from any given sophont scooping you off the street, but realistically that just means I’ll have first dibs.”

“Oh,” said Holly, tugging at her adorable little collar. “Okay, then. So I can still… try? To go Indie?”

“That’s the current plan. Rog has some concerns, but you have taken all of your medicine, and you’ve grown a lot. Peyon and I think you’re ready. If you have another breakdown…” Drangea said meaningfully. “We’ll talk. But my doors are open regardless, and I promise that my personal definition of xenosophont self-harm does not extend to having unresolved emotions and not taking my advice.”

“Good,” said Holly, exhaling deeply. “So… Friends?” She stuck a hand out.

“Friends,” said Drangea.

“Friends!” said Lily, toddling back over. An Affini in the corner– the owner of the playing sprout, maybe– laughed. “Friends with Momma!”

Chapter Text

Nearly three years after her wardship ended, Jaylah Gartner realized that she had never stood a chance.

Coffee with Drangea, Lily, and Peyon was a regular occurance, now. Every Monday. They talked, they laughed. Drangea occasionally let Lily “pee her big” for the day towards the end.

Sometime in year one, Jaylah, then going by Protea, realized that she was in love with Lily. They talked it over. They gave it a shot. It was awkward. They were both bottoms. It sort of didn’t work out, but they still kissed a lot, these days.

On the anniversary of their meeting, they walked to the park near where the Shelter once sat, drank (compiled Terran-style hard lemonade, with permission from Drangea), and played poker badly.

Sometime in year two, Jaylah, then going by Nadia, realized that she was in love with Drangea, too. She was back to work, then, putting in part-time hours as an NITD consultant for self-filing xenosophonts and their delighted Affini partners. Drangea took Lily to every meeting, those days and these, and let her play with dolls quietly in the corner. She was brilliant, but caring; dutiful, but sympathetic; unapologetic, but willing to admit mistakes. She had stopped awkwardly playing at bipediality, even dropping her face outside of work. She had just never gotten comfortable doing it, so she refused to. It was the kind of confidence that Jaylah needed in her life.

That year, on their anniversary, the two women took a tour of an Affini effort to restore the Shelter for posterity. It was mostly the same, but less dirty and with more plaques. Drangea’s name was emblazoned on the floor of the rec-room, along with the name of the sophont she had saved that day, commemorating the Shelter’s incredibly timed discovery and breach. Afterwards, they drank again, and played poker badly.

Early in year three, Jaylah took her current name. It’s stuck the longest so far– almost ten months– and she was happy with it. She hadn’t fallen back into a cycle of acceptance and depression, she had made herself a dynamic force who changed things she didn’t like about herself. It’s just… This one she did like. This is the one, she had thought.

Six months later, she wet her bed. And then she did it again.

Drangea was understanding, in one of their private chats. She gently reminded Jaylah that it was okay to be a sprout, and that her doors were always open if she thought she wanted an owner or simply some more advice, and that Jaylah’s Hab A.I. had certainly already told Peyon and Roganveilla.

Jaylah nodded glumly, at the time, but the gears in her brain were already turning.

Now it was two months later, and the anniversary was approaching quickly. They got drinks and played poker in the park again, early this time, so that the actual week or so after the anniversary could be busy.

Jaylah Gartner, Independant, she/her, filed a Notice of Intent to Domesticate herself.
Her legal counsel and extremely flattered prospective owner was, of course, Drangea Vallie, First Bloom, she/her, along with her floret Lily Chinka-Vallie, First Floret, she/her, who had taken time off of her teaching degree to study Drangea’s books and begin the draft in secret.

When she was presented with the crude draft, Drangea’s eyes– unbeholden to things like brow ridges, nose bridges, and sockets– sparkled, before she began correcting their work and quickly sketching out some necessary articles and clauses and exceptions that the xenosophonts had missed.

It was an amazing sight, one that Jaylah would never get tired of. It was a wonder, really, how she had resisted Drangea the first time, after the bunker, or even the second, during her wardship.

By the end of the week, Jaylah “Sugarplum” Vallie, Second Floret, she/her, accepted her implant with pride.