Colossal vines ensnare the body of CNS Torrential Delusion, drawing it inward to its inevitable fate. Aboard, drama unfolds. A hangar bay sits mostly empty; cowering against one of its walls is a young terran woman. Five armed men have her surrounded, their weapons drawn. Between the sounds of battle and blaring alarms, her whimpers can be heard, along with jeering taunts from her assailants. “Look at her,” one of them spits, “pathetic.” 

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?” Another asks, glowering down at the young woman. “Your little transmissions to the plants may have doomed the lot of us. But we won’t let a plantfucking traitorous little spy like you reap her reward, will we?” 

“Fuck no,” a third growls, cocking his weapon. 

At the sound, the terran woman peers up at them with pleading, frightened eyes. Familiar eyes. “Please,” Rayne begs. “Please I never wanted to hurt any of you. Can’t you see,” she insists. “Can’t you see that the affini just want what’s best for us?” She is met only with cruel laughter. 

Then, as things seem their most bleak: a sound from the vents. “The fuck?” One of the rebels says. All at once the group whirl around and point their guns toward the sound, only for a green blur to burst in a flurry of vines and thorns from the wall behind them. Time slows to a crawl as the rebels turn to face their attacker. They’re too slow. With the grace of a rising, then falling tide, the affini envelops her first victim, then spirits him off into some shadowy corner, effortlessly dodging a hail of gunfire as she moves. Then, like a dancer, she gracefully slips and weaves between the group, disarming and pacifying as she goes. She parries a dagger swipe, then flows with the motion, pulling her attacker into the waltz, and stinging him with a glimmering needle. 

All at once, she coils like a spring, then bursts outward in every direction, piercing and snatching each and every weapon within her seemingly endless reach. With the flick of a vine, she flings a volley of quill-like needles which lodge themselves into two more targets. Rebels all but dealt with, the mystery affini stands to her full, towering height, and advances upon the lone remaining soldier. The mere sight of her in all her resplendent glory is enough to bring the rebel to his knees. Nonetheless, she effortlessly catches him, as she has with all the rest of the poor misguided ferals. 

Looking on with pure awe, Rayne breathes an audible gasp as her magnificent savior turns to face her. She smiles, then takes a knee before Rayne, offering a hand. “Hello, little petal.” She speaks with the most beautiful, musical voice Rayne has ever heard. Just hearing it has her swooning. “Are you okay? I hope those rude little feralists didn’t harm you.” 

Unable to contain herself, Rayne flings herself into her savior's arms. “My hero!” she cries gleefully, and receives an affectionate pat on the head. 

Eyes wide and glassy, Rayne breathes a dreamy sigh as she gazes off into the distant corner of Azalea’s hab unit. She is called back to reality by a hand waving back and forth inches in front of her face. “Rayne?” 

“Huh, wha—?” Rayne sputters, snapping to attention, and nearly slipping right out of her dozing owner's lap.

“I was saying there’s no way that’s how you and Azalea met.’

Rayne scoffs. “How would you know?” she replies, shooting an accusatory look across the sofa at her old friend. 

“Rayne, dear…” Lacy begins, grasping for words. “I know that because you were never in the cosmic navy, let alone an affini spy. We literally grew up together.”

“Okay… fine,” Rayne pouts. “But I like to think it’s how we met! And I bet it would have happened that way if I were a spy!"

Lacy chuckles, then leaned back into the sofa. “I’m not so sure about that, Rayne. No offense, but your Mistress seems to be a bit of a walking disaster. Now how about you tell me the actual story of how you met.” 

Huffing, Rayne shakes her head. She’s never really understood why so many people saw her perfect Mistress like that. “Fine,” she says. She throws up her arms in mock frustration, thumping the wall as she does, then falls backward against her owner’s form. 

Snoozing peacefully, instinct pulls Azalea back into consciousness just in time to see peril. A crystal vase, once filled with decorative stones and perched atop a wall sconce, has been disturbed by the Rayne’s exaggerated mannerisms—along with, perhaps, a long history of disquiet in this particular hab unit. It, along with a torrent of aforementioned loose stones, now plummets toward her darling’s unsuspecting form. Somewhere deep within Azalea’s core, something crystalizes. Thousands of deft vines dart out with the unparalleled speed and precision which only an affini keeping their floret safe can attain, catching not only the vase, but each and every one of the loose stones, and all without disturbing her unaware beloved. Satisfied with a job well done. Azalea immediately falls back to sleep. The vase rolls out of her grip and falls to the floor.

The sound of shattering glass captures Rayne’s attention, and she sighs. “Oh dear,” Rayne grumbles. “It seems that pretty vase fell. Oh well, let me get this cleaned up, then I’ll tell you the real story of how Mistress and I first met.”