Danger to Oneself and Others Chapters 9 - 11

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Chapter 9

Absolutely nobody would be surprised to hear that every one of Annulaira’s medical wings were abuzz with activity. With three rebel ships worth of freshly acquired pets, many of whom were saddled with quite pressing medical needs—the sort which inevitably arose when one chose to ignore the offers of endless comfort and luxury under the affini, and to instead spend stars knew how long aboard cramped, poorly supplied warships with absolutely horrendously inadequate spin gravity—on top of fulfilling the needs of Annualria’s already not insignificant population, to describe the ship’s medical professionals as busy would be akin to describing a neutron star as ‘just a tad on the denser side.’

Between carting sedated rebels off into life support pods, pacifying those who managed to fight through their drugs, and treating a plethora of injuries from things as minor sprained limbs all the way up to literal life or death emergencies, the interior halls of the medical ward Citrodora had carried Clara off to sang with a chaotic slurry of activity. From the safety of her owner’s tight embrace, Clara watched as formless masses of untangled vines literally hurtled themselves from room to room at blinding speeds. For a human, or really anyone who wasn’t an affini, so much as setting foot inside would nearly be akin to attempting a pedestrian crossing through a bustling intersection at the heart of an old Terran Accord megatropolis during rush hour.

Things had grown so uncharacteristically hectic that temporary emergency guidelines had been enacted which required that all non-affini with business in the medical ward be accompanied at all times either by an owner or, in the case of independent citizens, by a designated nurse. Of course, that made little difference to Clara; even if she had been given the choice, there was nowhere she would rather be than wrapped safely in her Mistress’ loving embrace.

Fortunately for Clara and Citrodora, the captures were still quite fresh. The vast majority of them were still at the stage where their specific care needs were being investigated, surveyed and cataloged down to the minutest of detail so as to ensure the utter pinnacle of care. As such, while the medical ward itself was a veritable kicked hornets nest—up to and including poking the kickers with sharp objects—very few of the current patients were anywhere near the point where concerns regarding the Haustoric Implant came into play. As such, it was hardly a problem at all to demand immediate attention from one of Annularia’s resident implant experts.

In post-haste, Clara was spirited off to a secluded room and seated securely in Citrodora’s lap. On the outside, Clara did her best to appear calm and collected, but hiding her true feelings from her owner was impossible. Beneath the surface was a roiling mass of anxiety and worry. Citrodora’s reassurance had been enough to quell the worst of Clara’s darker thoughts for a time. But, seated in the doctor’s office, waiting for her moment of truth, Clara couldn’t stamp out the worry that something would go wrong, that they wouldn’t find a way to fix her, that she would never be herself again. A stroke of her Mistress’ vines drew Clara’s attention, and she realized she had begun to cry. Dotingly, Citrodora pulled Clara tight, gently shushing her beloved pet as Clara trembled in her owner’s grasp.

More than anything else, Clara wished could simply close herself off to the world. That she could force herself into feeling nothing but that loving embrace and the gentle contentment it brought, into hearing nothing but the beauty of her owner’s voice and captivating song, into seeing, tasteing, smelling and thinking of nothing but Citrodora and the quintessential comfort Clara knew that she was meant to derive from belonging to someone who loved and treasured her. If she concentrated, Clara could sense the kernel of that feeling still buried under everything else that had become of her. It was a flickering ember of light warmth within her, but not her light, Citrodora’s light. That was how things were meant to be.

Clara tried to cling to it, to huddle around that fading warmth in the cold, inky darkness of the hurt and purposelessness she felt. Once, it would have burned so bright as to blind Clara, to burn away all that was wrong and illuminate the beautiful work of art which Citrodora had so diligently sculpted out of the empty person who Clara had once been. Now, it only served as a reminder of what she’d lost. Clara’s body, her mind, her soul, everything about her very being had once been an opulent temple to her owner, carved by hand from the harsh, cold stone shell which the old Clara had formed around herself to defend against an uncaring universe. And it was ruined, desecrated, sacked by Clara’s own hand. She had ruined herself, ruined her Mistress’ hard work. Just because she had no other choice didn’t change that everything had been done by her own hand.

“You’re letting your worst thoughts control you again, little pet. Tell me what’s on your mind.” It sounded like a gentle admonishment with a bit of light flirting sprinkled over top, but Clara could feel the grief radiating off her owner. Citrodora should not have needed to ask Clara how she felt. Their connection was far fainter than it should have been; it lacked the full depth and breadth of what a sufficiently attuned pet and owner should feel from one another. Clara longed for the days when she could hide nothing from her beloved Mistress; when Citrodora could sense even the slightest shift in her pet’s mood, could understand Clara better than she herself ever could, and could effortlessly address the girl’s needs before they were even put into words.

“I’m scared, Mistress. I’m scared that things will never go back to the way they were and that it's my fault. And I know I didn’t do anything wrong. But just because I’m not to blame doesn’t mean it wasn’t me who did this.” She looked up into Citrodora’s eyes, watching the motionless mask of Citrodora’s expression bettray all the conflict her beloved owner felt inside. She seemed to be deliberating over how best to respond, though the chance was stolen from her when the door to the office slid open and a familiar affini stepped through.

“Oh Clara, dear little Terran, you doubt not only my handywork, but your owner’s as well?” it sang teasingly. Hygieia Gertrude, Eighth Bloom crossed the length of the room in a single stride, then, with a flourish unfurled itself, slid beneath the examination table, and reformed at her side. It examined Clara for a moment, cupping her chin to look intently into her eyes, then over her body. Its piercing eyes seemed to peer right past her, and into the heart of the twisting, leafy organism dwelling just below Clara’s flesh. A shudder passed through Clara; she couldn’t explain it, but there had always been something about Hygieia, how it looked at Clara, how it looked at all it’s patients; she always felt so exposed under its gaze. It was as though Hygieia could see across her entire lifetime and pick through every bit of her medical

history with no more than a look.

Tense silence stretched on for uncounted moments as Hygieia stared on in complete stillness, as though spellbound. Clara found herself grateful to feel Citrordora’s embrace over her tightening. Without warning, Hygieia suddenly snapped back into motion. It let out a long, melodramatic sigh and clicked its many tongues in a rhythmic snare-like beat. Tutting and shaking its head, Hygieia tenderly stroked Clara’s cheek. “You poor thing,” it cooed. “A sweet little pet, so eager to be exactly what you’re meant to be, held back by a will so strong that neither you, your implant, nor even your owner can snuff it out.”

“You can tell all that just by looking at me?” Clara asked, her voice trembling.

Hygieia softened, its hand rose to gently squeeze Clara’s arm. “No, dear, not just by looking. Your owner sent word ahead of what was going on.” Flashing a conspiratorial smirk, Hygieia made a show of looking about, before leaning in close to speak in a playful whisper. “You wouldn’t believe the hell she raised insisting immediate attention and care for you, as though we would ever keep such a dear pet waiting. She cares very much about you, little one.” One of Hygieia’s many hands extended in a closed fist to hover just before Clara’s face; patting Clara’s head, it unfurled its fist, revealing a handful of brightly wrapped candies perched in its palm. “For later, okay?” It smiled, and stood upright. The stiffness in its posture and searching eyes conveyed a clear distant, professional curiosity, which created a strange cocktail alongside the warmth in its smile and the tenderness of its words.

Growing more serious, Hygieia looked to Citrodora; the two briefly conversed in an affini dialect. Despite having been a floret for years, Clara had never really made any earnest attempt to learn to speak any of the dialects her Mistress knew. As such, she picked up very little of the conversation. From simply the tone alone, however, she could tell Hygieia spoke in significantly more serious and intense manner. Its words she sharp, crisp, staccato, not alarmed, but tightly wound. Sensing her pet could read the tension in the air, Citrodora began to placatingly stroke Clara’s hair to the tempo of her rhythm.

When the doctor seemed satisfied, it again fixed its eyes on Clara and its posture relaxed, the gentle smile returning to its face. “As I said earlier dear, I can’t tell what’s wrong just by looking at you, but there is actually quite a bit I can tell. I’ve performed thousands of implant surgeries on thousands of florets; spent centuries studying in this field, I know exactly how a terran floret with a healthy, functioning three year old implant should look and feel. But you, Clara…” With careful, light prodding, its fingers and vines began to explore Clara’s neck and spine. “Your skin is discolored in places it shouldn’t be. There is irritation where flowers once bloomed outside your flesh, and more where vines still bulge and stretch into places they weren’t meant to. Your voice is off, as is your smell. The way your implant is arranged around the base of your spine suggests the sort of configuration one might expect from an implant only a few weeks old, but the arrangement of vines in your neck are more akin to those of a several decade old implant. Then there’s the song. Your Citrodora noticed it too, but she doesn’t know the instrument as intimately as I do. The song is off; it isn’t Citrodora’s, but you’ve heard it before. We all have; though I think it might be especially familiar to anyone who has spent time aboard Hyperion’s Lantern as of late.”

Shrinking inward under her doctor’s stripping stare, Clara hid inside her owner’s vines. Citrodora responded by further entangling her pet into her innumerable vines. Peering out from the safety of Citrodora’s grasp, she returned Hygieia’s gaze. “So what does all that mean?”

“I have… read about something like this happening before. It’s rare, almost unheard of, but there is documentation of a similar case in some old pre-terran domestication records. Between those records, what your Mistress has told me, and the extensive reports our surveillance and boarding teams compiled regarding the goings on aboard Hyperion’s Lantern, I have a hunch. In order to get a proper read on things, though, I’m going to need to get a better look with this.” Slowly, it withdrew a small, smooth, pale wand-like object with a u-shaped tip, wired to a small display. Hygieia gently tapped a switch on the object, causing it to whir to life. The display lit up, and the tool began to gently hum. Smiling, the doctor brought it closer, holding before Clara’s eyes, allowing the girl to get a good look at it, touch it, get a sense for what it was. “It won’t hurt, it’s just going to take a few readings and map out your implant’s activity. Alright?” After Clara gave an affirmative nod, Hygieia began to run the tool along Clara’s body, and, just as Hygieia promised, Clara didn’t feel a thing.

Several moments passed in silence as the doctor slowly combed over Clara’s body, occasionally pausing to adjust or examine something. After a few minutes, Hygieia seemed satisfied, hummed, and nodded to itself. Taking a moment to crouch and meet Clara’s gaze, Hygieia took her patient by the hand. “It is as I expected, dear. I’ll want to run a few more tests, but first and foremost, I have good news: I know how to fix you, little Clara. The bad news is that it will be… a process. A more invasive process than we might hope. But I assure you it will be safe; we’ll make sure you can go back to being the treasured, kept little possession you were meant to be.”

Another conversation broke out between the two affini. This one quicker, more certain, but slightly troubled. Citrodora, in particular, was clearly growing more stressed by the moment as Clara felt her owner move to tuck her in closer and squeeze her tightly. When the two finished talking, Hygieia again captured Clara’s attention with a light tap on her cheek, then tickle under her chin. “Little one, with how much you pushed the limits and ability of your implant, combined with your… rather unique psychological situation, something unusual has occurred. Your implant nurtured a very strong will within you, which you in turn fed back into it, forming a sort of feedback loop that ultimately resulted in you giving more and more agency and capability to that little lump of plant matter you have wrapped around your spine. And, so, it grew, and adapted, and evolved, and, as you began to push its limits, it began to push back. It pushed your limits, pushed its own limits, grew into something it was never meant to be. It has begun to develop a mind and a will of its own. And, as I suspected, your implant is beginning to develop core tissue.”

“Core tissue? Like, affini core tissue?” Clara asked.

“Precisely, such a clever girl. And that means we’re going to need to surgically remove most of your implant, then replace some of it with a new one. Luckily, this will actually be far easier than we otherwise might expect. Your implant wants out, dear. That strong, unbreakable will you feel in the back of your brain, it’s not yours, dear, it’s your implant’s. The same with the song inside you, that buzzing you were feeling earlier that clashed with your owner’s rhythm. What you once thought was your song, the one you used to subjugate those rebels with, has become your implant’s song. With all the growth you’ve pushed it to undertake, it's become into its own person, a fully fledged consciousness of your own creation. We’re going to let them out.”

Chapter 10

The remainder of Clara’s medical appointment passed in a blur of hasty conversations between her owner and Hygieia, a few more batteries of completely noninvasive tests, and copious amounts of petting and sweets. Clara wasn’t rightly certain what to make of everything she’d heard. These were the sort of matters which a floret was neither meant to consider, nor understand. This sort of thing even happening seemed to be so outside the norm that even Citrodora remained in near disbelief through the majority of her discussion with Hygieia.

As they spoke, Clara occupied herself by ruminating on all she’d heard. On the whole, she did feel a nagging itch to know more about what, exactly, was going on, and she was quite certain that, if she did press for more information, it would be provided. But the part of Clara which wanted a deeper understanding of just what was to be done about her situation stood in stark opposition to the part of her which wanted only to know exactly what her doctor and owner deemed necessary, and not a crumb of information more. It was in that moment, feeling those two conflicting desires—the floret’s urge to let go of anything and everything which kept clara from being her most unburdened self, and the willful, independent urge to question the order which Clara so dearly wished fall back into—that Clara fully grasped what Hygieia had told her in a tangible, concrete manner instead of merely an intellectual one.

There were two selves within Clara. One was a scared, traumatized pet who simply wished for all the wrongness to be taken away, so she could happily exist within the safely confined bounds of her owner's love and allowance. The other, a fledgling soul she had nourished and cultivated, had gladly cooperated with Clara, and even subordinated itself to her; it had propped Clara up into the strong, brave person she’d needed to be on Hyperion’s Lantern. But that was back when it was still simply a lump of unthinking plant matter, before Clara had so thoroughly integrated it into the newer, stronger self she’d constructed aboard that ship, before she had been rescued from that hell which she’d never even wanted to be a part of to begin with. And now Clara was trying to sever herself from that self, but apparently all that strength and will purpose couldn’t just fade away; apparently it had to go somewhere. So it became someone new, and that new someone didn’t want to die.

Was it scared? Did it understand what it was doing to Clara? What Clara had been trying to do to it in her futile attempts at breaking? For that matter, when it was gone, would it take some fundamental part of Clara away with it? Obviously the point was to remove that willfulness which Clara longed to rid herself of, but what if she lost more than that? Back on the ship, Clara had wondered time and time again how much of her was left, and how much of her was the implant. Would removing this fledgling consciousness take away more than simply the parts of her which Clara wished to be rid of? Clara couldn’t help but wonder whether this concern would even occur to her were she a properly broken pet.

The answer, she was fairly certain, was no. Or at least, the old Clara would never have fretted over such questions. Certainly there were other florets who wished to concern themselves with things other than exactly what their owners permitted them to care about, but Clara had been no such pet. Clara had always been glad to exist as exactly what Citrodora wanted her to be, nothing more, and nothing less. A trusted partner, an eager lover, a beloved pet, a cherished object, Clara had been many things. Sometimes she had been an individual with a sharp mind, her own thoughts, her own feelings; at other times, Clara had existed as little more than a living cuddle toy completely incapable of conceiving a world outside the confines of her person’s vines. But no matter how much or how little Clara had been from one moment to the next, she had always been an extension of her owner’s will. And through that, she had always been perfectly content with exactly who and what she was.

When all was said and done, Clara would get to be that way again, right? And, if her fears came to pass, and some essential part of her was removed alongside the consciousness embedded in her spine, Clara could at least take comfort in knowing that Mistress would not allow her pet to feel the least bit of remorse over what she’d lost. She would be happy, endlessly content to be exactly what she was permitted to be, and nothing more. The thought somehow both comforted and disturbed her.

The pet in Clara yearned for the comfort, for the safety, perhaps even the release, the merciful absolution which would accompany Clara’s permanent liberation from personhood and all its burdens. To live a life free of any purpose other than to be adored and pampered—absent of any self outside the experience of blind adoration, devotion and contentment, free even from the leashed allowance of independence Citrodora typically bestowed upon Clara—in the wake of the boundless hurt which her time away from Citrodora had inflicted on Clara, such a life sounded like liberation. At the same time, such thoughts made the parts of Clara which she now recognized as her implant’s fledgling consciousness wish to claw at the proverbial walls of her mind, to thrash and flail and scream.

Either way, it likely would not matter. Questions over what and how the procedure might affect Clara were not hers to consider, or act upon, even her implant seemed to understand that was futile. And, in the end, Citrodora would not allow this sort of surgery to take place if there was a chance it would destroy some essential part of who Clara was. And, once the budding self developing within her implant was extracted, Clara would get to experience that special joy breaking for her owner once more. From then on, if Clara wanted something which her owner did not, she could simply ask Citrodora to rectify that problem. That was how she was meant to be. And, when all was said and done, if Clara still wanted to be reduced, to be remade into a happy little possession incapable of remembering, understanding or caring about that which she had once been through, then that would be a conversation she could have with her Mistress. Most importantly, Clara knew she would be able to go into that conversation secure in the knowledge that no matter what Citrodora decided on the matter, Clara would be incapable of feeling upset over the outcome.

A stirring all around her caught Clara’s attention. Citrodora was standing up, taking Clara along with her. Reflexively, she clung tighter to her Mistress, prompting Citrodora to give her floret a round of reassuring chin scritches, before slightly raising her hand and drawing Clara’s head securely into her chest. “We’re done here for now, my precious little doll. Say thank you to Mx Hygieia, okay?”

“Thank you, Mx Hygieia,” Clara droned automatically. Despite the turbulent mess of a situation she found herself in, Clara took some comfort in just how easy and automatic it had felt to simply let go and obey her owner.

In a display of exaggerated excitement, Hygieia perked up and curled its lips into an overzealous, toothy smile. “Oh but it was my pleasure, sweetheart,” it chirped eagerly, ruffling Clara’s hair as it spoke. To conclude its little spectacle Hygieia gave a little flourishing flick of its wrist, before drawing out another piece of candy from behind Clara’s ear. It took a slight bow, then delicately extended both hands, presenting the colorfully wrapped treat with such grace and deference that one would think Hygieia were performing some time honored ceremony passing on an ancient, priceless artifact. Clara giggled, then rolled her eyes a bit, and extended her hand, before catching herself, and pausing to look up at Citrodora. A proud, permissive smile bloomed across her owner’s face, and Clara plucked the candy from Hygieia hands, earning a round of praise and adoration for being such a good pet.

Embedded among the cozy blanket of good feelings which radiated outward from Citrodora and seeped into her mind, Clara could feel the persistent pinch of anxious worry. It had been carefully wrapped, hidden away and pressed beneath the cornucopia of love and praise and pride which Clara’s wonderful owner wished to inflict on her most beloved treasure, but it was there. Clara could sense it. And reflecting that feeling was the ever persistent feeling of amorphous wrongness within Clara. Still, soaked in her Mistress’ love and care as she was, Clara did feel as though that unwelcome feeling were weaker than usual. Perhaps knowing the route of her problem, and that if could be fixed was helping Clara ignore it; perhaps that same knowledge was soothing the budding person within her, or maybe the simple act of understanding that those desires were not her own was enough for Clara to externalize them. What mattered was that Clara felt so very happily owned, but that in spite of her own relief, the one she loved most was troubled.

“What’s wrong, Mistress?” Clara called, her voice remained soft and musical, full of love, but undercut with the telltale twang of concern.

At first, Citrodora didn’t reply, not with words anyway. She hastened her pace, striding quickly away from the medical clinic and toward home. As she did so the vines wrapping Clara in her wonderful owner’s embrace gave her a brief squeeze, before they began to meticulously roam across Clara’s face and hair, seeming to savor every precious moment of contact. When Citrodora finally stepped out of the medical ward and back into the open air of Annularia’s vast, spacious cityscape, a certain tension which Clara simply hadn’t noticed suddenly released. It almost felt as though Citrodora were literally unfurling herself, though she remained wound up in her humanoid shape. A quiet shudder shook outward from her core down to the tips of her vines, and Citrodora gave a long exhale. She slowed to a stop, looked about for a moment, then carried Clara over to a nearby secluded bench, and sat down, clutching Clara close in her lap.

After a few more moments of quiet deliberation, Citrodora finally replied. “I have been trying very, very hard to put on a brave face. To be strong for you, my dearest, sweet pet. My friends, my colleagues, they are all quite worried about me. I do not wish to cause them undue concern when the solution to our troubles is so clearly laid out for us.” She fell silent for a few moments, rhythmically clenching and unclenching an otherwise unoccupied bundle of vines. When Citrodora began to speak again, her voice had begun to tremble. “But I am frightened, Clara. Hygieia assured me again and again that this would be safe, but it all just sounds so extreme. I just spent days on end worrying about you, terrified that I’d never see you again. All I could think about was how scared you must have been, how lonely, or the innumerable horrible ways those feralists could have hurt you. And now you’re finally back and all I want to do is wrap you in my vines and ensure that you never ever have to suffer again but I can’t even do that. And I just—I don’t want to lose you again.“

All at once, Citrodora seemed to come apart as the torrential turmoil she had been so shakily holding back finally burst forth. And among all that grief, Clara came to a rather obvious conclusion: she couldn’t bear to see the one she loved most suffer so much. But more importantly, it wasn’t just that just that she couldn’t bear it, she wouldn’t bear it. Her Mistress needed her. “Mistress, I’m not going anywhere,” Clara insisted, burying herself in Citrodora’s chest. “I don’t understand… I know you’re scared. But how would you lose me? What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Citrodora admitted. “I understand that this wouldn’t be an option if there was any real risk. It’s just that you’ve been through so much, and we’ll do everything we can to make this next part as comfortable and easy for you as we can, but you shouldn’t have to deal with it at all. And I can’t bear to see you suffer. You deserve so much better than this. It isn’t fair.”

Clara’s expression softened as understanding bloomed within her. “Mistress,” she whispered. Her hand rose to trace the contours of that beautiful, loving face, and sighed. For once, this might have been something a terran was more equipped to deal with. “I hate to be the one to say this. I always hated when people told me this when I was younger. It’s true, though. Life just isn't fair. I hate that that's true, but growing up in the Terran Accord, it's one of the earliest and hardest lessons we need to learn. And you, as well as every other affini I know, have worked hard to fix that. But sometimes people suffer, Mistress, and there's not much you can do but try to end it. I could go back to that ship, Mistress. I could go back to that ship again and again, I could spend weeks, months, years struggling. It wouldn’t change a thing between us. There’s no amount of suffering I could go through that would ruin what I know you can give me, Mistress. I wish it were easier. But there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, and nothing could ever change that.”

“Oh, pet,” Citrodora breathed. “Thank you, dear. I wish I could simply say that your words put all my worries to rest. It is not that easy, but I am grateful all the same. And it does help, it helps quite a bit, knowing that you were strong enough to get this far. That you’ll be strong enough to make it through this last bit of hardship. And I promise you, once all this is said and done, you’ll never need to be strong again.” A soft smile brushed across Citrodora’s lips. “Perhaps tonight we do something to take our minds off all this,” she offered.

Clara cocked her head in curiosity. “Mistress?”

“Hygieia wrote you a prescription which should be delivered home shortly. It’s a bit of an unusual regimen, not the sort of thing commonly used during domestication. But the drugs should help disentangle you and your implant, and curb its hold over you. That’s both mentally and physically, by the way. Apparently they’ll help you ignore the disruptive effects your… rogue implant is having.” An edge of irritation crept into her tone, which Citrodora quickly smoothed out. Gingerly, she plucked Clara off her lap, then set her back down, this time kneeling in place and facing her owner. Vines all across Clara’s body suddenly tightened just enough to hold her firmly in place, preventing her from moving at all, save a bit of fruitless squirming. One of Citrodora’s hands rose to cup Clara’s chin, tilting her gaze upward as a stray vine looped itself around her neck. “Tonight, pet, we’re going to forget the hard road that still lies ahead. Tonight, nothing is wrong. We’ll go home, have a nice dinner, curl up together and relax, finally enjoy one another without any pretense or apprehension. And, when we’re both good and ready, I’ll remind you exactly what it means, and how it feels to be my pet.”

Chapter 11

Through the duration of her brief, unwilling tenure back aboard Hyperion’s Lantern, Clara had been, quite obviously, most concerned with getting home to her Mistress. That specific phrasing, home to her Mistress, was absolutely essential to describe exactly what it was Clara needed most. For Clara, Citrodora was home. To be held by Citrodora, wrapped up snugly in her owner’s vines, was to belong. Beyond that, the ‘where’ didn’t really matter. Still, as Clara was carried over the threshold of her and Citrodora’s hab unit, she realized just how dearly she’d missed this home as well. The familiar sights and smells rushing up to greet her brought with them a plethora of cozy, intimate feelings and memories.

And just like that, clutched in her Mistress’ arms, surrounded by all the mainstays of the idyllic life she and Citrodora had together, Clara was finally able to allow herself to slip down into a moment of pure, simple, pet-like indulgence. In all the universe, there was no place safer, better, or more comfortable than Mistress’ vines. And, in all the universe, there was no place safer, better, or more comfortable for Mistress to hold Clara in said vines, than within the familiar walls of their hab unit. A dopey, contented smile spread across Clara’s face. She was home.

Citrodora lingered in the foyer for a moment, sweeping her gaze across their surroundings. A few half formed words stumbled from her lips as she anxiously fiddled with her vines and fussed over Clara’s hair. “I, um, I did my best to keep it how you remembered it. I probably could have cleaned up a bit better before you arrived,” she finally managed.

If their hab really was any messier, Clara was in no state to notice it. The relief she was feeling had formed a potent mixture with the raw, exposed nerve of her time away. And so, in light of it all, Clara wept. She wept from joy, from hurt, from comfort, from the pain of just how wrong everything still was, from the relief of knowing that it would all be over soon. Most of all, she wept because she knew Citrodora would be there to dry her tears. Nothing was more comforting than feeling her pain recede under the careful ministrations of her beloved owner, knowing that, no matter how bad things became, Citrodora would take her pain away, again and again, as many times as Clara needed. Between choking whimpers, she managed to force out a single cry for Citrodora. “Mistress,” she whimpered, shaking in her owner’s arms.

With slow, tender deliberateness, Citrodora’s vines began to tighten around her, and gently slid and coiled across Clara’s form. “I know, dear, I know,” she cooed. “It’s hard. I want to tell you that you don’t have to struggle anymore, but until we get the matter with your implant sorted, I can’t even do that.” No matter how hard she tried, Citrodora couldn’t mask the grief and guilt she felt in uttering those words. Still, her determination won out, and she persisted. “Tonight though, things will be different, I promise. I can’t end your hardship, but I can hide it. I can take your awareness of all that wrongness, and I can crush it, grind it into coarse powder, and let it scatter in the wind. Tonight you are my pet, and I am your owner.”

As much as Clara wished to simply take everything Citrodora said at face value, she simply couldn’t. It was strange, she had been so content in knowing that Citrodora could soothe her hurt, and yet, when confronted with it, Clara felt an uneasy, anxious malaise. “But, what if something goes wrong?” She couldn’t help herself, the question forced its way out before Clara had a chance to consider it.

A slow, thoughtful sigh rose and fell in Citrodora’s chest. With a few gentle, doting strokes across Clara’s cheek, Citrodora crossed the room, and sat upon a couch, setting Clara in her lap. Through her owner’s silence, Clara could feel the distinct sense that Citrodora’s response to Clara’s anxieties was a work in progress. And, thankfully, she found it easy enough to wait patiently for her owner to come up with a response which Clara had to believe would fix everything. In her peripheral, Clara watched a vine snake outward to reach for a neatly wrapped parcel. There was a moment of fiddling, before Citrodora’s vine returned, with a syringe bared. That unwanted part of her seized up for a moment. Clara squirmed, her sobbing intensified as she felt the makings of protest coalescing in her throat, but before the words came Citrodora caught her by the chin, and gently nudged her gaze up into her owner’s.

“I know you’re scared,” she murmured. “But you do not get to decide what is best for her on her behalf. You do not get to decide for her what she wants. That’s my job. Even so, I don’t need to tell her what to want, she already wants what’s best for her. And I will not allow anyone to interfere, not even you.” The needle inched closer, and Clara tensed, her breath hitched in her throat as her mouth opened to shout silent objection. Instead, the only sound she could produce was a quiet whimper. “It’s okay,” Citrodora soothed. Her hand began to dotingly stroke Clara’s hair as a stray vine caressed her cheek. The momentary distraction was enough, and Citrodora sunk the needle into Clara’s flesh.

She breathed a slow sigh of relief as warmth bloomed in her chest, banishing her anxiety with it. A few more pinches throughout her body told Clara that Citrodora was injecting her with additional drugs. It occurred to Clara that she might ask what sort of drugs she was being given, though presumably, at least some of them were those which Hygieia had prescribed to help silence her implant's unwelcome intrusions. The rest though, Clara had no idea. Then she remembered that such things weren’t for her to know, and her curiosity vanished. The unwelcome buzz of her implant’s dissonant song was fading, dwindling and flickering into barely audible white noise. Just like that it suddenly became so easy, so effortless to allow Citrodora’s song to wash over her, and completely smother her awareness of the unwelcome, invading rhythm. It was still there, Clara was certain, but she could pretend it wasn’t. She could savor the taste of this sample, this prelude to her liberation from anything and everything but Citrodora’s perfect ownership.

As Citrodora visited further and further strokes and caresses along Clara’s flesh, she began to whisper all manner of sweet, comforting words. “It’s okay, Clara love. I’m here. I’m here and you’re safe. Tonight, nothing is wrong, okay? Nothing at all.” With each doting touch, and soothing sound, Clara felt herself begin to calm. One by one, her sobs subsided. Burying her face into Citrodora’s chest, Clara breathed deep of her owner’s scent. Releasing one final shudder of relief, Clara looked back up, toward Citrodora. She mirrored her owner’s adoring smile, her eyes unfocusing as the universe shrunk down into nothing but Mistress and pet.

“You asked me, dearest, ‘what if something goes wrong?’ The answer is simple. It will not. You trust me, Clara.” Citrodora was not asking. She was right; Clara trusted Mistress. Standing, Citrodora set Clara onto the floor, and strode across their hab. One of her vines lingered, wrapping loosely around Clara’s wrist. As it began to lose slack, one gentle tug was enough to send Clara scampering after Citrodora, eager to obey the silent command.

She followed Citrodora through the living room and into the dining room, which had been tastefully decorated to create an intimate, romantic atmosphere. The lights were dim, the dining table had been set with a deep burgundy tablecloth, matching the color of Clara’s favorite of all Citrodora’s flowers. Candles were laid out, though they seemed to produce no scent, as the entire room smelled strongly of Citrodora. Clara took a moment to breathe deep, and smiled at the simple reminder of Mistress. The table was set, though no food had been yet laid out. Said matter seemed to be one of the many things which Citrodora was seeing to at that exact moment, however, as one of her vines had made a bee-line for their kitchen's stasis unit. The rest of Citrodora stood waiting for Clara to catch up, looking down at her pet with an expression of apprehensive hopefulness, and, of course, a wellspring of boundless love.

As she drew near, Clara felt an indulgent, pet-like desire bloom within her, and, for no other reason than that it made her happy to do so, she rushed forward and threw herself against one of Citrodora’s towering legs, wrapping her arms around Mistress, and nuzzling her cheek into soft, smooth plant flesh. Citrodora wasted no time showering Clara with a delightful amount of affection and praise. And, when she was done doing so several minutes later, pulled Clara’s chair out for her, then lifted her up and sat her down at the table, before pushing her chair back in, and awarding her with another round of indulgent petting. Once all was said and done, Citrodora breathed a contented sigh, and smiled down at her floret. “It makes me happy, little one, to see you so much yourself again.”

Blushing, Clara smiled up at her Mistress, and gave one of her vines a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, Mistress. I feel good right now, really good. I know that this isn’t over but—”

“Hush, little one. None of that. Nothing is wrong tonight, remember? If making you forget for the time being that there is a problem to begin with is necessary to ensure you do not fret over the future, then I won’t hesitate.” Citrodora loomed over Clara, her face split into a wide, hungry grin. The pet shivered in place, it had been so long since Citrodora even needed to use such aggressively domineering flirtation to keep Clara in line. She had forgotten how it felt to be so viscerally reminded of the grip Citrodora held over her mind, her body, her very soul. It felt safe. It also felt ridiculously hot.

With the latter of those two responses far more at the forefront of her mind, Clara breathed a flushed, breathless “yes, Mistress,” and simply slumped forward. Citrodora, of course, caught her with ease, and righted her, giving the girl a bit of extra posture support to ensure she didn’t fall out of her chair again until properly recovered from that bit of flirting.

Keeping Clara upright, Citrodora knelt beside her pet, and held the girl’s gaze in the grip of her vines and piercing eyes. This was, of course, far from necessary; Clara would be hard-pressed to look anywhere else. Her intense gaze softened into a tender, lovestruck stare, eyes sparkling with undertones of red and golds, smile slackening into a casual, relaxed calm. “I got you something, little one.” All around Clara, she could hear the echoes and whispers of her owner’s voice resonating and reverberating from all sides. Two taps from one of Citrodora’s vines bade Clara tilt her chin upward, and she did so without question or hesitance. With a showy flourish, Citrodora curled a vine into herself, flexing an array of bright, twirling flowers along her vine as she rummaged around within the tangle of her form for a moment, before withdrawing the vine, and bearing Clara’s gift.

“I thought they were likely to take yours away from you, so I made this one just for you.” Resting in the palm of a rapidly forming hand, was a collar formed from tightly woven vines arranged in an ornate twisting pattern of knots and colorful flowers. A small loop protruded from its front, which bore a heart-shaped nameplate; upon it, Clara’s name had been inscribed in both English, and a local affini script. Every lovingly etched swoop and curve of every letter glowed a faint cyan, to match the glimmer of Citrodora’s eyes.

Simply seeing it hanging in the air, suspended inches before her face, was enough to awaken the long buried sensation of just how absolutely exposed the skin around her neck felt. There was no room for doubt or denial—not that Clara would ever choose to feel that way to begin with—Clara was desperate to feel that mark of Citrodora’s ownership fit softly and snugly around the tender flesh of her neck and throat. Her breath quickened, face flushing as she began to pant and silently stare up at Citrodora, wordlessly pleading to feel that beautiful collar, made just for her, slip around her neck.

A knowing smirk split Citrodora’s tenderness into smug flirtation. “Such a desperate need written so large across such a pretty face.” A vine stroked across Clara’s cheek, before sliding into the girls mouth. Instinctively, Clara allowed her owner to slip between her lips as she ran her tongue along the vine in slow, lazy, docile strokes. The world around her grew blurry as her eyes lost focus and her head began to lull. Nevertheless, Clara kept her gaze, increasingly glassy and vacant as it was, locked ahead and upward toward Mistress.

Citrodora took a slow breath, her chest rising and falling in time with a gentle crest, then dip in her song. A thoughtful hum resonated through the air around Clara as Citrodora remained still for a moment, watching her pet lick and suckle on the intruding vine. She chuckled, then shook her head lightly. “I had intended this to be a romantic moment. I suppose it still is, but I also see now just how much your body missed writhing helplessly beneath me. It is so very clear; you crave this collar the way a horse craves the embrace of its cocoon. You are not yourself without it.” Another agonizing moment of thought passed, the only sound was a quiet whine from the back of Clara’s throat as she gazed up at Mistress, eyes full of pleading, desperate want. An adoring, but sympathetic smile crossed Citrodora’s face. “Under other circumstances, I might make you beg for it. But you have done so much more than anyone could ever ask of you to earn this, my dearest, most beloved pet.”

Wasting no more time, Citrodora extended her vines outward to loop the collar around Clara’s neck. Vines enveloped her exposed flesh, and Clara shuddered with relief as Mistress tightened the collar around her neck. Citrodora fastened, then tightened the collar with slow, deliberate care and intimacy; She agonized and fussed over ensuring it fit perfectly, just loose enough to remain comfortable, but tight enough to ensure Clara would never be without the delightful feeling of plant matter brushing across sensitive skin. As Mistress worked, Her eyes never strayed from the blissful, adoring expression plastered clumsily across Clara’s face, and the content, caring smile which lazily stretched across Her own face never faltered.

When the deed was finally done, Clara again simply went limp, slumping forward toward Mistress’ waiting vines. Of course, just like last time, Citrodora caught Her pet with ease. With slow, careful movements, She lifted Clara up, clutched Her floret against Her chest, then crossed to the opposite end of their dining table in a single stride. Keeping Clara close, Mistress sat, and wove her vines into a comfortable perch for Clara to sit upon, so as to ensure she could remain neatly tucked under Mistress’ chin. With wistful amusement tugging at each and every syllable, Citrodora clicked Her many tongues, then spoke. “I had intended for the two of us to have a more traditional face-to-face dinner date. Something tells me, though, that you would prefer to remain here. And stars, I simply cannot deny myself the indulgence of keeping you so close.”

Clara remained silent, allowing the echoes of her boundless contentment and comfort which sang outward from her heart to speak on her behalf. A satisfied shutter shook its way through Mistress’ vines, and Clara smiled. A moment later, Clara felt a vine tap the side of her jaw. Instinctively, her mouth popped open. The vine which she had still been oh so lethargically toying with slid out, and, for a moment, Clara felt a distant, but sharp edge of faint disappointment begin to creep into her mind. Then the vine returned, this time carrying with it a bite of hearty, spicy stewed meat. She chewed, moaning at the eruption of the most delicious, flavorful food she’d had in over a week.

With routine familiarity, Mistress waited for Clara to properly chew, before massaging the girl's throat to help her swallow. Stars, how Clara had missed this simplicity of it all. She could, of course, feed herself, and was even allowed to do so, unlike some pets. But after a week of—she wasn’t allowed to think about that—after so long without such personal care, it felt so right to allow Mistress to take care of everything. With her food swallowed, the vine lingered in Clara’s mouth. Instinctively she knew exactly what Mistress wanted of her, and Clara began to eagerly and dutifully lick off every last drop of the sauce which remained stuck to Mistress’ vine.

As a reward for such good behavior, Mistress lavished Clara with an exorbitant amount of eager petting and carefully curated praise. Adrift in the comfort of Her arms, Clara closed her eyes. She felt another tap on her jaw, and immediately opened her mouth, swelling with anticipation for the next delicious bite. As the warm, flavorful morsel slipped into her mouth, Clara breathed a contented sigh; that was all it took to banish the remaining scraps of tension. With that, Clara let herself go, and allowed the pet’s instincts, which Mistress had so diligently trained into her, take over.