“You know,” they say, “I’ve been wondering what you think about the Compact, seedling.”

 

They both come here to talk. They both started out stilted and quiet, sharing each other’s company, Monica trying to relearn the long-dead art of physically writing things down while Dracaena Cinnabari reads through the thousands of records they’ve kept of their florets.  

 

Cinnabari had been quiet today. They’re one of the oldest affini Monica visits, definitely one of the least approachable, and the most likely to forcibly domesticate someone. Lots of affini are fairly likely to do that but still. 

 

They’re the kind of person who says the quiet parts out loud purely because they genuinely don’t think anything could be wrong about it. Cinnabari will say I used to love breaking new pets in without flinching, then add in those old pack-leaders of yours are so much cuter on their class Os and domestication is the only accepable ideology and all independents are just delaying the inevitable right to an independent human’s face without a single care in the world.

 

She wouldn’t want them in charge of a government but she does trust them not to try and get her domesticated. Whether that’s because they think it’d be a waste of effort since obviously she’ll be waltzing into loving vines any day now or because they actually respect her bodily autonomy doesn’t matter much to Monica.

 

What does matter is this: They are honest with each other. 

 

Monica answers. “The Accord killed us all, piece by piece, bought our minds and bodies at a discount just so a random man with no brain and absentee parents could sell them back to us at a steeper price. The Compact has no prices or tax in exchange for all its luxury — except for your cooperation, your obedience, sometimes even your identity…” she trails off. “Well, you get the sum of it.”

 

Cinnabari hums discontentedly, vines wriggling across their grand tome to read textured letters. “You sound like a feralist, seedling.”

 

“Do I?” Monica smiles. “I can’t tell if you’re biased or if this is the first sign of senility,” she squints up at them. “I don’t care about freedom, except for how it relates to my safety. It’s not really about freedom, is it? I barely even understand the word. Never even got to have it, even under the Compact.”

 

“That,” Cinnabari says not unkindly, “is because freedom means very little. You terrans do love it, though,” they sigh, heavy and creaking.

 

“Humans,” Monica corrects. “And I think freedom ought to matter at least a little bit. Even you affini don’t think humans do well when given total power over each other.”

 

Cinnabari nods with pleasantly surprised approval. “You have never and will never possess the capability to govern yourselves. It is a bitter pill to swallow, even if the medicine is quite effective.”

 

“If I can’t trust a human to govern me then why should I trust an affini?” Monica scoffs. 

 

“It’s been less than a century of affini occupation and you are already happier, healthier, and better than you ever were. We’ve eradicated illness, we’ve tamed the foolish strays who led you, and we’ve uplifted you from a world of suffering to a world of luxury,” Cinnabari scoffs, the sound twisting in on itself, echoed by a second, quieter voice. Their face does not wrinkle but their branches rustle, the very ends of their thorny vines twitching like snake tails. 

 

“Eradicating poverty gets you all the gratitude in the world but no amount of debt will make me trust anyone with all of me,” Monica pauses hesitantly before realizing that actually she doesn’t care at all about what any affini thinks. Obviously. “Besides, I’m sick to death of sucking up to people higher in the hierarchy with the vague hope of some — of a reward. I’ve set my price higher than anyone could ever pay and I like it that way.”

 

“You’re valuable,” they acknowledge breezily, like this is a fact that they both obviously know. In the same way anyone else would say the sky is blue, Cinnabari says you are worth something. “Which is exactly why you need to be monitored. A good gardener doesn’t let their flowers dry out, they water them.”

 

“A good owner lets their dog go on walks,” Monica retorts, leaning back and sprawling across the couch like she owns this place. Cinnabari radiates disapproval. “Besides, you can’t tell me that the affini don’t go overboard sometimes. People like getting high but look me in the eyes and tell me that Class-A drugs actually improve people.”

 

“You enjoy those,” they reply accusingly, as if that means something. “It’s true, we could simply give you the bare minimum you need to survive…but are we not obligated to add in — fertilizer? Compost?” Cinnabari lets out a hissing sound, like the keen of a boiling kettle. It’s one of the many sounds picked up over their many years, meant to make them seem more familiar to their older, not-human florets. 

 

“This metaphor fell apart quickly,” she muses with a smile. “It’s all well and good that the Compact provides us luxury goods but that doesn’t mean I have to like that you mind control people.”

 

“Mind control,” they echo mockingly. “How vicious of us, truly. How dare we tear you apart and remake you better. How awful of us, to pump you full of joy and dote on you the way you deserve. Being a pampered pet — that’s so much worse than being a wage slave!”

 

Monica used to scowl at that. As it is now, she can manage nothing but a stifled laugh. 

 

Cinnabari gawks at her, full of affronted dignity, looking for all the world like an insulted cat. 

 

She starts outright cackling, doubled over to let out hitching, wheezing yowls. It’s ugly and so is she and so are they — and she can think of nothing nearly as beautiful as that. Look at them, just…living. Look at all this. Monica Parolles is a living human being next to a plant several magnitudes older than her and Cinnabari is the one pouting like a child. 

 

“You can handle anything but a human that doesn’t take all this seriously,” she manages through stuffed down giggles. “The shit you say with a straight face just makes me want to…” Monica trails off with sudden horror. “I actually like you more because you say fucked up shit like that. Jesus. What does that say about me?”

 

It’s probably better morally-speaking that the other affini know they ought to be ashamed, that they’re self-aware enough to hide the Compact’s flaws with honey and sugar. But sometimes what Monica needs is a good dose of vinegar.

 

Undoubtedly, Cinnabari is the worst affini she knows. But they’re very honest with her and after decades of dishonesty under the Accord, she can’t help but appreciate it. Humans are baffling creatures of complicated social norms and petty, spiteful hatreds that make the affini look both crueler and kinder by comparison.

 

They care so much but they do it so coldly sometimes. 

 

Not even fellow affini are willing to let some of what Cinnabari says go without argument. Still, she has to wonder why they all act so affronted about it. Is it because it offends their sensibilities? Is it because of empathy? Is it because it hits too close to home? 

 

“It says you’re smarter than any other stumbling stray around,” Cinnabari sniffs haughtily, smug as can be. “If only the rest came over like this; we’d have connivents for you, a dozen more little things for me to fix up.”

 

“Oh,” Monica sighs, shoulders slumping in a kind of heady relief. She feels like the world has fallen into place, clicked into something she can understand.

 

Cinnabari’s eyes glimmer with a contented blue sheen, one of their vines curling into a satisfied little smirk over their blank wooden face. “You know,” they say lightly, “I do enjoy you very much, even if I find you foolish.” 

 

“Stupid animals are cuter,” Monica snorts. Look at her; she’sthe fool stray chewing on wires and half-broken piping now.

 

They murmur a small refrain under their breath, something beautiful yet unknowable yet real. It hitches three times before she realizes they’re laughing at her joke. “Well,” they say softly, “I didn’t want to say it.”

 

“Everything has a catch,” Monica insists, because she isn’t quite finished making her point. “The Accord had a catch, the Compact has a catch, everyone has some kind of motive for doing what they do. We go around with all these bows and buttons and ribbons attached but…” she shrugs helplessly again. “We all want food, water, and company. Humanity never got past our need to hoard all that…and I guess the affini didn’t either, huh?”

 

Cinnabari startles, faltering as they face her in a way that she hopes is curious. “What in the rooted dirt would we even hoard, petal?” 

 

“Florets,” Monica answers simply. “You’ve got all the water and food and tech you could want so all that’s left is just…florets. Everything is replaceable except for people.”

 

Monica shifts nervously in her seat while trying desperately to stifle that nervousness because she doesn’t care about what this weed thinks of her. She just likes talking with them. She doesn’t need them or want to stay with them—

 

I am not, Monica Parrolles reminds herself, going to yield now.

 

Did she survive that dank hellhole just to throw herself over the first cliff she sees? Did her siblings die for her to never make it past 60? Did she live through the Accord’s end, see her neighbors saved and uplifted and damned all at once, keep her cool through it all, just to let Cinnabari take her now? 

 

Still. Even if she is firm in her resolve, the silence feels deafening. Cinnabari…the idea of them disliking her is awful. Awful beyond words. Why? She’s not even all that attached to them. (Really, she isn’t. She would be this upset at anyone cutting themselves off mid-conversation.)

 

“Cinnabari?” Monica speaks, hating how mousy she sounds. She’s a grown woman; there’s no excuse for that kind of hesitation. “Cinnabari,” she repeats, demanding.

 

A vine curls up into a small, spiralling loop. The wood is blank and no attempt to emote with it is made. 

 

She can’t read them but a tension spreads across the room, drawn taut like a pulled wire, as unwieldy as a horse left beached on the shore. It blooms into something heated and sweet, strings pulled and plucked until a melody yields beneath careful fingertips. 

 

Cinnabari sings in the way all affini do, without words, but somehow it’s a song Monica already knows by heart.

 

She expects to feel her own rhythms slow down or quicken. 

 

But she’s already matched perfectly.

 

For a moment, they sit, breathing and living separately but close. Monica feels happy. Monica feels reassured. Monica feels like the world has clicked together again, fixed and simple, shrunk down to one moment and one person and one thought.

 

I love you, she thinks, unbidden and unrestrained. “I think,” Monica admits, “I want to call you Miss Cinnamon.”

 

They hum musically, a discordant yet sublime sound which echoes down from the top of her head to tips of her toes. “That would be more than fine with me…Parolles.” 

 

Monica smiles. Cinnabari purrs, crooning sweet nothings with a voice that isn’t a voice. 

 

And then they both return to reading.