Two days later, I was back in Greater Reykjavik, having an argument with Warren Argall again.

"Absolutely not!" he insisted. If he'd stamped his foot, he couldn't be any more the stereotype of the whinging feralist.

"Warren, take the suit off, it looks wretched and it makes you look like a mess." He had groomed himself, at least — he'd shaved and had done what he could with his hair — but his threadbare old suit dominated his image. "Trust the former defense attorney here, alright? Appearances are extremely important for this kind of thing, probably more so than they used to be." I had even put in some work on my own appearance, having visited a very confused Affini florist for a few fashion grafts. The vines trailing down from the back of my head now boasted morning glories, their flowers twisted into gentle cones to give the effect of hair ornaments. I'd also worked a few cuttings of nandina in, and their red leaves provided marvelous highlighting once I'd woven them properly into my vines — the warm colors shone through gaps here and there, breaking up the green of my phytotech body. It was a start.

"I'm not letting this out of my sight. The minute this comes off my body, that-" He caught himself just in time. "This minute this comes off, I know it's going right in the fucking disintegrator."

"And you can make another one just like it, and I will happily walk you through that process, but Warren? We are not trying to appeal to human sensibilities here. Your judge and jury are Affini, and if there's one thing we like, it's cute sophonts wearing cute things."

"I would really appreciate it if you didn't refer to me as 'cute,'" he replied with a bitter look on his face.

"What's wrong with being cute?" I had a pretty good idea of what his response would be, but I felt like playing along for a moment, and right on cue-

"It's not the kind of thing you say about a man!" Bingo, I thought. I had a feeling his reason started with miso- and ended with -gyny.

"You clearly need to meet some of the guys I know," I said, rolling my eyes theatrically. "And on the actual subject of this conversation, they wouldn't have any trouble wearing a colorful shirt either."

He actually looked puzzled. "You know men?"

I sighed. "Warren, just because I'm a lesbian doesn't mean I have a fatal allergy to men. I just don't want to have sex with them. Yes, I have friends who are men, including one very close friend, and he wouldn't think twice about wearing that shirt." This was not precisely true, but I didn't really want to get into the issues of color matching with complexion, and I figured Rio would forgive me for broad-brushing his preference for blues and violets instead of the brilliant orange and yellow of the shift that Vita had compiled for Argall.

"Okay, well... I'm not whatever flavor of gay this friend of yours is! That's... not a serious thing to wear!"

"It might not have been under the Accord, but thankfully we haven't lived under the Accord for several years now. Wear the outfit. Not optional. If you want, I'll even hold onto your falling-apart suit for you and you can have it back after." Anything to make him stop digging in his heels at this point.

"...you better not backstab me here, Slaine," he grumbled, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

"Warren, I'm here to help you, why in the world would I backstab you?"

"Because you're one of them," he hissed, staring right up into my eyes with a fervor that told me he absolutely believed it, that he lumped me in with the terrible space plants that had taken away all of his special privileges.

The look on his face when I thanked him for saying that was worth all the effort I'd expend on this case and then some.

The meeting room, an elliptical space with a long table running down the middle, was Affini sized, meaning Argall's legs dangled over the side of the chair and he could only just see over the tabletop. It was a bit large even for me, admittedly, but the nice thing about having vines was I could adjust myself to the chair at least a little. "Still can't believe you made me wear this," Warren muttered, his arms crossed and a sour look on his face.

"I think you look very fetching in it, Warren," Vita, seated to his left, said, smiling and patting him gently.

"I look like an abstract painting threw up on me," he growled.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, silly," Vita said, laughing. She glanced up at me and added <However did you get him to wear it? I feel like I tried everything short of Class-Ms!>

<Well, I have a bit more experience with Terrans,> I said, smiling. <And with this Terran in particular. You've just got let him feel like he's winning a concession so he can convince himself he's still in control of the situation.>

<Ahhh, I see,> Vita said, nodding. <I'll keep that in mind, thank you!>

<Happy to help,> I said. The other Affini in the room were finishing up their side conversations, and the one at the far end of the table began calling the meeting to order, so we left it there.

"This is the preliminary wardship meeting for Warren Argall, Terran," the broad Affini at the head of the table said in standard English as he paged through a bundle of forms, "Compact ID RP-1-TRN-36500043438. Is the sophont in question present?"

"I have him right here, Dictyanthus!" Vita said cheerfully.

"Good, good," he said, nodding. "We also have sitting in with us a Ms. Tamara Slaine. Ms. Slaine?"

"Right here," I said, raising a vine to wave, and every eye in the room was suddenly on me. From the jangle of overlapping biorhythms I picked out notes of confusion and curiosity in equal measure. "Tamara Slaine, Office of Transitional Decarceralization — I have some experience with wardship hearings, so feel free to get nice and technical with me!"

It took a moment for Dictyanthus to continue. "And you're here because-?"

"Mr. Argall requested my assistance both to help him better understand the process and to serve as an advocate on his behalf. Also, I worked with him prior to the Compact's arrival, so I can offer context on his history." I refused to let the stares get to me. Even when they made a show of looking away after a moment, I could tell every other Affini in the room had their attention focused squarely on me. It was something I'd picked up at the office, the tells extremely subtle — the way they shifted in their chairs, the way their vines moved just a touch slower when they'd provide a good focal angle on me, things like that.

"I see," Dictyanthus said. His attention swept around the room — likely gauging the collective mood — before he added, "Before we move on, there is one thing I'd like clarification on."

I had a feeling I knew where this was going. "By all means."

"You are a Terran, yes?"

"I have some Terran biology still, but no, I'm not a Terran. I think things will be simpler if you just treat me like any other Affini."

That frosted up practically the whole room. "But you do, biologically, originate from this planet?" another of the Affini, a graceful one studded with purple flowers that peeked through their vines, asked.

"I'm from Mars," I said, keeping my voice calm and level. "You want to know what high school I went to? None of this has any bearing on this case, which is about Mr. Argall. I'm here to serve as his advocate, and I'd like to keep things focused on that issue, if we can."

Maybe I'd been spoiled by OTD — maybe I'd just managed to luck into the most open-minded gaggle of Affini I could have. The worst I'd ever had to deal with at work was a bit of gentle condescension from Senna, Vanda's critical eye, and Ophrys' inability to stop flirting for even five minutes. The atmosphere in this meeting room was different, and my presence was inciting a response that I'd never really experienced before, that left me feeling self-conscious and off-balance. Still, I'd been in worse situations. You don't come up as a defense attorney in the Terran Accord without learning how to deal with being on the back foot.

The meeting was a long one, but similar enough to wardship meetings I'd attended previously on the job. The prosecution's argument was straightforward: Argall was failing to adapt to life in the Compact, and close observation would surely determine that he needed domestication in order to have a fulfilling existence. They spiced it up, of course — prosecutors always do.

"Objection," I cut in when the subject of feralist sympathies came up. "Mr. Argall is not an avowed feralist, nor does he have any contacts with any known feralist group or organization. We shouldn't be referring to him as a feralist simply because a lifetime of capital accumulation has primed him to associate safety with material wealth."

"We have him on record stating his intent to, quote, 'take back what the weeds stole from me,'" Dictyanthus said, wearing a very unamused expressed and casting a glance at Argall — who, credit to him, was staying quiet even if he was visibly fuming. He knew to let his lawyer do her work.

"Which is hardly ideal, of course," I agreed, "but very understandable from the perspective of someone who's developed a serious phobia of the Affini. I'd like to call your attention to my report, Appendix C, where you'll see the efforts Mr. Argall went to prior to the Compact's arrival..."

It was a fight, to be sure, and an uncomfortable one, but I did my job. In the end, I convinced them that a long-form wardship would both satisfy the need to ensure Argall's well-being and provide him an opportunity to learn the skills he needed to thrive independently. Argall himself, of course, was less than pleased.

"You were supposed to get me out of this, not get my sentence increased!" he hissed at me after the meeting concluded. The other Affini were milling around, most of them still staring at me in a way I'm sure they thought I wasn't noticing. "What the hell is the matter with you?!"

"Warren," I said, kneeling down to look him in the eye, "this is not a sentence. We don't do punishment. You're being given the opportunity to demonstrate that you can adapt to life in the Compact, and you're going to have an extended period of time to manage it. This is good for you; if this had been a default wardship, you'd have to completely turn yourself around in a matter of months at most. Now you've got a full year with an option for extension if you're starting to show progress, so instead of berating me, consider thanking me."

"This is bullshit," he insisted, crossing his arms and turning away in a huff. Spoiled little Terran — he was lucky I was on his side.

"Mind your language," I told him, "and do what Vita tells you." I straightened up and gave him a gentle push towards Vita, who was still in conversation with Dictyanthus — she gave me a smile and wrapped a vine around Argall to hold him in place, much to the little Terran's consternation. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm as gay as they come, but it was really cute watching him try to struggle free.

"Ms. Slaine?" It was the purple-flower Affini from before — Viscaria, if I recalled correctly, who it turned out was Argall's assigned veterinarian. "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course," I said. My vines continued gathering my things and placing them in my briefcase, even as I turned the lion's share of my attention to them. Never miss a moment to make a point when you know there's going to be an argument. "How can I help you?"

"For starters, I just want to say that I'm very impressed. Never seen a floret argue like that. I assumed when you said you work for Transitional Decarceralization that you simply accompanied your owner to work, but I can see that you thrive in the sea of bureaucracy."

I felt my vines coil tightly around my meat. <That's very kind of you to say, but for clarity, I don't have an owner. I'm not a floret.> If they were going to pull that kind of shit out and throw it at me, I was going to lean in right back.

Viscaria looked surprised. <And you speak Affini. Very well, too! And, yes, you certainly didn't introduce yourself as a floret,> they admitted. <But...> They waved a vine up and down my body. <I simply assume your owner gave you permission to do so. All of this must have required a haustoric implant.>

<It didn't, in fact,> I said, smiling as pleasantly as I could as I closed my briefcase and pulled it to my waiting hand. <I'm on about a dozen different xenodrugs to help my brain adapt, and I have a phytocortical prosthetic that my veterinarian tells me has similar functions to one, but it's only serving to network the vines and allow me to develop additional motor and sensory functions more easily.>

<...what?> Viscaria stared at me. <That's... that's nowhere in the standards of care!>

<No, it's all very experimental,> I said, maintaining a calm demeanor. <Experiments to which I eagerly consented, being fully aware of the potential risks and difficulties associated with the process. I know I'm taking the hard road, and your concern is appreciated, but I can handle it. So please, don't treat me like I'm incapable of making informed decisions about my own morphology. Now, if you'll excuse me?> I turned on my heel, the tightly-wound condition of my vines making it perfectly clear I had no intention of continuing the conversation.

Dirt, what a blighted knothole they are, I thought to myself. It wasn't really a fair appraisal. I knew they were just concerned for me, but that concern felt deeply insulting. Sure, I wasn't anywhere near done with the process, and some of my meat was even still showing — hopefully, that would change soon, at least — but at at this point, I should think it would be clear to any Affini who interacted with me for more than a minute or two that I was one of them. Everbloom knows I worked hard enough to push that image.

I really needed to get my ducks in a row. If this meeting was any indication, I was rapidly running up against the point where I could no longer rely on my fellow Affini having a willingness to bend the rules. Sooner or later — if I was unfortunate, maybe later today — someone was going to flag me for a wellness check. I'd pass it with flying colors, but it was the kind of official notice that might well start the bureaucratic fight over whether or not I could even do what I was doing. I needed to be ready for that. I needed to be able to prove, not just to my own standards, and not just to my co-workers or to Camassia, that I was an Affini, and more importantly, that Judy deserved to receive a haustoric implant from me.

<Everything alright?> Vita asked. <You look a bit...wilted, I suppose?>

<I'm fine, it's just a little root-versus-stone,> I replied. Stone was harder to sink roots into than soil, sure — but roots would still crack a stone wide open, given time. <Dictyanthus, thanks for letting me sit in. I hope I wasn't too disruptive?>

<...no, no you were fine,> he said, looking down at me with a wall of curious vines. <Very determined, I will say that.>

<I spent a long while in an adversarial legal system,> I said, rippling my vines in a shrug. <Old habits have deep roots.>

<Indeed.> He nodded and stroked his chin. <I'm still not entirely sure what to make of you.>

<Oh, please, I'm just a sprout,> I said, laughing. <I'm sure you've met plenty of clerks thornier than me.> I knew perfectly well what he was talking about, but frosted if I was going to let him steer the conversation in that direction so casually.

<Well...if nothing else, you certainly put a lot of effort into designing a wardship regimen for this little cutie,> he said, petting Argall with a vine.

"F-fuck off!" Argall snapped, trying to swat it away. Vita only pulled him closer, and though he continued to protest and try to escape, it was in vain.

<He has a long way to go, but he deserves a chance to get there,> I said, smiling down at Argall. Everbloom, he needed to be careful or he was going to make himself a much more attractive prospect for domestication. It was a rare Affini who could resist that kind of squirming. <He just needs to apply himself, and I'm sure Vita can get him to.>

<I certainly hope so!> Vita said, her vines twisting with a bit of awkward embarrassment. <This is a bit more than I signed on for with him, but of course I'm happy to have a chance to work so closely with a single Terran. Usually, they're in and out of my hab one right after the other!>

<Long-term care does present a different set of challenges than short-term observation,> Dictyanthus mused.

<You'll do fine,> I reassured her, adding a bit of casual vine contact. <He may be a bit rambunctious, but he's still just one Terran. If I could handle him before I looked like this, he won't be any problem for you.>

<I appreciate the confidence you have in me,> Vita said. <This has certainly been...interesting.>

<Interesting is definitely a word one could used to describe this, yes,> Dictyanthus agreed. <I trust you'll be attending the follow-up meetings?>

<Oh, I wouldn't miss them,> I said. <Like I said, old habits have deep roots, and while lawyers might not be a thing we have around anymore, I still feel obligated to uphold the best ideals of my former profession. I took an oath to see to my client's needs, and I intend to do just that.>

<...well said,> Dictyanthus replied. <I look forward to seeing where this goes, if nothing else.> The way his vines flexed told me he wasn't just talking about Argall's wardship.

<Trust me,> I told him, <I'm just getting started.>