Abiete straightens her branches, and steps forth.

There is always more responsibility. More to do. Comfirting, perhaps, in its own way. And now, there is Tremella Cibin, Tenth Bloom, sitting as ‘reception’ to where their new guests are being taken care of. Her pointed cap occasionally drifts a cloud of spores to the Terran in her arms, who snuggles slightly dusted in an almost cloud-like arm of white, puffy mushrooms. 

“Tremella, I’m here. What’s the situation?”  Pause. The first greeting, when it came to Tremella, was largely a formality. One should expect a minimum of two, and be comfortable with four to five attempts. In her defense, it was a very cute Terran in her arms. One supposes. 

“Hello, Tremella.” “...Tremella! Hello! Yes. It’s me.”

There’s a slow raising of a cap, and a slight unspooling of a Terran from fungal-lined vines.

“Oh! Hello, yes! Abiete, did you want to talk to the ones from the shuttle first, or the one from the escape pod? --oh. Actually, hold onto this for me a moment? I need to check something.” Tremella bops over, leaving a small dusty trail behind her as she leaves a well-coated Terran floret in Abiete’s vine, before sauntering back to start looking through some glowing screenwork. 

“Well, which one did Hibiscus talk to, and I’ll talk to the other? Don’t need to duplicate effort.”

“Oh. Hibiscus said you told her to go investigate the site of that ‘Premo’ ship, and to use the Terran shuttle to do it to ‘avoid spooking any Feralists who might somehow still be there’. I guess to check for anything worthwhile before we break it down for the compilers? Anyway, pass her the datapad, sweetie.” The floret in Abiete’s vines dazedly passes over the datapad left in their arms, before resuming vacantly staring into space with a dopey smile.

Abiete’s fir bristles. “Why is Hibby always like this?” Fir needles splay over her face, reading. In the one room, three dozen Terrans who were given explicit license to abandon everything and come to the Affini directly. Very easy to work with, no concerns there. And in the other...

“Like what?” A tilt of the head, curiously, as the shroom scratches some spores out with a vine.  “Anyway, everyone’s been checked over. We’re just keeping them here for observation for now, and to try to get a better idea of what happened before everyone gets sorted into sophonts and florets.” Tremella taps the rim of her cap.

“Outside of one from the shuttle who was concerned about ‘stomach mines’, who then tried to launch into elaborate negotiations to ensure her other partners would *eventually* be brought to her, which, cute, fine, they’ve been lovely.”

“...And the other one is..” Branches curl and she thoughtfully eyes one of the doors, then the datapad. “What, shouting Feralist epithets about how they’ll never succumb and how strong their wills are and how Terra will be free?”

“No, she just-...oh, right, hold on.” The mushroom saunters back, gently re-acquiring their pet from Abiete, and then the datapad, settling back on her chair. There is a small round device on the floor merrily vacuuming up the remaining spores. It makes little happy beeping noises as it goes, mostly to amuse passing florets.  “It’s an experience. We know she operated their little station. One of their ‘quadrillionaires’, though it’s...”

Abiete ruffles almost like an irritated breath. “I should just go see, is what you’re saying, because you’re not going to say anything useful.”

“Honestly? I don’t have the words. It’s an *experience*. It’s not an angry Feralist military ‘hero’, I can at least let you know that. On a lark, we let her have what she liked from a compiler, with oversight. She..didn’t even try to make anything that could make a weapon, at least.”

“What di--never mind. You’re just going to say to see it for myself. I get it. I’m going. Why are they separated, anyway?” Abiete raises slightly on her vines. It’s important to be as Tall as Possible at times like this, after all. Tap the datapad for a few last details, and stride towards the other door.

“At first just for organizational purposes, but...” Tremella trails off. Abiete will figure it out anyway.

So far as she knew, ‘The Proprietress’, as the datapad referred to her, had had maybe some Terran hours in a surveilled room with Affini checking on her. And so, Abiete figures to herself, she should learn a lot just from how the room’s been reconfigured.

The door opens, and there are long white sheets everywhere. Somehow fastened to the ceiling, then dramatically draping down to the side. The room practically looks like it’s in mourning. The clothes they’d brought the woman in are--ah, there they are, carefully folded and hidden in a corner of the room. It’s reasonable, then, to assume that the white almost toga-like dress the ‘Proprietress’ is wearing is also made out of the same white silky material.

There are pillows. This woman is on a throne of pillows stacked high enough that the Affini and the Terran are almost at equal height. She lounges upon it as if she surveys over some sort of primitive kingdom, swirling some sort of deep maroon beverage in a flower-like glass.

“Well! Hello there, I see you’ve figured out the compiler, very good job. My name is Abiete Juhi, Fifth Bloom, and I’m here to talk to you first about what happened, and then--”

The woman on her pillow throne raises a hand, and begins to speak. As she does, quiet piano and saxophone sounds emanate from a nearby speaker, with some simulated rain noises. It’s some classical piece from the 20th century, Abiete dimly recalls. 

“Do you know what we wealthy are, darling? The nouveau riche might say the betters of society. The communists would call us parasites. As I have come to know, we wealthy are naught more than pampered livestock.  We gorge ourselves, depending on our so-called lessers to tend to our every need. We corral the people’s resources and push the limits of humanity forward as a single spearpoint, for a time.” The flower of wine is swished about, and she takes a sip.

“Wait. Wait, hold on, you haven’t just got a speech, you--is that a speaker? You fabricated a speaker to play dramatic music while--” Abiete’s words fall on deaf ears. This is flabbergasting. It’s incredible, in its own sense, but--

Then the woman leans forward, her ivory hair cascading almost effortlessly over one eye. The other eye’s iris glows too brightly for a normal Terran eye.“But like the cattle of eld, we would fester, allowed too long. We would rot. And so, the carving blades of revolution skewer our bellies, and the fruits of our work and meats of our bodies are scattered to the people, who cry out that this time, the cycle is over. This time, there shall be peace and prosperity. Then they elevate their leaders to our thrones, and those leaders do their best to support those ideals.” There is a crescendo to the music. A cavalcade of minor keys.

It’s not like Abiete couldn’t just stop this. It’s just. Maybe something useful will come out? She firms her stance a little, trying to look imposing, but the problem at this point is taking it seriously. This is monologuing. But, she had to admit...it was new monologuing? This wasn’t about how Terra would win. This was some sort of bizarre suicide pact speech? She wasn’t even sure anymore. What was even happening?

“And then those new wealthy, those who believe they hold the reins, they understand their role. Their purpose. And so, they obediently begin to indulge, and to gorge, and those who stoke the fires of rebellion take the scraps we leave, preparing patiently for the next harvest to thrust the people forward yet another age.”

“That...” Abiete pauses. “That’s lovely, cutie! And ...completely unrelated to -any- of the questions I had for you? Did you..want to record that, maybe, for..someone? I don’t really understand what that was about, or why, or..”

The ‘Proprietress’ raises slightly. “I’ve had three years to prepare that speech. Three years of watching our history, our future, march merrily into a dust bin, while I hid like a the last rat on a sinking ship.” A swig of her drink.
“I certainly wasn’t going to -not- do it, in these final twilight hours of the species. I am the Proprietress of the Premo Aeternus fleets, and I am the last of what was worthwhile about Terra. What -do- you want, then?”

Abiete pauses, thoughtfully. A breath. “You know there’s still some of your adorable rebel friends left, right? You’re not actually the last, though we’re catching up and--”

“I said -worthwhile-!” A few drops actually spill from the flower as the woman outbursts, sitting up. “Not the dredges seeking to fight to the last for something they barely remember, if they ever even saw it! The ones who believe they’re fighting for a ‘Free Terra’ hardly even know what that means. They have no dreams. No aspirations.” 

The reddish beverage trails down a sheet like a trickle of blood. She leans forward. “Truly, if you’ve judged Terra by those who broke from the Cosmic Navy, we must seem the most pathetic race in the galaxy.”

Abiete’s eyes dim a little. Is this stupid? Yes. This is a patently ridiculous conversation, but there’s something refreshing about it.  But she has to know, carefully adjusting herself to be slightly taller again. Amusingly, the ‘Proprietress’ sits up at the same rate. She knows. This game is intentional.  “...There are no ‘pathetic’ races in the galaxy, let’s not be like that.” She says, patiently. “I’m here to talk about what happened. We can sort out whether you’ll be allowed to be an independent sophont or a floret shortly, but right now, I have some priorities. Is that fair, sweetie?” 

“Oh, we both know the answer to that one, Affini.” The glass is swirled again. “I’m one of the hated capitalists, which...fair. If it makes you feel any better, I think we’d have been slaughtered to the last in about..thirty years, give or take. We’d spread too far. It was almost going to be quite good for society, I think,” She says, smiling a little wistfully. “Imagine. You could have shown up after a revolution. We do some very beautiful things for a while, after those. But no, no, I’ve heard where people like me end up. And it’s fine. I was fated for far worse, after all.”

“Nobody wants you to be -slaughtered-. Is this one of those Feralist ‘we’re here to eat you’ things?” Abiete says, but..she’s leaning in a little. What is this? This is weird. She’s weird. Everything about this is weird, but at least it’s breaking the tedium. The monotony.

“No. As I understand, there’ll be an intricate little system of drugging, and surgery, if I read up correctly in the time I’ve had, some sort of plant in my spine, and I’ll be curled in someone’s lap, /entirely/ satisfied with events,” The Proprietress says. “Which...mm. A blessed irony, for a variety of reasons, but I’m sure you’ll learn about that later.” She wiggles her fingers.

Abiete has to stop for a second, her vines uncoiling slightly to hook into the ceiling to pull in closer. Wait. Those fingertips are glowing in different colors. Some faint, primitive similarity to an Affini’s eyes, which... “Wait, ‘Proprietress’, your fingers, what is that?”

“Implants. I had a /very/ talented engineer design them, and a crack medical team install them, actually.” A smile crosses the woman’s face. “Mostly delightful for helping those around me calm down a little. Can’t imagine it’ll do much for you, of course. As I said, I’m no idiot rebel. I’m not expecting to win something here.” While she leans back, letting Abiete maintain the height advantage, she’s managing to look relaxed and poised on her throne of pillows.

This should be irritating, but there’s something endearing to it. Abiete pauses for a long moment, to ponder, before finally speaking again. “Alright. So. Your little ship...thing. It had what, two thousand life signs? All of which suddenly depleted to near vanishing. What was that?”

The Proprietress looks at her nails for a moment. “Oh. You know your remarkable range of pharmaceuticals? Terrans had some of those too. They’re even nicer when you’re not trapped in the hellscape of military issue. As I said, you’d come for the last, best bastion of what mankind had to offer. Think of them like your ‘class zeds’. Wouldn’t dream of putting people through hyperspace awake. Especially in such a rush. How markedly unpleasant would that be?” Her drink finished, she settles for swiping idly through a datapad. 

Abiete’s branches rustle. “Well, not to be -rude- about it, Tress,”

“...I’m sorry?”

“I’m not saying ‘Proprietress’ every single time. You’re not even proprieting anything.”

“Proprieting isn’t a -word-, -Abby-.”

“Then you’re definitely not doing it, are you?”

“...’Proprietress’, as in the owner of a business, or holder of property.”

“And,” Abiete taps the floor with a vine, “You now currently neither own a business, or hold property, so it doesn’t really work, does it?”

There’s a long silence.

“Fine. Tress it is. -What is your point-.”

Abiete allows herself a moment to titter. Alright. Fine. This can be interesting. It doesn’t have to be sheer, unabashed absurdity. Even if this is, ultimately, serious. “...Well, it’s just, er, maybe you don’t know, but only four of the ships came back. And there’s nobody on them. I--”

... Abiete realizes she can say it. She can say it with conviction, and technically, it’s in the records. Hibiscus, that nutter, must have planned this out in advance.

“...I have an Affini checking the wreckage right now for any survivors, but we don’t expect to find any. The ships that remained near imploded on re-entry.”

There is a sharp breath from the woman. Her one eye closes for a moment. “Well. I promised them I’d keep them from you for as long as I can. It appears that I’ve succeeded beyond all expectation.” The flower is cast aside. “So. If you’re saying they’re all dead, that would make me a mass murderer, then?”

The tonal whiplash, perhaps, is unexpected. “I didn’t say they’re all dead,” Abiete corrects, “But--”

“The technology on the Premo Aeternus Quinque was beautiful. Some of the best mankind had ever. or likely will ever have created. But I assure you, I didn’t have implants to allow people to survive exposure to vacuum.” The datapad, too, is put aside, and her fingers weave together in her lap.

“...well, actually, I was wondering why you didn’t go with them, but now--aren’t you a little calm about that? Most Terrans would be a bit more upset, I’d think?”

The woman offers a sad smile. “Well. I didn’t get where I was displaying every emotion that crossed my mind, Abiete. If I did break down in front of you, you’d just jab me full of something until I was stable again anyway, though, wouldn’t you?” She leans forward. “And I’m sure that doesn’t help either of our causes. So. When shall we emblazon my crimes in the permanent record? When will the trial be?”

There’s a moment. Abiete’s eyes squint, a little. “...I’ll get back to you? We don’t really do ‘trials’, but I’m sure it might be something entertaining for everyone? After all, you don’t seem like you’re going to hurt anyone else. As..unfortunate as what’s happened is. But can I ask...why not escape with your charges? Why leave separately?”

‘Tress’ leans back, letting out a strangely contented sigh. “To buy time. I figured you’d all be far more interested in the trophy. I can’t imagine many of your florets have good things to say about me or my colleagues. Rather assumed you’d want to parade me on a leash and collar as the final victory over capitalism’s deathgrip on what tatters of Terran culture remain.”

“Well.” Abiete pauses. “If you really want, we could do that too. I mean, I’ve sort of got to keep an eye on you for now, right? At least until your ‘trial’. Clearly we’ll find someone willing to take you as their floret at that point. You can be my ward until then.”

Tress’s one visible brow raises, as she adjusts her hair over the other side. “Well. There’s nothing more Terran than seeing your old leaders humiliated before you. I’ve failed to keep the torch burning, and so I deserve nothing less.”

“..Is that actually a thing?” Abiete asks. “I don’t *really* know Terran history that well. But, come on, then, let’s go. I’ve got more to do today, you know.”

“Absolutely a thing, Abiete,” Tress says, stepping from her throne into Abiete’s waiting vines. She ends up mostly settled on the Affini’s shoulder, legs carefully bound to the plant. Oddly, the Terran doesn’t seem to mind. “So, if you’re going to ruin the cycle of Terran revolution, I’m going to have the next best thing.”

Abiete pauses for a moment, as she begins to stride out of ...that room. The mood has changed, and she’s not entirely sure why. It’s like all the pomp and show drained right out of the woman the minute she -knew- she’d be publicly blamed for what occurred, for all to see. Like it was reassuring, somehow. 

... And, in some peculiar way, it felt sort of nice to be reassuring to the little Terran, and Abiete wasn’t sure at all how to feel about that either. Someone else was going to have her as a floret.

Hibiscus, she decided, could preemptively shut it.

“So, wait, is your name actually ‘Proprietress’?”

“It’s ‘Proprietress The’. Had it legally changed years ago so that it shows up as ‘The Proprietress’ on legal documentation. But, yes, you can use Tress, we’ve already had the discussion. Miss, if you’d like the honorific.”

“...I think I won’t call you Miss, but that’s a -very- good try, Tress.”