Fifteen minutes had passed since Samuel discovered the crimson flower.

He had known, factually, what it was the moment his eyes registered it. He'd seen the propaganda videos just like everyone else; those Affini-controlled networks broadcasting images of humans in lush dresses and collars. Every so often a mistress would seem to administer injections into their "pets" – Sam felt revulsion at the terminology – through such a control device.

And one of these control devices was implanted directly into his chest.

Wrestling with the panic deepening in his heart, he wracked his mind to come up with possible explanations for something like this. 

Was it the beam? Did everyone get hit…? If that were true, I'm sure I would've heard the Ensign or the nurse say something.

He studied the deep crimson which had penetrated his sternum, which had never once looked dull since he had first laid eyes on it. He obsessively tracked the roots and the intimate ways by which they clutched at his major blood vessels. The parts where it made contact against his skin felt sensitive and soft, contrasting with his normally rough skin. It was also striking – an alluring display of superior Affini bioengineering.

What… no. It's not alluring. It's fucked up. I need to get it out of me. What about the medical wing…? 

He immediately dismissed that idea. If any of the other rebels saw the flower in his chest, they'd shoot him on sight. He was a dead man walking if he couldn't find a way to remove it.

He clutched his chest… considered pulling it out. Using a knife. Something, anything. Reaching into his bathroom drawer, he recovered an old embellished shaving razor; ceremonial, from the Academy. It was sharp enough, it could do the trick.

Have to… cut the damn thing out… before it burrows deeper into me...

With shaky hands, he held his knife up to his chest. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Using the bathroom mirror as a guide, he prepared to amputate the flower from his chest.

In that moment, a brilliant explosion of color flashed through his eyes. A lurid, defiant screech of every instinct in his human body to preserve the flower sparked at once. His heart rate spiked. He yelped, closing his eyes. 

When he opened them again, he realized that by flailing his arms, he had embedded his razor into the bathroom counter.

Fuck… fuck… what the fuck was that?

He panted. The flower had only been there for… for how long? The Ensign said he had been out for only a few hours. Surely it couldn't have been in there long enough to start affecting him like this. He felt helplessness well up inside of him, and tried turning it into indignation. 

The next time I see an Affini… I'll… I'll…

For a moment he faltered. If they had managed to install such an elaborate piece into him without physical contact, wasn't he far outside of his depth?

Samuel shook his head. No. He was a Terran, goddammit, and a rebel to boot. Joining the resistance meant steeling his mind against the propaganda of the Affini, taking the invaders to task at every angle. This was just another test. He smirked to himself, gathering steam as he came up with a new method of confronting this adversity.

Yeah. Yeah, you filthy photosynthesizing freaks. Yeah. I'll give you all a piece of my mind!

He turned to face the mirror, throwing a proud expression on his face.

Yeah. I'll even keep this flower as a trophy. A sign of our struggle. It's a scar… one I'll wear proudly. For now, though…

An alert went off in his quarters proper. He guessed was needed at the helm. He finally got around to clothing himself, leaving the bathroom and rifling through his closet; the texture of the captain's jacket felt a little rougher than usual, the sleeves a little larger than expected, but he paid it no mind. He had always been opposed to unnecessary formalities, but for once the imposing overcoat was useful. It and the shirt was more than enough to cover the flower. It would be his little secret, one he’d explain after this war was over.

With that, he made way for the deck.

Lieutenant Jones and Ensign Welkin stood at the helm as the Captain approached. As soon as they saw him approach, they both stood up straight and saluted. 

"At ease, men," Samuel Dirkost said. 

He felt a scratchy feeling catch in his throat, and cleared it instinctively. He realized it was the first time he had opened his mouth to speak in some time, and the words that tumbled out almost felt… foreign. It probably was the shock from discovering the flower. He did his best to maintain his composure.

"Glad to see you're well, sir," Jones remarked with the usual air of gruffness. "We've got a bit of a situation…"

Samuel gave a curt nod. "Let's hear it. I'd like a full update if possible-”

Sam's voice broke just a little at the end of his sentence, causing him to cut himself off early. He covered it up by clearing his throat again, coughing a little – was his voice climbing in tambre? That couldn't be possible. Perhaps he just had a cold. 

Lieutenant Jones, who hadn't noticed, began to elaborate. "In your absence, while I assumed control, our men discovered one of the crewmen had an Affini implant."

Sam's heart began to pound a little harder. His throat felt parched. "Is that… so?"

"Indeed. Engineer Conners. We currently have them locked in the brig. They told us that they had no memory of having interacted with the Affini. This, obviously, was a lie. It's more likely they're a spy of some kind, and I've taken the liberty to detain them indefinitely, or at least until they speak. What are your orders, Captain?"

The news provided some relief through Samuel; he hadn't known Conners terribly long. Perhaps this Affini sympathizer could have planted the flower into him while he was unconscious! Yes, that must be it. Yet… he couldn't simply reveal to the helm his dark, crimson colored, flower shaped problem. Part of him was grateful he had the simple sense of covering up his own implant.

However, as urgent as this situation had become, all Sam could think about was finding a glass of water. He swallowed repeatedly, scratched at his throat idly, trying everything subtle he could do to make it feel better. Doing his best to power through it all, he steeled himself and tried to summon his academy voice, trained in many proud years of service with the Accord.

"Thank you, Jones. Your quick judgment is what we needed right nooooww —"

Sam's voice glided upwards in a sing-song tone, without any apparent control on his part. He balked, coughing as he did. He tried to ignore the concerned look that flashed across both Welkin and Jones' faces, but all it did was make him feel more self conscious.

"Excuse me…" As he coughed, he noticed that he had to make a low growl at all times to maintain the pitch he normally spoke at. "It's not unlikely that others on the ship could also bear Affini sympathies. If disloyal members of the Resistance are found, we ought to quarantine and try to persuade them..."

He struggled to keep his voice under control, but every so often a feminine tone would force its way through. It wasn't the deep, intense kind that his drill sergeant from the Academy would use either; it sounded flowery, vulnerable, and most importantly, it felt good. It felt embarrassingly good. It was like drinking honey every time he relented for a second. It contrasted greatly with the pain he felt having to force out masculine grunts instead.

Something about this wasn't lost on his crew mates, who began exchanging glances. Sam felt his face flush red.

 "I think… I might have… a little cold… apologies... this meeting is adjourned..."

The Ensign nodded helpfully. "Yeah, uh… you should get some rest, sir."

"Captain, it may be helpful for you to revisit the medical wing," the Lieutenant suggested.

"I'll be fine…" Sam insisted, his words coming out with the barest hint of a whimper. He tried ignoring it. "Jones, you're on deck for the next few hours."

"Yes... sir. Thank you sir."

He didn't have time to gauge the quizzical reactions of the crew around him. Sam absconded from the deck as soon as he had a chance.

Fleeing from the pressure of the helm, he walked quickly towards a restroom of any kind. His head pounded, his heart throbbed. As he entered the corridor, he could have sworn it felt larger; his uniform fitting less well with each step he took. He shook his head and kept moving.

Pushing open the restroom door, he felt a sense of relief when he inspected the room and found that no one was present. Using the sink, he turned the faucet and cupped his hands. Cold, sobering water splashed onto his skin, and he took large gulps. He greedily drank, hopeful that it would resolve any issues with his vocal chords.

After feeling sufficiently hydrated, Sam cleared his throat. It felt numb, sore from trying to maintain his usual tambre.

Without much else to go off, he decided to give it a test. "Aaaaaah. Aaaaaaaaaaaaa–" 

Once again the unfamiliar softness forced its way into his voice, and this time, the pleasurable, erotic sensation that accompanied it shot through his entire body. A pleasing warmth spread through his blood vessels like a poison. He could almost smell thick pollen in the air. He unconsciously let out a moan, a very feminine one. He cupped his mouth, terrified, but the soft squeaking and moaning that emanated from behind his hands still brought more warmth, more pleasure. His pants began to tent, although he hardly noticed.