Chapter Text
“Loneliness?”
“Correct!”
“You’re diagnosing me with fucking loneliness ?”
Almis, my doctor—I refuse to address them as a veterinarian, even if I had to give them more credit than they deserved to deny it—turns away to a sealed specimen cabinet and continues, “Miss Prince, you professed not ten minutes ago that you ‘have no need of those sycophants who’ve taken to curling up in pet beds rather than contributing to a worthy field.’”
“And I was right to do so.”
“To the question of whether you have friends .”
“Do not misrepresent, you asked if I remained friends with my former colleagues , who almost invariably filled the role of sycophant!”
They turn back to me, a vine holding a small case containing something deep green and pink. “And the ones who did not?”
“Until they deign to read a single one of my recent essays, we have nothing to discuss.”
Almis scribbles something into their tablet. “So, no friends.”
I contemplate whether I could burn a hole through their satisfied green face if I glared hard enough. My composure remains iron. “I have all the amicable acquaintances I need to live my life happily.”
Almis’s feathery leaves riffle in something like a sigh, “Hairdressers and publishing clerks are no substitute for meaningful connections, miss Prince. You are well aware that humans are social beings by nature. A life so unnecessarily devoid of companionship will take a physical toll on the body. I simply don’t want my next visit from you to be contingent on something far worse than a panic attack. And if I cannot help you today, I would be a poor vet to deny the BXWC’s assertion that you need a case worker, nor the NFPO’s attempts to recommend you for a wardship. And I know you wouldn’t be pleased with either outcome.”
Well, at least the green fool recognizes one truth about me. I would prefer as few of the fucking plants in my business as possible. Ideally I’d prefer them out of everyone’s business, but I’m not naive enough to express as much outside the text of my most measured sociopolitical interrogations of the compact, buried in sensible concerns and plausible deniability and the platonic ideal of a charming author photo.
I turn my weaponized disinterest to Almis, “If you sincerely intend to prescribe ‘making friends’, I would prefer future appointments be conducted by net messenger where they clearly belong.” Where I can filter them into the appropriate trash bin.
Almis pops the seal on the little specimen case and the hint of a razor grin spreads over their face. The satisfaction in their voice is revolting, “As a matter of fact, miss Prince, I have the perfect thing to assist with such a prescription.”
~~~
I’m not delusional. I know I cannot continue to live as I did until six months ago. And I know I don’t need every piece of it to be happy.
I know I don’t need my offworld bank accounts. I know I don’t need the ears of Ganymede's governor or the chairman of the terran AFO branch. I don’t need a top spot on a bestseller list of a newspaper that no longer exists. I don’t need my personal collection of Rinan war relics or the 18th century text originals that, admittedly, could’ve had their hermetic cabinet checked more frequently for leaks.
But I know what I do need, and what I need is to be listened to , not a fucking flower attached to my starsdamned temple! That hack Almis claimed that its class C xenodrug drip would be mild, and only delivered when the neural bridge detects that I’m engaging in a conversation without an associated fear or anxiety response. Supposedly when not active it would remain furled and discreet enough to be mistaken for a common neuralink pip. But as with all affini caregivers, I trust them about as well as I can incinerate them with my mind.
I will be making precise logs of my emotional state following every social interaction and when, not if, I find discrepancies in its efficacy as a treatment vector, the Bureau of Xenosophont Wellness and Care will wish they’d never codified a veterinary malpractice complaint form.
Class Cs. Stars, what a fucking joke. If I need a bonding enhancer I’ll go to a bar and meet a pretty thing over a drink like a normal person. Useless fucking doctor, just like the rest of their ilk.
I can feel the kind of rage that makes perfect kindling for a new journal issue coming on. Time to head home and write.
~~~
I pray to whatever imaginary higher power will listen that my waste of space neighbor will have the sense to leave me to my–
“Heya, Cat!”
Five steps from the door. Fuck. It’s only my heart rate that stops me. I'm used to Gracie raising it in anger, but today it carries the memory of collapsing in the cafe, of chest pain and black spots in my vision and the absolute conviction that I’m dying. She’s in front of me before I can stir myself, all eleven rotund, speckled green and pink feet of her. She could at least have the decency to keep her mimicry kempt and composed like the more aesthetically pleasing of her race; she’s half stray leaves and tangled vines by volume.
I restrain a growl, “Gracie, I told you not to call me that. It's Catamina. Or nothing at all, optimally. Decided to get off the couch today, did you?” The window perpendicular to my entryway has always been very revealing regarding my deadbeat neighbor’s daily activity, or lack thereof.
“Yeeeah, front garden’s got a nutrient imbalance I’m just noticing, and there’s pruning to be done.” Perhaps she would’ve noticed sooner if she went outside . She continues, “Speaking of, I noticed your own portion of the garden’s looking a little… undertended .”
She motions to the bed where the Jovian peppers I planted on a whim after seeing Jules Crane’s own thriving on her feed are wilting before their first fruiting. It’s not my fault I haven’t had time to learn to care for exotic plants while trying to carve out a world where coexisting with the other plants doesn’t make me wilt!
I sigh, “I’m getting to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have writing to do.”
“Oh right, your little pet project! Once and Future right? How’s that going?”
“ Fine, Gracie.” I hiss through gritting teeth, “Better if you move so that I can go work on the next issue!”
“Alright alright, don’t get yourself all knotted! I’ll get out of your hair. But uh…” She glances to my other beleaguered flowerbeds before leaning in far too closely. Her sickly sweet musk is an assault I struggle not to flinch from. “Little one, if you’d like a little help with the garden, I’d be thrilled to lend a vine. I’m quite the greenfinger! My help would be All You Need.”
I’m about to carve her a new fake mouth for having the gall to use such a condescending address when the heat rolls through me. Unfurling from my temple, oozing molasses and warming spice down through my head, fluttering heat into my chest, fingers of warm bath water tickling down through my limbs. The memory of warm tonkotsu broth and a good nap whispers through me and I look back up to Gracie and she’s–
“You alright, KitCat? Long day catchin up to you?”
She’s staring at me with her four big teardrop eyes, cool blue and tender pink dancing something that feels like concern in metallic pools. They’re so beautiful. How did I never notice…
“Terra to Cat, hellooo. You need some water?”
She’s waving a hand in front of my eyes and I’m staring like an idiot, oh stars , “I’m fine! Fine. Just…long day, like you said.”
“Mmk. Well, I’ll go ahead and take care of the garden situation, alright? I’d hate to see you burning the candle at another end. You work too much as is, little thing! If you ever want a lesson in taking it easy, that couch you love to make fun of is just a window away~”
I have never felt anything other than revulsion at being called ‘little’ by an affini. The little bubbling warmth in my abdomen is obviously unrelated, likely an aftershock of my episode yesterday. I’m just tired! That’s all.
I stumble over my reply, “I-I don’t see that happening, Gracie. I have more than enough to occupy my time and I prefer it that way. You…” I take a deep breath to shake the odd jitters from my core and only feel warmer after. Gracie gives a little nod that reeks of approval. Stupid fucking plant and her stupid fucking eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me. So… don’t .”
An expression I can’t quite parse passes over her for a quiet moment, something alien that cascades through her flora. When it’s passed she continues, all smiles again, “Whatever you say, Cat!” She turns back to her garden and I’m finally free, just a few more steps to my door and–
“Greenthumb.” It’s my voice. Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just think it? Why haven’t I opened my fucking door yet?
She turns back with a querying hum.
“You said greenfinger. The term is greenthumb.”
She stares back blankly and for the briefest moment I worry that I’ve said something weird, that she’ll think I’m weird. A ridiculous worry. What she thinks of me is less than irrelevant. Then her easy smile reclaims her and her musical little giggle ripples over me. She holds up both hands, extra vines emerging along her wrists to produce a dozen copies of her thumbs, and speaks, “Well luckily I’m all thumbs! Even luckier that they’re all green, huh?”
It’s such a stupid line. Everything about her is stupid. Stupid and lazy and irritating and I still feel the corners of my mouth turn up a little. I still feel the snort of air in place of a laugh. I still feel the thought come to me unbidden: cute .
She perks up again before breaking eye contact, reaching a hand over to my temple and I should be pulling away, I should be revolted. I should do anything other than just following with my eyes. Her finger brushes tenderly over something on my temple and another quick burst of sticky warmth shocks through me, enough to make me flinch away. She takes the hint.
“Hm. Cute flower~” She turns back to her garden.
The flower. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
I’m slamming the door behind me before I can have another panic attack. The fucking flower dosed me! While talking to Gracie of all fucking people! How does she not qualify as stressing me enough to prevent it from activating? It made me act like a blushing fucking schoolgirl in front of her and now she probably thinks it’s ok to touch me and–oh stars, is it going to make me feel like that every time I talk to someone?
I reach up to give the flower a swift tug and get only a dull sting as a reward. I grab a knife from my kitchen and find the stem as indestructible as every other piece of affini med tech I’ve encountered so far. Fuck . I’m going to make Almis rebloom for this. But not right now. Right now my heart is racing and I still have this sticky warmth inside me and I’m full of this fidgety energy and I need it out .
Fuck it, I move up my workout time in my schedule to try and work this feeling out of me. The repetitive sculpture of my painstakingly maintained physique always centers me. The familiar mantra finds my lips as the bar finds my shoulders. Mouthing it is enough.
I am nothing without conviction. Conviction is nothing without action. Action is nothing without purpose. I am conviction. I am action. I am purpose.
She isn’t cute.
By the time I manage to banish the warmth I’m exhausted and my muscles are screaming and my body is begging for a massage and a bath and something warm and filling. But I know better than my body. Work first, while the blood is still flowing.
~~~
Log 10/12/2554 - Evening
Talked to Gracie, flower activated and made me act like a blushing idiot.
Sympathetic thoughts toward her - MONITOR.
Twitchy warm feeling lasted through dinner.
Writing was like pulling teeth after, could be from stress of the last 2 days.
~~~
“Oh hey you’re that feralist writer lady! I think? I don’ remember which house it was…”
The floret bounds into my garden path before I can escape; a khetari, eyes glassy and unfocused with a demeaningly frilly collar trailing a vine toward Gracie’s side of the garden. The menace in question is exchanging words with another affini while accepting a second floret from their arms, a synthbody whose origin species is difficult to place. Her eyes light up when they meet mine and I curse under my breath.
“Mornin, Cat! Don’t worry, Nekha won’t bite. Unless you ask!”
I scoff at the notion and turn back to the floret, doing my best not to show my disdain, “Not a feralist. Who told you as much? I sincerely doubt you’ve read my work.”
“Master!” The xeno points cheerily at the other affini, who throws me a wink in the process of departing. Semiliterate dolt . The floret bounds back to their owner as Gracie approaches with the other floret in vine.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Cat, florets say the darndest things!”
“Mm. Things that don’t speak well for their owner’s reading comprehension. And I told you to stop calling me that.”
“Well, Catamina , I think it may be a little easier to read the feralism in some of your essays than you might hope.”
“...you’ve read my work?”
“Mostly skimmed if I’m being honest. It’s good stuff, don’t get me wrong! Just…” A little too sophisticated for that hedonism-rotted mind of hers? “...dense, sometimes.”
Dense?! “Yes. Well. I have a lot to say about the…sociopolitical paradigm shift as of late, its ramifications, and its future.”
Her mass rocks with that insipid chuckle of hers, “Well, no denyin’ you have a lot to say!” She gestures down at my workout clothes, “Morning run?”
“After a stop at the archive. Then publisher meetings, then writing.”
“Never a restful moment, huh?”
I don’t entertain the comment with more than a grunt. I don’t need another of her ridiculous lectures about overworking myself in the pursuit of leaving a mark on the world. My eyes catch on the synth in her arms, entertaining itself with one of the handheld game consoles I’d never waste my time with. I ask for the sake of distraction, “Finally taking a floret? Something to fill all that bountiful free time?”
“Oh, this little one? Nah, just a little floretsitting! Working from home makes me the first choice for most of my friends. That and my boundless hospitality and charm.”
She winks two of her eyes at me and smiles that obnoxious smile. I reach for something cutting to say but something in her tone stops me. A ghost of a feeling from last time we spoke. Something amicable and sweet and unwelcome. The moment for cutting words slips by.
“Mm. Well, glad you’re making yourself useful somehow.”
“Hospitality that’s still on the table any time y’know. Letting someone else take care of the little stuff for a few hours sometimes can be All You Need. Ain’t that right, Lori!”
The little synth renders a pixelated smile on its face and chirps something I don’t process. I’m too busy shivering under the hot, gooey blanket oozing down from my temple. Fucking flower , why would you dose me now of all times?
“Lookin a little warm there Catamina, you feelin alright?” She leans in to place a few vine fingers on my forehead and I feel the simmering heat in my cheeks start to boil. That scent of hers rolls over me, deep and rich in a way I’ve never noticed before. Vetiver and citral and something pungently acetic clearing the way for roasting caramel. It feels like certainty. My lungs can’t hold enough of it. How did I ever find it so revolting?
“Stars, you’re burnin up! I think someone could use a rest day.”
The deep, cloying warmth of her tone is so much more magnetic than usual. Maybe she has a point. I should–
Fuck.
I jump backward, “I’m fine! Hands off , Gracie. I feel perfectly normal.”
She raises her hands plaintively, seeming genuinely apologetic, “‘Course, my bad KitCat! Just wanna make sure my favorite neighbor’s doin alright, you know me!”
Her favorite. The fluttering in my stomach is almost overwhelming. It takes all of my iron composure not to show it. This is wrong, I know it is, I know with crystalline certainty that Gracie is a noxious pest of a neighbor, only ever taking time from her daily lack of societal contribution to stick her unwanted nose in my business and demean me with the same infantilizing language as the rest of her arrogant kin and yet…
Her favorite.
I need to leave. Fast. Fuck the archive.
“I uh…on second thought, run first. I think. Yeah.”
“Alright, well if you start feeling woozy or anything remember what I said! Sometimes a rest day is All You Need!”
Hot, sticky butterfly wings in my tummy, tingles desperately running down to my fingertips, fuck. I need her to leave, her and her stupid pretty variegated flowers and her stupid charmingly tousled vine curls and her stupid sweet voice and her stupid fucking favors for her friends and helping me with my garden and–
“Y-uh…Sure! Will do. Bye!”
I’m going to throw myself into the ocean of Ganymede. How am I ever going to recover from making a babbling fool of myself twice in as many days in front of fucking Gracie?!
Run. Focus on running. Exercise will flush this stupid blushing nonsense out of me and then I’ll reintroduce Almis to the concept of mortality.
I am conviction. I am action. I am purpose.
I’m her favorite neighbor.
~~~
“What do you mean ‘working as intended?!’ It’s making a fucking idiot of me at random in front of my deadbeat neighbor!”
Almis holds some instrument up to the flower on my temple, allowing it to unfurl. I can almost feel the warm rush in the sensation. “First of all, it's exceptionally rude to speak about her that way. Second, these implants do nothing randomly. Perhaps if Gracie is a source of social irritation, the implant is picking up on that impulse and temporarily increasing the dosage to help guide the interaction in a more amicable, and consequently less stressful and more fulfilling direction.”
“You told me it wouldn’t dose me around people who piss me off.”
The instrument chirps approvingly and they step back, unimpressed with my glare. “I said it wouldn’t dose you if the neural bridge reads fear or anxiety in your response to a sophont. Does Gracie inspire fear in you?”
“Beyond the fear she’ll be waiting to talk my fucking ear off when I get home?”
“It’s a simple question, miss Prince.”
It’s a ridiculous question. I want nothing more than to spend an hour dragging them through rhetorical barbed wire and burying them in veterinary malpractice forms but in their tone I feel a familiar exasperation, the same I habitually wielded against colleagues for decades. The same I feel with Gracie. I’m making their job harder.
I sigh heavily, “No, I don’t fear her.”
“Does she make you anxious?”
“Ugh, I suppose not. Not the sort you’re trying to treat.”
“Ok, good! One more question then. And don’t overthink this one.” They kneel until they’re level with me, and a single vine rests gently on my shoulder. I should brush it off. I don’t. “Do you want to be angry? Do you want to spend your evenings stewing in irritation and misery because of five minutes of conversation with a neighbor who demonstrably just wants to help?”
“Almis, I don’t get to decide who does and doesn’t piss me off.”
“Not what I asked.”
“...No, I do not want to be angry. I do not want to dread five minutes of idle chat.”
Almis’s mossy, ill defined face spreads in their closest approximation of a smile, “Give the implant some time. Go to that bar you like, or the archive, or the cafe, and just talk to someone. Let yourself be the center of one person’s attention for a little while, rather than an audience’s attention at all times. Just give it a little time.”
I shouldn’t agree. I shouldn’t just roll over and let them be right. I shouldn’t be so difficult.
“...If I don’t feel materially better in the next three days, you’re taking this fucking thing out of me.”
“I’ll stake my reputation as a vet on it! We wouldn’t want to prove the OXWC right, now would we?”
“Oh fuck off.”
~~~
Log 10/15/2554
Ran into Gracie for the first time in a few days, avoiding her forever was obviously impossible. Didn’t feel compromised as with the last two times but not strictly normal either. Talking came too easily. Obviously I don’t like being angry but her presence should have angered me more. Being impulsively chattier with the archival assistant or the cute bartender at my regular is tolerable enough but around Gracie it still feels strange. Comfortable in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It’s unlike me.
What’s worse, after the conversation ended I was left with this restless, anxious ache in my stomach. Writing was miserable work. My workout didn’t banish it either. Gave myself extra reading time to settle my nerves like usual but none of the contemporary philosophy from my rec list helped. None of the usual academic journals did either.
It pains me even to write this, but I cracked one of the shallow, pulpy romance novels my old assistant always read. I don’t know why, it was an impulsive choice. And it helped. It was tropey and saccharine and frivolous and fuck, it helped. I fell asleep curled up around my tablet and woke up clutching it to my chest. And this morning I ache again.
Stars, this class C shit is turning me into a simpleton.
~~~
I haven’t even ordered my first drink when our eyes meet across the bar. Julienne fucking Crane. They aren’t even supposed to be planetside anymore, what are they doing here? And who’s that with them? And why are they walking over here fuck–
“Catamina Prince! What a pleasant surprise! I thought you would’ve moved on from Ganymede by now, particularly from an affini station.”
Stars, how are they still so hot? They've lost ten years and gained twice as many pounds in muscle since I last saw them. Are they taller ? “Julienne! Curious seeing you here. And for your information, when the plants decided to decommission the Merrit Stanforth Cylinder, they didn’t give me much choice beyond relocation. Not my fault the substitute they brought along is more comfortable than living on that iceball. What makes you think I’d be so eager to leave?”
“I mean, you always talked about wanting to travel the Accord back in school. I just figured since it’s easier than ever, you might’ve followed through.”
They remember that?
“That was decades ago, Julienne. I’m a little busy these days. We can’t all be spending time on whirlwind book tours, some of us actually have to buckle down and write.”
The figure beside them speaks, “Not Jules’s fault that they write things people actually enjoy reading.” I take a second to properly assess what I assume is their date. Tight dress stretched over a soft, bountiful figure, glossy black curls partially obscuring a heart shaped face too cute to be scowling at me the way it is. She’s one collar and a dopey grin away from being an especially vapid floret. I didn’t peg Jules as the type to play with toys.
I ignore the now familiar warmth in my abdomen jumping at the pretty new thing’s presence, begging to appease her pouting. “And who’s your arm candy for the evening?”
Julienne intercepts a growled comeback, “Cat, you might be familiar with Alana Ryebeck.”
Wait.
“...The romance author?”
The one whose name adorns the tedious, gooey trash I fell asleep reading last night, oh stars–
Alana folds her arms and responds dryly, “Among other things. Not all of us are just our work, y’know. Some of us have actually grown more dimensions in the new state of things.”
The appeasing warmth doesn’t slow me even a little this time. “Are you going to hide behind implications all evening? Need Jules to do the real talking for you?” She almost lunges at me before Julienne can put an arm between us and their other around her waist.
“Oookay, let’s just reset a little huh? Alana, could you give Cat and I a moment to catch up?” They lean in to share a whispered conversation that I can’t quite make out. It concludes with a kiss that leaves Alana flushed and sagging gently into them before she finally parts for their seat across the bar. The look she gives Jules as she leaves is familiar. The fluttering heat inside begs and pleads with me, leaves me with the aching impression of being left out.
I can’t let Julienne see it. I ready another shot.
“I didn’t take you for the sort to consort with bimbos the moment a few xenos come along to raise the bar of academic excellence a few rungs.”
They give me a look they haven’t in years. Squared shoulders. Set jaw. Their voice is iron, “Hey Cat, do me a favor and chill the fuck out for a second, alright? I honestly just came over to say hi because that’s what people do when they see old friends. You didn’t need to take digs at me over my work and you certainly didn’t need to insult my partner, who, by the way, is one of the brightest and most effervescent people I’ve ever known. So, can we just chill and talk? For two seconds?”
It’s been a long time since I've made them this upset. Molasses rivulets run down my spine and the warmth bubbles right back up to my head, a vicious cycle of chemically enforced empathy I’m becoming scarily used to. I sag. I don’t want them to be upset with me .
“...Sure. Whatever. I just…I guess I don’t know why you’d feel the need to talk to me.”
Their shoulders relax and I see the pity flash in their eyes for just a moment. “I’m not mad anymore, Cat. Just worried.”
“Don’t be.”
“I know Once and Future isn’t doing as well as you’d like. I’ve seen the critical response. I know it's not connecting with the organizations you'd hoped. And I know the last few essays caught a lot of flack too.”
Of course they know. Of course they’ve been keeping tabs on the wretched sputtering of my career while they bathe in their own recent work’s praise. Don’t you fucking pity me.
“Yeah, well. Challenging ideas will be challenged, and made better for it. At least I didn’t pivot to whatever chimeric bastard of speculative fiction and self help you’re hocking at people these days.”
They don’t even entertain my insult, “Cat, I just don’t want you to be crushed when your crusade doesn’t pan out. The world doesn’t need financial advisors directing it anymore.”
Don’t you dare stop taking me seriously, don’t you fucking dare–
“My crusade?! I’m a political scientist, Jules, not a zealot! I’m proposing actionable solutions to very real representational oversights that no one but those rebel lunatics have deigned to properly question yet–”
“And why do you think that is, Cat?”
“ Stop calling me that!”
Stars, it sounds so pouty coming out of my mouth. I can feel the heat crawling up into my face, tugging at my tear ducts. I will sooner stop my own heart by sheer force of will than cry in front of Jules. Not again.
“No one wants you to be unhappy, Catamina. Not anymore. No one but you.”
Don’t you fucking pity me. Please.
“Don’t. I am not some pathetic rebel fighting the tide, I have purpose , I…I…”
“I never called you pathetic.” I’ve heard them use the same tone with a misbehaving TA before. Practically a child. They’re talking to me like a child. My bottom lip twitches. I don’t want them to be upset with me.
They sigh again, scratching the back of their head, “Look, I have a date to get back to. See you round, Cat. And take it easy, ok?”
And with that they’re gone. I can feel something in me begging them to turn around, to give me another chance. Strangling it is agony. I don’t think I can be more mortified until I turn to slump against the bar and find my favorite bartender waiting with sympathy in her eyes.
“The usual?”
“...Please.”