asking that affini you know why she has two of the same floret. one's still human, but one's a machine- up close, you see it's more of a porcelain doll. you ask her if they're digitised, if they're... you know the terms, uhm... a ramet and ortet, dear? there you go. she's in your head, you note. she giggles a little, and says that it's because keeping both forks of her beloved pet means twice the brightness it can bring to her life! ::) but you aren't satisfied with that answer. you want to know the real reason; you want to lean in closer. gosh, you're such a curious seed! you don't blush. she figures she'll 'give you the floret cut'- explain in terms little cuties like you understand. you both know that you're a fully functional "independent". she keeps this one, she says, petting the mostly-still-organic floret lying dreamily at her feet, because it's her very first and only floret. she'd never want to be without it, it's a good terran and has got her through some tough times. she loves it. she says terran like you'd say dog; she grins. that's right, draw the association yourself, very good. this one, though, she purrs, hand around the neck of the one in her lap that you notice is now far less relaxed, the one in the very pretty body made of cutting-edge affini biotech, this one is fun. this one is under her full control, a puppet with no boundaries or resistances to get in the way of her love. and- pay attention, now, dear- she can do this! she wraps a set of vines around the living doll's torso and wrist, and tells it to speak, doll, tell the nice floret (you're too distracted to object) what's going to happen to it. the girl at her feet is staring up, raptly; she looks like she's bracing herself. a soft, shaky voice comes out of the doll's mouth. "mistress is going to dislocate my arm. it's going to hurt and i don't want it. i don't know what i did wrong." such a good doll! it knows that punishment is something it deserves, and it submits to it willingly! the pulling starts, and it's already whimpering and trying not to hyperventilate. good doll! the girl on the floor is looking increasingly nervous. the pulling grows only harder, and the grinding noises from her abused joint sicken you, and you can't look away. good doll. the protests of the thing in her lap become loud moans of pain, 'nnffgghhh' and 'ghffffhk' and 'ahhngggn', become screams as her shoulder begins to crack. you're doing so well, she says, so brave for me, it's almost over, you're being a good doll, and the joint shatters. the dismembered arm still in her grasp twitches almost as much as the incoherent floret sobbing in her lap, the lucky doll's ortet on the floor massaging her own shoulder in sympathy. she knows the answer to the question before it's asked, but she waits patiently. what do we say, doll? it barely gets the words out through the choked sobs, but they're ones or gratitude. "th-ank yYou for br-breaking me so that You mmhhh,, so You may r-rebuild me ho-owww You like, Mistress." her vines trace the edges, the inside of its mangled shoulder. it clearly hurts. the pet on the floor is asked the same question, and meekly whimpers out its thanks, gratitude for showing it what its life would be if it wasn't a good pet. you understand, now, why she keeps both of them. you don't think about the way watching the doll break made you feel, but you know she can tell. you excuse yourself- you could have left at any time, petal, if you didn't love what you saw- but next time you see her, she'll know as well as you that you were up late last night.
