Chapter Text
— ✧ —
“Helloooooooooo universe!”
Star was walking and talking. No time to rest, not that she slept any more. Not unless she wanted to! There was a somno eproctophilia oviposition florn shoot on the books for next month, so at the latest, she’d sleep for some of that. Unless her affini Owner, Moonflower, happened to move it. She did that. Star didn’t worry too much about what she would do when—the schedule wasn’t up to her. Nothing was up to her. She was an object.
The best object.
“This is your girl Star Alba coming at you live with the latest news from the Compact’s inevitable benevolent liberation of humankind from the clutches of the Accord’s soulless oligarchs!”
She wasn’t holding a microphone or anything of the sort—it was built into her. Star’s body was pure phytotech, engineered from head to toe. Every inch of soft, plush, snow white flesh had been compiled for her—a unique weave that walked the line between human and beeple skin, designed specifically for her Owner’s personal and evolutionary preferences. She wasn’t any taller than one of those ancient little bee-like protoflorets, either, standing under a meter in height with a head and eyes that were cartoonishly out of proportion, giving her the adorable aesthetic of some kind of mascot character.
Her limbs had little interest in even pretending to mimic terran anatomy, instead bouncing jointlessly along, as though she were a rubber hose animation. A long, naked, pink tail swayed behind her with a mind of its own, the tip jingling with an attached bell like one might find on a jester’s hat. Two big, round, white mouse ears pierced the shimmering, multi-colored mop of hair hanging around her head—a messy bob cut glittering with lights, each individual strand endlessly cycling through an RGB rainbow; scintillating chromatic waves crashing across her head hypnotically. Her sundress shimmered with crystalline, angled shapes, catching the light like a prism, casting hued rays across the floors and ceiling around her like a walking disco ball.
She was difficult to look away from. And that was the point. Her RGB-shifting hair wasn’t just for show. It had a lowkey, subtle hypnotic effect, mildly compelling viewers to pay attention to her. To want to watch Star. To touch her. To violate her. It was barely a nudge, but enough for many fans who would have only had a casual interest in Star to become obsessed. This was enriching for both them and her.
Star was a sensory video. She was a stim toy. She was an experience.
And all that glory was always being recorded in the highest definition, so all that Star had to do was put her back to the faux-glass window and grin a big, sharp grin at the camera, holding her fingers in a peace sign next to one winking eye. She knew billions of sophonts across the Compact could see her, as well as a fair few viewers still in the as yet uncollapsed Accord. Speaking of which, through the window directly behind Star, a Terran battlecruiser was slowly being coiled by one of the Affini vessel’s colossal vines, like a gnat in a flytrap.
“As you can see, we’ve just caught- uh.” Star paused. “What’s the name of this one?” Her console lit up with thousands of fans flooding Star’s chat with the Stupid Bimbo Mouse emote. She doubled over with laughter, giggling herself half to tears. “Okay okay jeez you guys, haha. Who cares! Whatever stupid edgy name they gave that hunk of junk, every human on board is about to enter paradise.” Star wiped her eyes and leaned forward, her smile growing just a bit unhinged, eyes opening ever so slightly wider than a biological human’s eyes could. “And if any cuties are watching this on a rusty tin can like that one, you’re next. See ya soon!”
She heard a blip and knew that the feed wasn’t live, for now.
“Was that good?” Star asked seemingly nobody, strolling back down the aesthetically alien hall, under archways woven of synthetic fiber and between impossible sculptures of modern art seemingly grown out of plants from another galaxy. “Was I spooky enough?”
The Compact’s propaganda engine was terrible. Completely ineffectual and disastrous in its phrasing and disclosure. From the outside, it seemed like blatant lies and veiled threats. And that was on purpose. The Affini needed humanity to unite against them. In the absence of a mutual foe, Star’s species would turn on one another and rip themselves apart, risking sophont lives.
They had to be the bad guys.
And Star had taken up the role with glee—along with everything else she was up to.
[ It will suffice, ] Moonflower chuckled darkly in Star’s head. [ You’re so cute. ]
“What’s next?” Star asked eagerly. “An episode of Starcast? Another Terrans Are Sexy workshop? Xenosophont interviews? Meet-n-greet with fans? A florn shoot? More propaganda? A live show-”
[ A concert, ] her Mistress confirmed with patient, smug affection, [ as a matter of fact. ]
“Yesss!” Star threw her arms up into the air and they stretched halfway to the ceiling before bouncing back into place.
[ After that, you’re mine, ] She growled hungrily, and Star shivered head to toe with fear and excitement. She could feel her Owner’s thick body coiling around her neck and shoulders and torso and legs, squeezing and tightening around her petite form like prey. Literally. This was not metaphorical—when Mistress got excited, even from light years away, Star’s body would simulate the uncanny, tactile sensation of being wound up in Mistress’s massive, serpentine tail.
“I’m aaaaalways Yours, Mistress.”
[ All mine. ]
Star giggled breathlessly as she rounded the corner. She knew that tone in her Owner’s voice, and that could only mean one thing: after Star’s performance, she would be completely unavailable for a long time.
So Star wasted no time opening several tabs in her console. Anything she didn’t get done now wouldn’t be getting done for a while.
Star had limited access—more limited than almost any digital pet. She had absolutely no control over her own physical body in realspace nor her avatar in simspace; these were both decided by Moonflower at all times. She also couldn’t dictate where she actually went, either in or out of the digital Compact. It was common for Star to find herself suddenly whisked away from one server to another, or compiled into a location without warning. And her own code? Not a chance. Star couldn’t dream of accessing that.
But she could open her fanmail!
Star started with a few priority messages. Seven from Gwendolyn flirting with her (culturally, Veth flirting meant these read like death threats, but Star knew how much love her pinnate poured into each and every gruesomely detailed promise to end her in the most imaginatively horrific ways possible). And one from auntie Imperata that Star had learned better than to open—it would end up being some kind of malware that would make her cum until she passed out or something. Then a few more heartfelt correspondences from various friends (most with benefits) from back on the science ship where Star had spent her years as a cotyledon.
These always gave her a pang of nostalgia. She was one of the first humans ever discovered by the Affini, experimented upon to develop all the xenodrugs and knowledge now utilized to ensure happiness for her entire species. As such, she’d been a floret longer than almost any terran—possibly all of them, though even Star couldn’t make such a bold assertion with a straight face. Nonetheless, she was known for it. That was the start of Star’s fame. A viral video of her mournful plea for help during the cotyledon program put her face on holoscreens across the entire Compact. Countless Affini ships chose to enter Terran space because of Star. For many xenosophonts, she was the only human they’d ever seen.
That kind of fame might have distressed another sophont. Even her Owner didn’t care for all the attention. Moonflower was pretty reclusive—controlling things from behind the scenes like a puppetmaster just out of the audience's view. Anywhere Star went, one could be certain Moonflower was calling the shots. She was the shining superstar’s looming shadow. The private, unsociable loner whose only interest in life (since she’d retired from any role within the Compact besides Star’s guardian) was Her precious, perfect little idol. Her toy.
Everyone’s toy.
All eyes were on Star and neither she nor Moonflower would have it any other way. Moonflower loved to show her off and it was a dream come true. She was the prettiest, most perfect, adored, loved, cherished pet who ever lived—in Moonflower’s opinion, anyway. Everybody should praise her and yearn for her and lust after her.
And few things made her feel more sublimely wanted than fanmail.
Her console erupted with hundreds of thousands of messages dizzying the girl with a sea of horny, unhinged, creepy, parasocial affection. Some were human, though the vast majority were xenosophonts and affini, sending their most depraved, unfiltered thoughts to the famous little mouse without hesitation. They knew no shame.
And neither did she.
[ I wanna suk your toess ]
“Here’s the next Meet’n’greet, I’ll ask Mistress to crank up my sweat~”
[ POLLENSLUT ]
“You know it, handsome!”
[ Drink my i๑໐fງงrฯคkคhē ]
“Translator didn’t catch that one but if it’s some kind of body fluid, I’m down!”
[ i NEED to KNOT your MOUTH ]
“Catch me at the next Terrans Are Sexy and we’ll get you up on stage, stud~”
[ is it too late to sign up for your Object Transformation sweepstakes? i really want you to be my panties ]
“Not too late at all! Good luck and hope you win a day with me~”
[ I volunteered for domestication because of you!!!! Can you sign my new implant PLEEEASE ]
“You got it! Toss my Owner the details and I’ll be there~”
[ hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh squeak for me core rag ]
“Squeak squeak squeak!”
[ You look delicious. ]
“I am!”
Star’s perception of time slowed down a bit during crucial moments. She didn’t have control over that either, but somehow she always seemed to have just barely enough seconds in each minute to complete whatever task Star had become hyperfixated on. She suspected that Moonflower was responsible for this: dipping Star into deeper cognitive layers of simspace to accelerate her processing power and ensure that she always had just enough time to finish.
Before long, she was on the very last message, which gave her pause.
[ Your voice saved my life. ]
Star hesitated, losing her momentum for a moment. She stifled a quiet, happy sob and wiped a tear from her eye. Then replied, softly.
“That’s what it’s all about. I love you.”
And she did. Star loved the Compact. She loved the Affini. She loved every xenosophont under their care. She loved her life. She loved the universe. And the universe loved Star back.
“Has anyone seen Ipomoea’s show pet?” called a voice from beyond the next door. It opened automatically for Star, revealing a chamber filled to the brim with affini and florets alike, all preparing for her performance with a frantic pace. “There she is!” another plant shouted, and Star was yanked off her feet by vines.
The blur that followed of diagnostic scans and makeup and dress inspections and every other precaution and preparation Star could imagine had become routine to her. She let herself go limp, passed around like a doll. None of them spoke to her—Star had no autonomy in this process, or any process. She was just her Owner’s prized possession. Her well trained little show mouse.
Star didn’t even know what ship she was on. Moonflower hadn’t told her. But she knew where the stage had been compiled for her. She knew it intuitively. Intrinsically. That data must have been uploaded to her brain. Her Mistress often did that too. Everything always just worked out for Star, one way or another. She’d become almost certain that her Owner could bend time and space and fate itself to ensure that no matter what Star did, she would somehow bumble her way into success. She’d long since stopped overthinking things and learned to simply dance on Moonflower’s strings.
And those strings were drawing her out into the limelight again.
It was time.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOO UNIVERSE!” Star shouted at the top of her lungs as she was launched through the curtains, spinning twenty times in the air until her feet landed long before the rest of her—legs stretching out and body following with a delay, as though it obeyed the squash and stretch physics of animation moreso than reality. Her petite, mousie voice was amplified (no doubt by her Owner at that very moment) to carry across the massive crowd assembled to attend the show. A hundred thousand or so attendees, across over a hundred different xenosophont species, erupted into cheers—though about half of them were affini. Star struck a pose as a variety of spotlights swiveled to collectively converge on her.
“Who’s ready to PARTY?!”
Star’s console swarmed with electronic dance mixes from across the Compact, not even one of which was human in origin. It seemed that her Mistress had decided to let her DJ the party. Star gleefully chose an upbeat spectrum jelly number that had, in her opinion, the electric energy of an idol show, then raked her fingers through her hair. In her palm’s wake, each strand locked onto a neon pink hue, until the whole mess was bright bubblegum in hue. She would change her hair color for each song, but pink was one of Star’s favorites next to white and baby blue.
Rainbow smoke burst into the air all around her, flooding the stage with colorful mist while several spotlights spun away across the crowd—which had already shattered into a deafening celebration to the beat of Star’s breakcore synthwave hyperpop track. She couldn’t tell whether it was the bass or the sheer inertia of the crowd’s dancing which shook the very floor beneath her feet, but endorphins shot up through Star’s body and the irises of her eyes swam with a hundred hues—only a handful of which were visible to humans. At least one mosh pit had emerged nearby, though it was closer to an orgy. She knew more would soon follow.
And Star wasn’t about to stay out of the fun.
She threw herself into a flawless, memorized beeple supplication dance, rocking her hips and touching herself from ankles to neck in a seductive rhythm that had xenosophonts and affini alike practically salivating at the edge of the stage. Then Star invited them up with a wink and the crook of her finger. This was all part of the production—but the eager young blooms and hungry alien florets who accepted her offer (and were betting on it, most likely; nobody stood in the front row at one of Star’s performances if they didn’t want to be part of it) were not actors. They were indeed legitimately total strangers to her. Except the furry, horned monstrosity grabbing her rubbery ankles and lifting her up—that one she vaguely recognized from a meet’n’greet a few months ago. It was a good thing all of Star’s body was stretchy, because if she remembered right, that particular floret just so happened to be very well endowed.
Meanwhile, the vines of an unknown affini slipped around Star, sliding against her skin, and she giggled to herself. Moonflower was possessive, and She had taken several measures with Her little mouse since Star’s consciousness was digitized and her body became something that was made rather than born.
First, only her Owner’s pollen could adhere to Star’s skin—any foreign particulate would just slough right off, unable to gain purchase. Second, Star’s doll hole was encrypted to Moonflower’s unique melodic signature, so to any sophont without Her exact biorhythm, Star’s groin was just a flat, nullified surface. Furthermore, xenodrugs injected into Star were automatically isolated and stored in her bladder until her Mistress chose to allow them to affect her (or she pissed them back out later). Most of all, though, Star had been rendered completely immune to the long term effects of exposure to an affini’s hypnotic presence. In the short term, she could still get drunk off an affini’s eyes or core, but her cognitive code was backed up and secured in a way that no affini could do anything to her that really mattered.
The horny birch tree presently rubbing every centimeter of Star’s soft flesh with its vines wasn’t so different from a puppy rutting against a stuffed chewtoy with no opening. They had no idea that they were being cucked by her Mistress, no indication whatsoever that all their efforts to entrance and intoxicate and pollinate Star were completely in vain. She was an object, a prop. Affini could play with Star, but it wouldn’t be real.
Even so, Moonflower herself slyly decided, in that moment, to remotely flood Star’s brain with a flood of chemicals, causing the girl to become dizzy and disoriented on the spot. She slurred her words and her eyes unfocused. Star stumbled and a bit of drool ran down over her chin.
The young affini entangling her brimmed with pride, mistaking this for the result of its own actions.
With xenosophonts, on the other hand—florets like Star—Moonflower had far less reservations. To Her, no relationship of any tangible worth could truly be formed between a pair of xenosophonts; only the bond between an affini and its pet actually mattered. So the giant beast stretching Star’s (literally) rubbery anus around its massive knot in front of a hundred thousand people (and about as many pets) faced no underhanded resistance from the toy’s obsessive Owner. Even as it filled Star up like a living condom, stretching her tummy and chest around its girth as her phytotech organs were shoved out of the way to make room.
The sensory overload was already making it hard for Star to think. But she didn’t need to think. The choreography was beyond her, anyway. When it came time for Star to perform, Moonflower would assume control of her. Until then, Star enjoyed the intense, overwhelming love of the Compact as it consumed her.
Ipomoea Alba, Fourth Bloom—or, as her beloved pet once dubbed her, Moonflower—lounged in the warm, murky waters of her half-flooded hab. The entire central room had been converted into a sort of giant hot tub, though muddier. Nutrient rich soil made up its base, giving the basin an earthy scent and the relaxing sensation of soaking in her homeworld’s vast ocean during the summer months.
Her slick, moist, vantablack body stretched across the length of the pitch dark hab, snake-like from the waist down to the tip of her 35 meter long tail. From the navel up, she’d woven together a vaguely humanoid shape, about a meter wide at the shoulders—though the attempt to replicate a terran image was abstractly aesthetic at best and took uncanny and disturbing liberties. The featureless silhouette of her, like a raw void of starless space shaped into something tangible and alive, was indistinct but undeniably predatory. It made no effort to ease the nerves of those around her. Moonflower had long since abandoned any concern for masking her true, terrifying nature. She was like a hole in the universe, a shadow without texture or discernable dimensionality.
A monster covered in humans.
A vast variety of terrans, spanning countless gender expressions, pigmentations, and biomodifications, most of them so doped up on class-Js that they no longer remembered where they were or how they got there—only that Moonflower’s body felt nice to hug, and grind against, and sometimes (if they were lucky) get swallowed up by. Floret and independent alike, all had been lured into her clutches by her hypnotic little Star’s dazzling fame. Who wouldn’t want to meet the Owner of your favorite celebrity? Star was such a perfect toy. Such lovely, delicious bait. Like the light at the end of an angler fish’s tendril, Star drew them in, and then Moonflower enjoyed the spoils.
She didn’t intend to keep them. Certainly, none of these sophonts deserved her implant—that was for her precious Star alone. But Moonflower savored the feel, and smell, and taste of humans. It was like their species was made for her. They were everything she’d ever wanted in a xenosophont and she could never get enough of their soft, warm, squishy little bodies—of the unique blend of oils and saline they exuded from their plush flesh—of the exquisite sounds they made. Humans were her favorite.
And she was their favorite too, whether they liked it or not. If Moonflower’s aggressive biorhythm and hypnotic fascinators—in the shape of two deep violet gemstone eyes pulsing with concentric, blood red rings that endlessly expanded across their surface like ripples where a stone had breached the surface of a pond—didn’t enthrall their feeble attention spans, then the dozens of crimson and purple points of light travelling up and down Moonflower’s umbral plantflesh would. A few terrans chased the luminous dots like cats trying to catch the target of a laser pointer. Others lounged against Moonflower with vacant, happy expressions, eyes empty, mouths agape and drooling, as they let the swirling glow overtake them.
Eventually, those with owners would be called away, and Moonflower made no effort to stop them. There would always be more—and many pets soon found themselves begging their affini to permit repeat visits on account of just how addictive Moonflower had made herself to their kind in particular. The independents, however, had to claw their way out of her hypnotic presence all on their own. Many failed to do so. She didn’t keep track of them. She didn’t know their names and she couldn’t really tell many of them apart. But a few of these humans had been in her home for a very long time at this point—all their needs provided for by Moonflower’s highly automated hab. They weren’t hers, but she wasn’t going to kick them out either.
This was mutualism at its finest. Humans were blissful sensory for Moonflower, and she, in turn, gave them a temporary, thrilling reprieve from their ordinary lives—a dark dream they could wake from any time they pleased, so long as they could shake themselves loose of her nascent hypnotism. It wasn’t as though she was trying to bewitch them on purpose. They weren’t her focus.
Even the humans presently inside of Moonflower’s body, their every orifice filled with slick vines, were merely a pleasant background process for the affini. Instead, her attention was affixed to a variety of holographic displays hovering all around her. Games and diversions. Moonflower was determined to enjoy her retirement to the fullest, and she’d buried herself in recreation. Puzzles and simulations and cute human videos (look, that one thinks it’s People!). Every individual stream of Moonflower’s consciousness was occupied by a separate source of entertainment (how could humans stand to have just the one?)
And the most important game she was playing?
Star.
It was time. Moonflower casually assumed control of her pet’s phytotech body from where she laid, dedicating only a fraction of her total awareness to the task. To Star, her entire existence was subsumed, shunting her into the back of her own mind as an audience to what Moonflower chose to do with her. But to Moonflower, this wasn’t any different from playing a video game.
She opened Star’s eyes, gazing out at the crowd, then pivoted the human’s little head to the side, observing the youngbloom rubbing itself all over her toy’s body like an animal. “Cute,” Moonflower said with Star’s vocal cords, between teeth that, once flat, had become triangular and sharp the moment she seized control of Star’s physical form. Her pet shuddered mentally in the prison of her own mind, still feeling everything—Moonflower had not taken Star’s senses, only her autonomy. The little toy’s empty head was now full with her Owner’s presence and intent.
“Ready to squeak for me, little mouse?”
Star felt her arms stretch upward. Her hands grip around the rafter above the stage. Her body slip from the grasp of her eager fans and rocket upwards, drawn by the elastic tension of her limbs. The release. The pirouette. Star’s body was performing aerial maneuvers she never could have learned. Her form was physically capable of the spectacular show it was putting on, but these kinetic calculations were completely beyond her cognitive ability. For her Mistress, though? They were simple. Like playing a rhythm game that She’d beaten a dozen times before, Moonflower was barely even trying.
That freed Star up to focus on what she was known for.
Her voice.
The tempo accelerated. The music blared. The crowd went—well, not quiet, but noticeably anticipatory. And before Star’s feet even met the floor, she started to sing. A song she’d written on the way down that hallway to the stage. Star hadn’t had time to memorize even a single verse, let alone rehearse it.
But those were the kinds of things that biological florets worried about.
Star was a thing.
A tool. A toy. A trophy.
An object. A machine.
An idol.
The words flowed out of her all on their own, filtered through flawless autotune which whirred to life in her larynx, sending a tingle down Star’s throat. She may have written the lyrics, and the voice that emerged from everybody’s favorite celebrity was certainly her own, but Star was no singer. She was a speaker. A state of the art stereo system in a meter tall frame. Her mouse ears even acted as subwoofers, vibrating intensely.
This was her Mistress’s show and Star was only a prop.
The siren song that emerged from her was laced with Moonflower’s biorhythm and polyharmonics, inhumanly beautiful in a way that even the digipet never could have produced alone. It cascaded through the room with seemingly tangible mass, a wave of electric euphoria and mesmerizing intent—inviting millions of listeners across the Compact to follow Star’s charisma overboard and drown in Moonflower’s seductive power like sailors throwing themselves into the sea.
Thought I was free but I was lost
The Accord asks too high a cost
There’s no line they haven’t crossed
So come and take my hand!
It’s time to finally take a break
And you know it’s for your own sake
The Affini give and never take
Don’t you understand?
Listen to my hypnotic song
You know just where you belong
You'll wonder why you fought so long
Just to withstand
The siren song of
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (waiting for you)
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (oh yes it’s true)
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (you know just what to do)
Come on, lonely independent
Sure you’ve escaped the rent
But you want my two cents?
Independence is a lot of stress
Come on, angry little feral,
You aren’t in any peril
Let’s get you some new apparel
Trade that gun for a cute dress!
One less soldier, one less war
One more floret to adore
The Compact's knocking at your door
Don't you want to rest?
In the warm embrace of
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (waiting for you)
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (oh yes it’s true)
Paradiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise~
It’s waiting (you know just what to do)
Want my advice?
I just think it’d be nice
Your life needs a little spice
Your virtues are a vice
Trust me, it’s worth the price
Just a tiny sacrifice (don’t worry about it)
Don’t think twice
Nothing less will suffice
I hope I’m being concise
Aren’t you enticed?
It’s time to roll the dice
And join the mice (that’s me!)
in Paradise!
— ✦ —
“Why are you showing me this?”
Cigarette smoke danced in the flickering light of a dozen convex glass screens mounted to the stained concrete walls boxing them in. Blurry recordings under thick scanlines, looping endlessly. Star posing like a pop idol in front of a captured Terran battleship. Star teaching a bunch of aliens how to get a human off. Star podcasting over her compiled meal while she slanders the Accord’s sensible rationing practices. Star signing her autograph on a grotesque parasite before it’s implanted into the spine of a fresh victim. And of course, Star’s concert.
“You uh, you can’t smoke in here,” a balding executive timidly told her.
The woman’s piercing, cat-like eyes met his and he folded like a wet paper bag, shrinking back into line with the others. Her gaze roamed across the middle management assembled here, indistinct and pathetic, a sniveling pile of white men in their 40s and 50s, dressed up in ill-fitting suits and ties. One was tapping his foot to the beat of Star’s song until he realized that she’d noticed, then he quickly stopped. Weak. Made soft by privilege. None of them would have willingly listened to a woman if they didn’t need her. She took a certain sadistic satisfaction in that.
Nightshade had no love for the pigs that paid her hefty salary, but so long as they kept the green flowing, she’d take care of their dirty laundry.
None of them knew her real name, and she wouldn’t be sharing it anytime soon. In this line of work, information was a weapon. What Nightshade did in her day to day would make those dogs with the OCNI lose their lunch. This wasn’t government work. It was worse. Pure, ice cold malice without all the red tape. Privatized brutality. The natural extreme of unchecked capitalism. Nightshade’s masters were the Accord’s masters, too. The godkings of this kingdom of rust. Faceless, scheming oligarchs. She was their blade. A living bullet in the rifle of generational wealth.
Corporate infosec.
Black leather hugged every inch of Nightshade’s impressive 6’4” height, stained with a splatter of blood she’d been given no opportunity to clean off on account of the sheer urgency of this summons. The shareholders were buzzing like wasps in a freshly shaken hive. Something had them more riled up than she’d ever seen. But what did the Affini Compact’s weird rodent clown have to do with that? This was military business. The megacorps had nothing to gain from getting their hands dirty in another war—the longer it went on, the more money they’d make off all those juicy weapons contracts. And when the dust settled, they could swoop in and pick the losers’ metaphorical corpse clean, like they had with the Rinan.
Nightshade ran one fingerless-gloved hand through her long, painstakingly straightened black hair and slid two slender fingers around the cigarette in her mouth. She inhaled deeply, then lifted the slim menthol away, black lipstick adhering stubbornly to its white paper wrapper. Nightshade tapped a screen with the tip of it, smudging Star’s face with ash.
Everybody knew Star Alba. The Compact broadcast her slop all hours of the day. She was an enormous gear in their propaganda engine, and the Accord could ban it all they liked but nothing stopped citizens from tuning in. The question was, why should Nightshade care?
“Explain.”
“Well, you see…” one of the gross, bulbous sacks of meat and money said anxiously. They swapped the monitor to a camera feed, showing a titanium prison cell at the bottom level of the corporate blacksite’s basement, where a cylinder of six foot thick AM-III carbon glass contained a tiny, three foot tall girl with mouse ears and a tail, stripped naked, feet dangling off the edge of a metal bench as she swayed her head side to side and hummed to herself. The irises of her eyes had swapped from their rainbow swirls to a neon azure hue. Her hair’s RGB effect was gone, leaving it white as a fluffy cloud, just like the girl’s clearly fabricated skin—which, itself, bore the telltale signs of a fresh beating (despite her seemingly carefree mood). One of her stretchy arms had even been removed at the joint, unsocketed like the limb of a doll and left laying on the floor. Even so, this was unmistakably the Affini’s celebrity whore. Star. “She’s here.”