Danger to Oneself and Others Chapter 12

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Chapter 12

So thoroughly entangled within Citrodora’s control, Clara’s night passed in a blurt of cozy, comfy, horny bliss. Truthfully, if one were to look at it in the grand scheme of things, it was hardly that distinct from any routine evening one might expect to encounter within the typical home of an affini floret pair. Citrodora took great care to treat Clara with the utmost indulgence every step of the way; she was fed, bathed, cuddled senseless, and pet until she couldn’t see, think, or walk straight. And, when the night came to a close, Clara was more than happy to curl up in Mistress’ lap, nestle her head into the soft warmth of Her chest, and quietly drift off to the rhythm of Her breathing and the feeling of Her fingers running through Clara’s hair. She dreamed pleasant dreams, filled with the scent of her owner.

The first thing Clara felt when she drifted back upward into consciousness was the feeling of a needle resting in her arm. It didn’t hurt, it was just there, and a tad bit uncomfortable. Then her eyes opened, and the first thing she saw was Mistress smiling down at her, and her discomfort was quickly forgotten. Seeing her pet had finally awoken, Citrodora perked up a little. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, little one.”

“It’s okay, Mistress,” Clara mumbled. Really, how could she ever complain about anything? She was safely secure in her owner’s vines, on a soft, comfortable bed. Her head felt pleasantly heavy, her vision blurry save the one shining beacon of brilliant perfection that was Citrodora. Comfort, safety, love, Mistress, Clara hadn’t even gotten out of bed and she already had all the things which mattered most to her.

Citrodora nodded sweetly and, with an indulgent vine stroke across Clara’s cheek, began to idly fuss over her pet: brushing Clara’s hair, wiping the sleep from her eyes, straightening out her tangled and crumbled pajamas, when all was said and done, Citrodora withdrew another needle, and began to softly speak. “The drugs I’m giving you now are meant to keep you nice and relaxed as we prepare you for your surgery in a few days. It’s going to be a complex and invasive procedure—not too invasive, mind you, but we need to make sure both you, and your implant are ready. So you’re going to be fairly sedated as I give you some drugs meant to pair back your implant. Luckily we don’t need to take out the whole thing, just the core tissue, but, it’ll be best if you’re only semi lucid for the whole process, okay, my precious Clara?”

The longer Citrodora spoke, the more her words began to sound distant and muddled, like soft, comfy, gentle sounds. Still, Clara understood; she may not have heard, but she understood. Mistress was going to be drugging her. She would be on the less lucid end of things for a while, but it was all for her own good. All to prepare her for her surgery. Her surgery… the thought of it thrust an unwelcome spike of anxiety piercing into the pleasant haze of Mistress’ comfort. She could practically feel that cruel sense of wrongness stabbing its way into her; it grasped Clara by the heels and dragged her out of the cozy headspace which Citrodora took such care to drape over her mind.

Clara felt as though she were in the midst of a tug-of-war, only she was the rope, held taut between the welcome warmth of her Mistress’ ownership, and the intrusive, unbreakable will which had made her mind its nesting place. Try as she may, Clara was helpless to force the unwelcome, wrong thoughts from eating at her. No amount of reminding herself that she wasn’t supposed to be this way could save her from the reality of her feelings. Worst of all, even the thought of her surgery, the very thing which was meant to fix her, seemed to only feed the fire of anxiety within her mind.

They would be cutting her open and taking her implant. It didn’t matter that the procedure was meant to help, Clara knew next to nothing about what it all really meant for her. She had come to rely so much on her implant, both as a pet and during her captivity. What or who even was Clara without her implant? Of course it would be replaced, but it wasn’t going to be her implant. It was going to be a new one; would Clara even be the same? These weren’t the sort of thoughts a pet was meant to have; that didn’t stop them from arising unbidden. Perhaps Mistress’ drugs, the ones meant to pair back her implants’ intrusive influence, had begun to wear off. Perhaps thinking of her impending procedure had triggered some fight or flight response in the budding person entwined with her own mind. The reason behind it all mattered little; it wouldn’t change how Clara felt.

Thankfully, Citrodora seemed to notice the conflict on her beloved’s face, and, with a soft smile, she pulled Clara closer, pressing one of her flower’s toward Clara’s face. Mistress began to speak, her words soothing, but not particularly intelligible. The sound of Her voice was still enough to help Clara calm down. As a needle slid into her arm, Clara drew in a slow breath, savoring the sweet smell of her beloved owner. Her thoughts began to slow as her mind grew hazy, and, without even realizing it, she was flipped into her back, and her head was placed in Mistress’ lap, gazing up into those beautiful glowing eyes. Smiling down at Clara, Mistress gently brushed a vine over her, and said something soft and sweet and soothing which Clara didn’t quite catch. It didn’t matter; she promptly fell asleep.

When she next awoke, Clara found herself in a warm, verdant place. Her eyes opened and, as her consciousness gained purchase, all of her senses began to rapidly hone into a sharp, bright and vibrant awareness of the world around her. It was honestly unusual; Clara wasn’t used to experiencing everything in such sharp relief. Her surroundings were so bright and loud and full of sensation. The exact opposite of what she would expect from being a drugged up pet.  All of Clara’s instincts insisted, practically screamed at her that she ought to be unbearably overstimulated. And yet, she was fine. No blaring headache from the light or sound, no pain from her hypersensitivity. Though, strangely, there was no class-a sort of pleasure either. She was not basking in a floret’s hedonistic bliss of physical sensation. Instead, She was just there, hyper aware of all her senses, and a bit tired… also a bit confused. But really, she just felt entirely fine, at least physically.

There was one burning issue at the back of her mind, however, Clara had no clue where she was; this wasn’t her hab, that much was for certain. Looking about idly, she was fairly certain she found herself outside. Or, at least, she was in one of Annularia’s open areas. All around her was a vibrant spectrum of colorful plants in various stages of bloom. This was, admittedly, not an unusual sight within any affini ship or city, but Clara had no earthly—or spacely—idea how she’d gotten wherever it was she’d awoken. Beyond that, normally Clara would expect to awaken with her mind awash in distant, hazy pleasure, or simply comfortable, cozy relaxation—especially considering everything Citrodora had told her about her xenodrug regimen. And yet, her mind felt shockingly clear. She hadn’t felt so lucid since leaving Hyperion’s Lantern, which begged the question: why?

A soft huff vibrated through her body as her curiosity won out over her desire to simply lay around and be comfortable. Clara sat up. That was when she realized something was wrong. Had she grown? She felt larger, taller. Or at least, the world around her felt smaller. Despite being seated, the myriad of plants in the garden surrounding her barely reached her chest in height, and the ground seemed so far away. Perplexed, she brought a hand to her head to rub her temples and snap her out of this strange vertigo, then she saw it. Where her hand should have been, she saw a mass of twisting, colorful flowering vines. Hardly believing her eyes, Clara clenched her hand, and watched that leafy, viney hand clench with her. Whatever last vestiges of sleepy relaxation were scoured away as she gasped in shock and scrambled to her feet.

If Clara had felt tall while seated, she was utterly shocked at the world around her upon standing. She towered over everything and this—this wasn’t possible. Her breaths were coming short and fast, except, they weren’t breaths, not really. Her form expanded and contracted in time with the movement of air through her mouth, but no lungs filled, no biological need was sated by the manual passing of said air. Instead, she simply felt her whole self emanating from one central, alien place deep within her and it wasn’t supposed to be that way. She wasn’t supposed to be this way. Panic swelled within her, and she glanced downward at herself and confirmed the worst of her fears. Vines, vines and flowers and wood everywhere she looked. Long limbs, twisting masses of tangled plant matter, impossibly complex configurations twisting into one humanoid form. This was not a human body. Clara was an affini. Clara wasn’t Clara. She wasn’t herself. She was the implant.

Where was Citrodora? Where was Mistress? This was all wrong, she wasn’t supposed to be this way there had to be a mistake she was a floret. She was a pet. She had been so good and they took her from her home and now she was supposed to be one of them? She couldn’t be an affini. She couldn’t be expected to take care of herself let alone others; it was all wrong. She just wanted to go home. She just wanted Mistress but she couldn’t have Mistress; Mistress wasn’t there. Mistress was with the real Clara, with her pet. And now Clara would have to be responsible and work and provide for others but that was all wrong she just wanted to curl up in her owner’s lap and fall asleep and never have to do anything but be a quiet and simple and safe and beloved pet. And what if she was the only Clara left? What if the body she left behind was nothing without her? What if she had taken that mind and eroded it, replaced it with her own while copying it to herself. What if Citrodora had been left with a mindless, empty shell, and now all that was left was just a sad and lonely and broken plant who just wanted her owner but couldn’t have that because she wasn’t a floret she was an affini she was supposed to be an owner but she was a pet.

Not-Clara took a step, but the world was spinning too fast around her for her to comprehend up from down. Her balance gave out and she collapsed into the soft earth below. Then, from across the way, Clara saw Her. She saw Mistress; she saw the real Clara. They were together, happy, living without a care in the world. In unison, their gazes both cast toward her, and Clara extended a shaky hand toward her owner. In a desperate bid for comfort, the wrong Clara tried to call out to her owner. No words would form, her body was locking up, stiffening and twitching and flailing and weighing her down as she unraveled. Mistress and the real Clara looked on silently. A worried look crossed the floret’s face, and she looked up to her owner for guidance. Citrodora turned away from the false Clara, back to the real one. She smiled, said something unintelligible, and the two walked away, paying no heed to the writhing panicking affini coming apart before them. Darkness crept in all around her, and Clara slipped out of consciousness.

The next thing Clara knew, her eyes were flying open. Blind terror siezed her, and she lurched forward, screaming in grief, anguish, horror. Tears streamed down her eyes as her voice broke off into weak, choking sobs. Everything was wrong, she was wrong. They had taken her from her owner. She was just a pet but they’d taken her. Where was she? It was so dark. She was indoors? on something soft, a bed? It was too dark to see and—a vine curled around her torso, and pulled her back downward. Something sharp pierced the flesh of her arm, and a warm feeling spread outward through her entire body. Her breaths began to slow; she’d been hyperventilating without even realizing it.

The vine continued to wind its way around Clara, then drew her closer to a dark, hulking, comforting shape in the darkness and—she knew this vine. It was Citrodora’s, Mistress’. Clara was with Mistress. That didn’t make sense, she’d been—without warning, an array of vines rose to envelope Clara as she was hoisted into her owner’s lap. A comforting, familiar hand rose to stroke Clara’s hair, and the world around her became awash in the smells and sounds of Her. Clara took a deep breath of that familiar, soothing, flowery scent, and exhaled into a long sigh. She reached up to her neck, touching the smooth material of her collar, then went limp, fell against Mistress, and came apart in Her arms.

More and more vines appeared, and Citrodora began to weave and shape herself into a loose canopy which easily covered Clara’s shaking form. A soft, familiar hum reverberated through the air all around Clara. She felt herself being gently lifted, and Citrodra wove Herself into the empty space below. When Clara was deposited back down, it was not onto the bed, but into a safe, warm, nearly airtight enclosure of Her. A pair of glowing eyes pierced the darkness, casting soft light onto a myriad of blooming flowers which filled Clara’s entire world with the sights and smells of her most precious person. The air was heavy, smothering Clara in Citrodora’s song. Any conception of a place outside Her embrace quickly vanished from Clara’s mind.

From every direction, she heard a thousand voices begin to speak in disparate, soothing, bespoke tones and tongues. Nestled safely within the eye of the storm, Clara allowed herself to be carried by the gentle currents of Her song. Whether or not she understood what was being said, Clara could not say. It was hard to say what language—or languages—Citrodora spoke in. Her words overlapped and looped and echoed in ways which seemed so random, without reason, without purpose. Yet from the dead center of Her crescendo, Clara could feel so instinctively how they all somehow wove effortlessly together into a perfect resonance, a resonance which passed cleanly through Clara’s soul and left behind a stark and bright impression of all the things Mistress wanted her to know. Clara was good. Clara was loved. Clara was safe. Everything was okay. Clara was with Her, and nothing bad could happen. The shaking stopped, Clara’s tears began to halt, she had nearly forgotten what was even bothering her in the first place, so enraptured by Her presence was Clara.

As Clara felt herself calming, the voices around her began to diminish, slow, and quiet. In perfect time with a rest in the flourishes of her song, the voices faded out, and complete silence fell over Clara. Then, just as the silence was beginning to tug at Clara’s soul, to drag out a cloying desire for the presence of her owner’s song, Citrodora spoke with a thousand voices, in perfect unison. “Are you okay, Clara dearest?”

On instinct, Clara felt her response flow out of her, playing her part of the song with it. “I think so, Mistress. I just—I had a nightmare.”

Citrodora sighed, and the air surrounding Clara was filled with a fresh, warm, fragrant breeze. “I’m so sorry, little one. They can’t hurt you ever again. I promise.” Of course, the words were meant to comfort. And they did, at first anyway. Yet Clara couldn’t help but remind herself that they had not been what terrorized her dreams. She had felt so alone, so scared. Was that her nightmare, or the implant’s? Was there a difference? Like that, the wrong feelings were clawing their way back.

“It’s not them I’m afraid of,” Clara whimpered. A quiet rumble surrounded Clara. It felt like encouragement, the air which carried the sound tasted of empathetic curiosity. “What if I’m not real?” The words hung thick and heavy, they stilled the air and carved out a harrowing silence, but she pushed through the fear. “What if I’m not me? What if they take the implant out, and there’s no one, nothing left? What if I lose you again?”

A thoughtful hum rang out all around Clara, filling the air with sympathetic understanding and soothing notes. After allowing the sound to resonate for a moment, Citrodora spoke. “Perhaps we should speak to Hygieia about this matter. I’m sure it can give you a more medically informed explanation as to why and how your fears are unfounded, beloved. In the meantime, though, know this: you are mine. Your body is mine, your thoughts are mine, your life is mine, your soul is mine. You will not wither away under my care, I will not allow it. Your mind, your essence, the things that make up who you are will never be pruned away, not unless I am the one holding the shears. The matter is quite simple, you do not have permission to leave me, my Clara, so you will not. Everything is going to be okay, you need not worry, you will not worry. These next days will pass in a blissful, drugged haze. I will ensure you have the chance to speak to Hygieia before your operation. But rest assured: you will hardly notice the passing of time. You will be out of surgery and recovered before you know it. And then, everything will be the way it should be again.” Smiling down on Clara, Citrodora stroked the girl’s cheek, and tucked a flower behind her ear. “Now sleep, dear pet,” she crooned. “I will see to it personally that you are plagued no further by restless nights or frightful dreams.”

Clara did not hear the last of her Mistress’ soothing ministrations. The moment Citrodra had ordered her to sleep, Clara slipped away.