Hypothetically, Phoebe loved clothes. And she loved dressing up; in theory. More often than not, however, if the exorbitant costs weren’t successful in chasing her away, the one-size-fits-one size variety would completely misinterpret how to sit properly on the contours of her (personally undesirable) body, leading to a frequently miserable experience. In recent years Phoebe had been combatting the false demons of body dysmorphia inside her head, and winning, but her baggy rebel fatigues had rendered her admirable progress somewhat moot. 

Those demons were awakening from their long slumber as Rosifax and Becca led the way to the staff dressing room. The interview had been unconventional; Rosifax asked questions like “How enthusiastic are you about getting cuddled senseless in the arms of our guests” and “On a scale from one to ten, one being ‘enchanting’ and ten being ‘delightful’, where would you rank your adorability factor” before clarifying that there was no interview requirement at the Grand Hotel, because there weren’t any jobs. Non-affini were free to join the “staff” whenever they wished, and participate in the running of the Hotel to whatever degree they desired, while the affini did the actual managing of the facility behind the scenes.

Phoebe very nearly asked how that translated into her pay, but stopped herself upon accepting how suspiciously little she understood about Compact rule. Now she found herself entering a small room, small enough to finally resemble something even remotely similar to life on Tereus-2. A few vanity stations were set against the wall, opposite a room-length mirror that Phoebe had yet to look into. At the other end of the space was a peculiar contraption: it looked like an affini-sized three-dimensional printer, or a shrub that had somehow grown to uncannily resemble a giant three-dimensional printer. 

A few of Rosifax’s vines slithered out to interact with the control dashboard to the side of the machine. “Just step up to the platform, Amaranth, and we’ll get your measurements.”

Not about to question them, Phoebe stepped up to the platform. As she did so, the twin circular frames on either side of her began to spin slowly. An array of guiding lasers passed over her body from hair to heel, and the rings came to a rest. 

“Perfect~. You did a wonderful job, petal. Go ahead and step back down for me, now.” Phoebe, blushing inexplicably from the superfluous praise, stepped back down, and one of Rosifax’s vines drew her back in their direction via dress ring as the machine started up again. She watched in amazement as an assortment of vines shot themselves across the empty middle space, a fluid spider’s web weaving and twisting upward from the floor. As the vines proceeded, a familiar dress was beginning to form, pulled slowly into being until a full Hotel uniform was left suspended by vines above the platform. Phoebe begrudgingly admitted that that was cool as hell.

Rosifax snagged the newborn dress from the device and held it up to inspect it. “Excellent, everything appears to be in order. Now let’s get you dressed.”

Before Phoebe could process what they’d said, several vines were already grasping her body; under her shoulders and elbows, into her collar, around her legs and beneath the hem of her dress. “WAITwaitwaitwait, I can do it, I can dress myself!!”

Rosifax looked a little surprised, but their vines retreated all the same. “If you insist,” they conceded.

When Rosifax and Becca only stared at her expectantly, Phoebe added, “Uh… could I maybe have some privacy? I’m a little weird about clothes.”

“Oh! No problem at all, darling. We’ll be outside when you’re ready.” They handed Phoebe the dress and lifted their floret in far more vines and invasive places than was really necessary before heading out the entryway, an autodoor sliding closed behind them (one which must’ve seen little use, as Rosifax had to move some boxes out of the way before they left).

This left Phoebe alone with a dress, a load of anxiety, and an otherwise empty room, the classic trans girl scenario. She was already wearing a dress- a particularly goofy one- which made the process easier, but now she had the staff she’d seen outside to involuntarily compare herself to. She still hadn’t looked in the mirror, though she knew it was looking at her regardless. Hormonal body alchemy, beautiful black sacrament though it was, couldn’t do everything, and even with all it had done Phoebe hadn’t been on any of her medications since she’d joined the Rebellion. Prescriptions were always dismissed as an “unnecessary expense” by her higher-ups, which had obvious and terrible consequences for the physical and mental health of her comrades. She was afraid to look in the mirror and find that even a smidge of the relief and euphoria she’d built for herself had been lost.

The dress was impossibly soft, clutched callously in her hands. Brow furrowed, Phoebe inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and steeled herself like she had so many countless times. She had responsibilities she needed to carry out, and they weren’t going to wait for her happiness, nor for her full, unstifled presence of self. She awkwardly shimmied out of her jingling lemon disguise and pried off her matching shoes, then slipped the hem of her new uniform over her head, letting it naturally situate itself on her body.

And boy, did it situate. Phoebe had never worn personally tailored clothing, and the feeling of such an astonishingly perfect fit was as alien to her as the uniform was- and yet, it was so clearly made for her, she couldn’t help but let it nestle just a little into her sense of identity, as frictionlessly as it had slid into place around her. 

The dress was more interested in looking good than it was in appealing to what she personally found flattering, but the fit made up for it. It was dark, shoulderless, halter-topped and flush with leash-rings, with a short collar that barely crept up her neck. The subtly cinched waist was pinned with a ribbon just above her tailbone, and warm golden frills swirled around the skirt to frame her exposed back. Phoebe was briefly confused when she noticed the clasp of her bra was visible, which transformed into sheepishness as she discovered the dress already had cups sewn in. Redundant bra now removed, there was nothing else to put on. Apparently the Hotel liked making its servants plod around shoeless, which left another part of her body uncomfortably exposed. She’d just have to grin and bear it.

Phoebe signaled for Rosifax and Becca to reenter the dressing room, and upon seeing her Becca immediately covered her mouth in genuine surprise, while Rosifax simply beamed with smug pride. Phoebe witnessed neither of these reactions as she was busy aggressively avoiding eye contact.

“Amaranth, you look fantastic!” Becca gasped, and now Phoebe was blushing.

“Countless uniforms crafted, and it never does get old,” Rosifax agreed. “You look spectacular, darling. If you’d like, we can complete the look; nails, makeup, hair braiding–”

“No, no, this is fine,” Phoebe cut in- to the poorly masked disappointment of Rosifax, who looked very much like they wanted to braid Phoebe’s hair. “I don’t, um… I can’t…”

Phoebe was still avoiding the mirror, and the other two sophonts in the room were beginning to notice. Rosifax broke the silence. “Do you not like it?”

“No! No, it’s wonderful– perfect actually, I just… it’s hard to…” Stars, of course the twelve-foot sapient plant wouldn’t understand body dysphoria, all terrans probably looked the same to them. That, or Rosifax’s ostensible ignorance was actually cruel psychological warfare. Becca, however, must have noticed Phoebe repeatedly glancing at her out of the corner of her eye and seemed to catch on. 

“Look-” Becca graciously grasped the fragility of the subject matter, and softened her approach more than her norm, “if it’s about your body, don’t even think about it. Mistress can print you something else if you want, but you genuinely look amazing; I promise, nobody here treats anybody differently based on their shape, and you can always go on G’s or V’s as soon as you reunite with your owner.” A little bashfully, she added, “That’s what I did, at least.” 

More vague terms Phoebe couldn’t pretend to understand. Rather than ask about it, Phoebe told herself to just accept Becca’s most likely true advice. Rosifax seemed shocked by Becca’s implication, and Phoebe decided to retake control of the conversation before they fervently reiterated everything their floret had already said at length. “Yeah. Um… I wouldn’t mind my nails, actually.”

That did the trick. Phoebe expected the magic printer to do all of the work, and so was caught off guard when Rosifax and Becca enthusiastically got busy clipping, smoothing and applying the golden polish manually, simultaneously chattering at length about Becca’s first uniform and how it somehow hadn’t lasted a full day. Becca kept switching between painting Phoebe’s toes and painting her fingers at random, but Rosifax’s vines effortlessly wove around her movements to cover the unattended nails. 

It was another experience Phoebe had never been able to have before. She couldn’t remember the last time she had put so much effort into her appearance. Certainly not since she’d joined the Rebellion. It must have been before the invasion, and how ironic it was that the return to normal she’d given up as forever lost would come at the hands of her imperialist conquerors. 

Before Phoebe could ride that train of thought to its conclusion, Rosifax and Becca had already finished. From the neck down she now looked unmistakably like a servant of the great Hotel Folia. As Phoebe rose to thank the pair, something caught Rosifax’s eye. “Oh! Almost forgot an essential part of your outfit, petal.”

Suddenly a familiar gentle pressure was wrapping around Phoebe’s throat, as Rosifax’s huge hands drew the black collar of her old dress around her neck to -click!- shut and snug behind her head. “There we are, pet~; We wouldn’t want you leaving without your Master’s mark to attest to his prize, now would we?”

If either of them had noticed Phoebe’s face go as crimson as her dress, they didn’t point it out. “Now,” Rosifax declared, “on to the tour!”

Phoebe hugged her diminutive suitcase close to her chest as Rosifax and Becca lured her towards the establishment’s heart, something the affini had called “the reclining room”. Phoebe couldn’t have guessed what that meant, but Rosifax had implied it to be the sleeping arrangements for most of the Hotel’s visitors, so it must’ve been quite large. This turned out to be the understatement of the century. 

The vision playing out before her resembled an ancient romantic mural more than a “reclining room”. It was circular, the outer edges low-ceilinged and dimly lit with warm light, the floor transitioning into a long, wall-spanning couch as it approached the edge. The ceiling there was organic, and suspended in some alien architectural miracle, long flowers and vines dangling from above to tickle the noses of the sleeping sophonts below. More couches were clustered under natural red light in the center, some of them tiered and all of them bursting with soft, colorful flora. 

Everywhere she looked, affini, terrans, rinans and more were sprawled across these mock knolls, resting in each other’s arms, picnicking under trees, playing with each other or, to Phoebe’s significant embarrassment, being played with. Servants were everywhere, running around with baskets of food and drink, pillows and stuffies, and upon delivery being rewarded with pets and restraining-by-vine; or maybe that was just another service they offered. It was ostentatious- excessive- an impossible fantasy, and that was before she looked up. 

This was when Phoebe remembered that she was standing in the repurposed corpse of an old, shitty missile silo. The true shape of the room was massive, stretching several stories upward, each level consisting of a ring-shaped balcony circling the open cylindrical space in the center some 30 meters in diameter. The exterior balconies were connected with wide, spiraling ramps, but the walls were also pocked with grappling rings, and she spotted multiple affini holding their pets close to their chests as they pulled themselves across the central gap and around the perimeter with ease. Each balcony was only mostly open to the center, and the interior walls created by the closed-off portions were occasionally indented with large alcoves, within which affini and their florets could be seen cuddling and dangling their legs over the edge. 

Looming above her were dozens of egg-shaped pods, tethered to the distant crystalline skylight like hanging birds’ nests. Each was its own garden, their carmine exteriors heavily strung with bushy leaves, chromatic flowers, and what looked like bioluminescent vines woven in intricate patterns; though at the moment they were only glowing faintly against the warm late-afternoon sun pouring in from above. Both the pods and alcoves were overflowing with cushions, blankets, and cuddly florets, and every once in a while a stray pillow would tumble from one of the more excitable nests, only for a vine to whip out from the pod’s opening to catch it, reeling it back inside and out of sight. 

The sight terrified Phoebe as much as it unwillingly piqued her curiosity, and she quickly returned her attention to the floor beneath her before her imagination could get too exploratory. The dark synthetic carpeting underneath her bare feet felt almost like cool grass, but without any of the edge, and it rippled softly against her ankles in a phantom breeze. She felt dizzy, and her heart was racing; she was beginning to realize just how in over her head she was.

To Phoebe’s horror, Rosifax must’ve sensed her anxiety, as they slowed slightly and turned their accursed, patronizing, loving gaze in Phoebe’s direction. 

“Are you holding up ok, flower? You look a little overwhelmed.” At Phoebe’s lack of an answer, the towering affini grinned knowingly and looked out over the utopian lobby of the Grand Hotel. “It’s a magnificent sight, I agree; although I imagine it’s nothing compared to what you must see on the Phellos every day.” 

Stars above, the inside of the warship was even more impressive than this? The Phellos was huge, but compared to the biggest Affini vessels Phoebe had seen, it was puny. She had pictured entire cities inside of those command ships, but she had pictured dungeons, sprawling alien nightmare labyrinths, not… pleasure gardens. The total eclipsing of her imagination only scared her more.

Her snowballing terror screeched to a halt as Phoebe felt a dull sharpness press into her arm, a turquoise flower trailing away from her as it retreated back into Rosifax’s woven-vine forearm. Phoebe screamed, stumbling backwards into the central space and falling onto her butt. Almost immediately, the entire lower floor went space-silent as a plaza full of sophont heads spun in the trio’s direction, the affini among them quickly but gently pulling their florets close. The quiet bled slowly up into the lower levels, and a few curious sophonts leaned over the balcony railings as Phoebe frantically scrambled backwards, away from her undesired audience and into Rosifax’s kneeling embrace. A peculiar, cool feeling was slowly rolling through her body from the point of injection, dulling her senses. To her bewilderment, rather than descend into a full-blown panic attack, Phoebe felt her heart rate slow and her breathing level out as she fought to make some sense of her dwindling focus.

“I’m so sorry, petal, I figured since Asterid had regularly injected you, you wouldn’t mind,” Rosifax whispered, sounding strangely remorseful as they scooped Phoebe up and pulled her away from the probing eyes of the crowd. “I should have asked first, that was inappropriate of me. Are you alright?”

Phoebe’s head swam. She felt alright. She felt great. Her impulsive outrage over being surprise-injected with mystery xenodrugs blurred against the sirens in her brain warning her not to give herself away as a spy, all of it muted and leaving her with a confused slurry and a need to answer Rosifax’s question. “Uh… y-yes. Yes?”

Rosifax’s vines untensed gratefully; Phoebe noticed that they’d unconsciously bound a vine or three to every ring on her dress in their panic. Their leafy hand moved to brush the stray hair from Phoebe’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear it. That was just a class-E, but I’ll let you know before I administer anything next time.” Phoebe nodded absently, noting the lack of any implication that they’d ask for consent first, but she was a little preoccupied with being princess-carried by the enemy. 

Below her, Becca had laid a comforting hand on Phoebe’s side, her concerned look mirroring her owner’s. “Sorry, Amaranth, I think my personal preferences have made Mistress a little trigger-happy with the xenodrugs.” She giggled at Rosifax’s unamused glance, who likely disapproved of being described as “trigger-happy”. “Maybe we should move along to the spa.” Phoebe didn’t disagree.

The false floret remained in Rosifax’s arms as the trio explored the underground spa, Becca having climbed up to sit on their shoulder. It was just as fantastic as the previous area: a brightly-tiled grotto containing a dozen or so glittering tubs the size of solo fighters. It was comfortably lively too, the humid, fragrant air echoing softly with the gossip and laughter of sophonts and the cooing of affini.

As they walked, her tour guides helpfully summarized the history of the Grand Folia. According to Rosifax, when the Affini had found the remains of the Marine Corps silo, they’d originally intended to dispose of it themselves. Supposedly the galactic conquerors preferred to avoid disturbing alien ecosystems as much as possible (which seemed like obvious bullshit to Phoebe, but whatever) and planned only to clean up the Accord’s mess and leave. Halfway through the excavation effort, however, the deconstruction committee received a petition, requesting that the silo be preserved and transformed into a play-resort: a themed hotel where sophonts could roleplay as the staff of a fancy establishment. It bore the signatures of nearly one hundred florets- signatures which Phoebe gathered were entirely worthless, but the overwhelming cuteness of it all as well as the two affini signatures included convinced the committee to change gears.

So, basically, it wasn’t even a real hotel. It just looked and operated like a hotel so the slavepets could play house as little maids. The explanation was also a flagrant lie, of course; it was more likely that the Affini had built the Hotel themselves to indulge their own egos, and spun the story as the will of the florets as a taunt. Whatever the case, the Grand Folia Hotel was born, all of the old polluting materials replaced with environmentally-friendly solutions.

Phoebe couldn’t decide whether that backstory made her assignment to a secret suicide mission here more offensive or more embarrassing, but there was something else bugging her and hogging her attention. The affini-floret pair kept mentioning “classes”, and Phoebe was becoming increasingly worried about the possibility of a pop quiz. It was a risk, but the question needed to be answered sooner rather than later.

“Ah, Rosifax…?” Phoebe started, tugging on an arm vine to get the alien’s attention. “What are these “classes” you and Becca keep referring to? I haven’t been a floret for very long.”

The briefest second of disbelief crossed the affini’s face, thankfully turning to sheepish mercy quickly. “Nor a citizen of the Compact, it would seem.” Shit. “My apologies, little one, I’ve been overly presumptuous. Our xenodrugs are developed as a variety of classes, each serving a specific purpose. The Class-E running in your blood right now is an anxiolytic, it helps make your mean Terran anxiety a little easier to bear. You’ll let my protective embrace handle the rest. It also has a habit of making you cuties a little wobbly, but as far as I’m concerned that’s a feature, not a bug. That’s why I’m carrying you- and why we intentionally left it in.”

Cute, Phoebe internally eyerolled. But comforting, if Rosifax’s description of the mystery drug was honest, although that wasn’t the answer she was really looking for. “What about the Class-Gs? And Vs?”

Becca covered this one. “Oh, Class-Gs are kind of like the old Accord hormone therapies. They’re way better, though.”

“More capable and more configurable,” Rosifax clarified with a pleased petting of Becca’s hair, “and with the addition of Class-Vs for any nontraditional changes, there’s really no body shape that’s off-limits to you.”

What?

“Wait… more capable, like. It can change your bones? And height?”

“Of course. And your eye color, hair texture, vocal chord structure, those adorable freckles your soft Terran flesh is always decorated with. Fairly quickly, too, in a matter of moons.” 

“And Vs can give you wings and tails and stuff,” Becca added with bouncing enthusiasm, “It’s awesome!”

What? What?? Years of pain and emotional stifling and the Affini were just, casually solving the unbreakable curse of the human body like it was nothing and for what? Surely it couldn’t be for the benefit of the sophonts under their control? Surely the conquerors used it to force and mold their captives’ tender forms into whatever they preferred. And yet Becca had indicated she’d gotten herself drugged and changed on purpose… but that would mean…

“H… How much does it cost?”

Both floret and owner looked at Phoebe as if she’d asked why spacecraft needed oxygen. “Blossom, it’s free.” With excruciating consideration Rosifax gently added, “How long did you say you’d been a floret for?”

Rosifax had clearly not been bluffing about the Class-E, because the panic attack Phoebe absolutely should have been experiencing just then was not coming. Instead the sensory suppression pushed against her mind with rapidly scaling intensity, in proportion to her escalating terror, until she found herself leaning limply against Rosifax’s sweet-smelling chest, eyes unfocused and her mouth slightly agape. She had wanted to yell about something, something she couldn’t remember, but her brain had taken a nap and left her body behind. 

Becca leaned down and poked Phoebe on the nose, receiving no response. “Mistress, I think you broke her.”

“That would… appear so,” the nonplussed affini muttered. “I do not recall being so inept with my xenodrug administration.” The absent terran responded positively to a light squeeze and a cautious headrub. “She should be back to normal momentarily.”

“I dunno, I kind of like her like this.”

“Becca,” Rosifax chided their snickering floret, yet failed to hide that they shared the sentiment.