The woman in the holomirror has your face, but still you barely recognise her.
You’ve worn fancy things before, but not expensive things. The solid gold hoops in your ears are surprisingly heavy, the feminine but thick gold chain gleaming weightily around your neck. And the dress, so costly it has no need to be elaborate, just a simple, form fitting garment of glossy black silk. It feels luxurious against your skin, if a little stifling, but it's worth it for the look. Up both your sides runs a line of gauzy shimmersilk, the clear window of skin encouraging the imagination to linger on your covered cleavage, making it somehow more scandalous. Though with your extra cup size on the Professor the emphasis is hardly necessary. There’s also your extra height hitching the hemline of the dress far higher than is remotely decent, very nearly short enough to glimpse the cheap, off white of your underwear.
You try not to notice that, instead looking at the holographically reflected face, smiling full and gently shimmering lips back at you. The makeup was one of those brands you’d never dared guess the price of, effortless to apply and generous in how it made your lips look naturally fuller, your eyelashes longer, your cheeks rosier. It almost distracted from your freckles, and from the small mole beside your right eye, and the dimple in your left nostril from a long gone nose-stud.
But nothing could distract from your short, vibrantly purple hair, which grows slowly less vibrant the longer you look at it.
You look down, your hair fading to a matt grey. No-one who wears clothes like this would have mooddyed hair. Still, you breathe in, looking back up at your stunning reflection, your hair shifting to a light, hopeful orange, streaked with a cheeky yellow as you bat your long eyelashes, bite your full lips, touch a gold-painted fingertip to a kiss, leaning back with the slightest gasp as you trace that kiss down your neck, the touch clinking past the gold chain and out over the taut fabric across your chest. Taut enough to see the outline of your cheap bra.
Your hair fades again, becoming a teal blue as your heart sinks into a guilty hollow. The Professor had said in triplicate to make yourself at home, but you doubted that included this, and definitely wouldn’t include trying on her bras, not that they’d fit you anyway. You bite your lip again, this time in worry about stretching the dress, so clearly custom tailored for the Professor, your hair turning a sad blue with the knowledge that she’d never even notice.
In your three years as her full-time assistant you’d helped her get ready more than once for hastily remembered award or a gala or dinner, or worst of all a speech. On that occasion you suggested this dress, tucked away in the very back of her enormous closet, hoping it would give her confidence. In a way it did, as it gave her the confidence to wear her regular lab coat, leaving you to return the garment to the back of the closet where it remained, untouched and utterly forgotten until just now.
It was like the Professor knew that rich people owned these kinds of things, but not what to do with them. She’d received so many accolades and acknowledgments, not to mention the royalties. Stars, even your mooddyed hair was derived from one of her xenobotanical discoveries, the Europan Empath Trees. Then there were the pharmaceuticals derived from the Martian Morpheus flower, the aerospace materials from the Venusian Vanadium Fungi and the Titan Petrochemical Peach. So many discoveries, and so much more money than any person would know what to do with, least of all the Professor.
Your hair is flushed an envious green, but not for long. You do envy her boundless wealth, but find it impossible to really resent the woman for not noticing it. She’d scarcely notice she was hungry if you didn’t remind her. And her utter indifference to her wealth did come with perks, like the top of the range wristphone she’d insisted on buying for you, or the fact she would definitely not notice you having some light harmless fun with her least worn dress. So you give your guilt and the holomirror a final kiss, letting your former purple confidence return, flushed with redder tones you can only assume are for the anticipation you feel unfurling in your chest.
You look so different. What will she think?
You turn away from the mirror as you bring up the clear bangle of your wristphone, and make the call.
Light forms a rounded-edged rectangle above your wrist, roughly the size of a face, showing two words:
‘Calling Desyre…’
Almost instantly the words give way to the image of a young, almost monochrome woman. Her dark grey hoodie looking nearly as black as her hair in the dimly lit room, especially with the stark glow of her computer screen making her pale skin almost luminescent and her blue eyes almost white. The eyes widen with disbelief.
“Daaaaaaamn Sue, you look hot!”
The warmth overflows from your chest as you look down, cheeks and hair both blushing.
“S-shut up, Desy,” you manage, marvelling at how she always manages to do this to you with just one comment.
“Oh come on Sue-bear,” Desyre chides from the holoscreen, “you’re meant to look sexy - people pay a lot of money to look as sexy as you do.”
“I guess.”
“Great, now tilt your wrist so I can see the goods.”
“No!” you flush even redder as you keep your wrist perfectly level with your face, trying not to smile, or feel the butterflies in your stomach. She’s always making jokes like this.
“Kidding, kidding,” Desyre holds up her hands in exaggerated surrender, before smiling coyly, one finger tapping her chin, “Or am I?”
You stare at the line of her smirk, the butterflies rioting. What would she do if she saw what you looked like, all of you? If you turned back to the mirror and showed her -
When you don’t respond she props her head on one arm, acting as if nothing had happened. “So, how’s my favourite roomie?”
You swallow, finding a fond smile. “Your only roommate is feeling harassed.”
“Uh-huh, and how’s the place? You’ve never shown me around you know.”
“The Professor is a private woman.”
“The Professor’s not there.”
You consider that for a long while, looking around the Professor’s bedroom. You’d never seen the room yourself until this evening, instead sleeping in one of the many empty guest rooms as you built up the courage to come in here. And imagine your surprise when you found not the secret plant dragon you were expecting, nor a kinky high tech sex dungeon, but the biggest surprise of all - a rather boring bedroom.
Most of the furniture is white with silver accents, but no two styles match, probably because the Professor had ordered it all online, selecting the colours then picking the first item in every category. The vanity too is just like her, holding an army of shapely bottles and containers, their ranks close to mutiny. They’re orderly at the very back where you’d sampled a few things, unopened and barely used items neatly arranged in colour gradient rows, but the closer you get to the front the more the well-meaning order devolves into eclectic chaos.
The room tells a story, of the Professor’s life pitting good intentions against nervous reality. It's a private story.
“Suuue?” Desyre’s quizzical tone drawing you back to the holocall and her raised eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Your hair’s that teal colour you get when you’re overthinking something.”
“What? I -” it blushes back to red, “I just - okay! Tour of the house!” You leave the bedroom before pressing your wristphone to make Desyre’s image flips around, mirrored from your view as she sees what your wrist sees, “The main hallway.”
“… Fascinating.”
“Oh, keep your pants on.”
“Who says I’m wearing pants?”
“Anyway, right in here” the door opens with a hiss of and an explosion of humid sunlight and vibrant colours, “we have the main arboretum.”
“Gods, that is more hues than I thought plants came in. And did you say the ‘main’ arboretum?”
“Oh yeah, this is mostly the ordinary stuff. A few new winter strains of grainvine, a few crossbreeds and gene-repo experiments, like this miniaturised walking trees…” your voice trails off as you eye the conspicuously empty patch of soil. "Which apparently needs a taller pot… where are you?”
“Walking trees. Ordinary. Right.”
“Aha! There you are. Don’t you rattle your leaves at me, mister! Damnit, I’ll need to get the tongs again. But first,” you announce as another door hisses open, “let me show you something actually interesting.”
“Actua - oooooh! Okay that's cool!”
“Isn’t it! Mercurian Chromatic Ferns.”
“Preetty! Is it what’s making that tingling noise - are the leaves crystal?”
“It’s a silicon based plant, which means it really doesn’t like water. We think it uses its bioluminesence as a kind of hunting tool, so it can hypnotise prey before eating them.”
“Hypnotise… eating… what?”
“Oh don’t worry, they’re not that smart. They keep shining their leaves at these tanks of Callistan Swimvines - and they can’t even see colour, poor things! Sorry guys I’ll be back in a minute with your fish.”
“Swimvines? See… the plants eat fish?!”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it eating exactly, but here what I really want to show yAAA - sorry -”
“What was that, why did you just duck?!”
“Sorry that damn creepvine gets grabby if I forget to rub it down.”
“… What?!”
“But here -”
You enter a new, very special room. The outer edge is floored in wood, cool and a little wet under your feet. A few feet from the walls the decking meets the smooth curves of a large circle of grey rocks, edging the small pond at the centre of the room. The water gleams a gentle blue, lit from underneath by clusters of hydroshrumes, different ones slowly winking on and off as their shared glow shimmers through the shifting water.
“Preetty!” Desyre exclaims again, as you hold up your wrist to pan her view around the pool, circling up to show your her favourite plant of all. It sits a proud and glossy red atop its own little island of rocks, its pink crest of tendrils waving a gentle greeting to you, and now to Desyre too.
“What the fuck is that?” she flatly exclaims.
“Don’t be mean. It’s pretty.”
“Does ‘pretty’ mean something else to Xenobotanists?”
“Oh, come on, it’s fascinating! It’s a Ganymedian… actually we don’t know what kind of plant it is, but it seems fine living above water too, if the air is humid enough. And it doesn’t photosynthesise - it has a rudimentary gastrointestinal tract for straining protein from liquid! Isn’t that cool!”
“… Okay, so I take it ‘cool’ is Xenobotanist for ‘bat shit insane’. Are you saying that is yet another monster plant that eats things?”
“Drinks, actually. Here, I -” you remember your attire, double check how short the dress is, suddenly very thankful for it. “- Okay, watch.”
You make your way to a small bar fridge in the corner of the room, which opens to a wall of identical milk cartons. With the unconscious smoothness of a long repeated action you take the open carton out, pour a generous helping into the glass beaker waiting atop the fridge, seal and return the carton and, beaker in hand, head for the pool. The water is warm beneath your feet, rising barely above your knees, well short of the dress as you wade carefully to the centre of the pool.
The pink tendrils wave faster as you approach, reaching out to you with coiling grips, beckoning. With both arms raised you need to take extra care to balance as you take a shaky step half up onto the central island, thankful when the slick tendrils reach out to you, coiling gently around your wrists, their grip tightening and staying firm as you pull yourself up and onto the island.
There’s barely enough room for your feet, your toes pressing against the red skin, which feels very smooth and warm to the touch, its pink tendrils gyrating from below your waist to just below your chest.
“You see, it’s even pleased to see me.”
“See you?”
“Okay, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, but shut up and watch!”
The plant’s tendrils start to still, their grip slackening on your wrists. Together the forest of tendrils begin to part from the centre, even before you start to raise the beaker. Rings and rings of pink fall and roll apart from the approaching beaker, laying flat until they’re all stretched away from a central, pink opening. It looks almost like a mound, puffy and soft, the gleamingly smooth skin cresting in a pair of round, glossy lips. The lips open with a wet sound, the interior a deeper pink and dripping wet, droplets of clear liquid running down inside, rippling over ridge after ridge, curling around the small fleshy bumps that spiral the opening all the long way down into an unseen darkness.
Desyre’s tone is empathically flat, “That, is the single weirdest thing I have ever seen.”
“I told you not to be mean! It’s just thirsty.” Before Desyre can ask more questions you raise the beaker of milk higher, carefully pouring it into the very center of the open mouth. Instantly it reacts, contracting inwards around the stream, pulsing around it rhythmically as the entire plant seems to undulate in time. You can hear it greedily gulping down the liquid as you and Desyre both watch, her face wearing a distinctly horrified expression.
“What… the actual fuck?
“Isn’t it amazing! It’s a plant, but it’s drinking milk! It’s the protein, it just can’t get enough of it! And you want to see something really weird?”
“Really -?”
“Look!” the plant is still rhythmically gulping long after the stream of liquid has stopped, as if it believes it hopes it still squeeze more out. Eventually though its tendrils start to raise again, one raising higher than the others, turning towards you, pointing up at your mouth. It’s end has gone from pink to white, a drop of liquid bulging at the tip.
You offer the beaker, and after a moment’s pause the tendril obediently curls into it. Waves of contractions run up its lengths, pushing along pulses of white that bulge out the end and pour into the beaker. It’s more viscous than the milk, and less than you originally gave it, barely filling the bottom of the beaker.
You press a control on your wristphone, flipping Desyre’s still mortified face to see your triumphant smile and purple hair as you confidently hold up the beaker, “See, it even gave me a present. Even you can’t deny that’s cool.”
“I can and I will. Why - how - why is it even doing that?”
“I have no idea! It started it a few days ago, giving back some of its daily milk, like it wanted to make sure I got some too.” You regard the plant below you with fondness, letting its slick tendrils spiral around your offered fingers and wrist, coiling and tugging. “It’s sweet!”
“Sweet… you mean you drank it!”
“What, no! I mean sweet as in kind. Thoughtful.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure the monster milk plant will be very thoughtful as it’s nomming your arm off! You know people are made of protein too?”
“It doesn’t have any teeth Desy. Nor any stomach acid, nor a stomach, more like an intestine for straining -”
“Oh no no no no no, do not tell me monster plant has intestines. This is something I cannot know.”
“It’s not a monster! It’s perfectly safe.”
“It’s -trying - to - drug - you!”
“This is just milk,” you offer up the beaker of viscous liquid, sheepishly adding, “Mostly.”
“Mostly!”
“I ran it through the analyser. There's a few extra enzymes and fructose and some other things I can’t identify yet,” you force a smile, your hair ends flashing a deep, annoyed red that you weren’t able to recognise the other compounds. And Desyre’s histrionics aren’t helping your confidence. “But it’s nothing harmful. It’s fine!”
“Fine? And when it sprays it in your face and -”
“It’s not going to do that!”
“It’s a monster!”
“It’s sweet!”
“It has organs!”
“It’s safe!”
“How can you -”
You grit your teeth, “LOOK!” You raise the beaker and, before Desyre or your brain can object, down the contents whole.
It’s sweet, very sweet, not a synthetic sweetness but rich, feeling warm and gooey as it flows into you, gulped down and gone far too quickly. You breathe out the delicious aftertaste, momentarily distracted, then look smugly back at your comp. “See, safe!”
Desyre is just starting at you open-mouthed, with an expression you’ve never seen her wear before. You don’t know if you like it.
She shudders, “I can’t believe you did that.”
“It’s just milk.”
“MOSTLY!”
“Well, if it proved to you it’s harmless and I’m fine then -”
“What part of you drinking alien monster milk was meant to make me think you’re fine?”
“The part where I didn’t explode afterwards? Or turn green, or start floating, or anything at…” Your face drops. You look down.
“Suuue?” Desyre asks after a few seconds, “Why is your hair white?”
“I, uh, I gotta go.”
“WHAT! Oh hell no, I’m coming over there right -”
“NO!” the word comes out far louder than you meant it to. “No, I’m, I’m fine. Really. Just busy, lots to do, plants to feed and water and tend and de-egg.”
“… Okay now I now you’re making stuff up to distract me, especially because your hair’s gone teal again.”
You glance up to your fringe to see a lock of the incriminating colour. “Damn. Okay but I am fine. Honest!”
“You’re a terrible liar. Just,” she takes a deep breath “just tell me your stomach hasn’t melted or an alien plant baby hasn’t exploded out your tits or anything, okay?”
You smile, trying to mean it, “I’m fine, really. Just busy.”
“Bullshit. But I trust you. And I trust you’ll CALL ME if you’re not okay, rather than just trying to deal with alien tittybursters by yourself.”
“I promise,” you sigh, trying not to laugh at the image of Desyre with both hands shoved up under her hoodie, pretending her breasts are hungry aliens. “Goodbye, Desy!”
“I’m not Desy, I’m the Ravenous Breastblatter Beast of -” you cut the transmission with a final press, then take your own steadying breath, and look down again at the sudden and very prominent bulge of underwear jutting out from beneath the hem of your dress.
Why, the fuck, are you so unbelievably hard?!
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