Hannah Dundee: Hope in Savage Lands by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Hannah-Dundee-Hope-in-Savage-Lands-1273172806#image-1

Hannah Dundee: Hope in Savage Lands ANIMATION

The Petal's Kiss

Hannah Dundee did not trust the silence of Wassoon. It was a thick, green silence, the kind that pressed against the eardrums and smelled of wet earth and something else, something cloyingly sweet, like overripe fruit left to rot in the sun. The city, a sprawling tangle of pre-Crash ferrocrete and living, grown architecture, was meant to be a hub of genetic trade. Instead, it felt like a tomb.

Her contact, a nervous little man named Purvis, had met her at the eastern gate. “Miss Dundee,” he’d whispered, his eyes darting to the fronds of a giant cycad that overhung the path. “The Council is… eager to hear the City’s proposals. But I must warn you, the season of bloom is upon us.”

“Blooms I can handle, Purvis,” Hannah said, her hand resting on the worn grip of her pistol. She was a striking figure, a slash of vibrant life against the muted greens and browns, her beauty as sharp and practical as the knife she kept in her boot. It wasn’t a beauty for admiration; it was a weapon. “It’s the wilting I’m here to prevent.”

He led her through serpentine streets where buildings were woven from living banyan, their roots forming walls and archways. The people of Wassoon moved with a strange, languid grace, their faces serene. Too serene. They paused to inhale the air beside blossoms of impossible size—iridescent orchids with throats of deep violet, ferns that uncurled with a faint, whispering sound, and the ubiquitous, creeping vines that bore the city’s namesake flowers: small, white, and unassuming. Wassoon blossoms.

Her lodging was a guest hut on a platform high in the banyan. Felicia Fessenden was waiting for her, leaning against a polished root, cleaning a hunting rifle with meticulous care. Felicia was Wassoon’s unofficial gamekeeper, a woman with a leathery tan, sun-bleached hair, and eyes the color of the sky before a storm.

“Hannah,” she said, not looking up. “You’re here about the trade delegation that never came back.”

“Among other things. The City is patient, but not infinitely so.” Hannah dropped her pack. “What’s the local story?”

“Local story is the blossoms,” Felicia said, finally meeting her gaze. “They’re not just blooming. They’re changing. The old groves, the ones planted by the first geneticists a hundred years ago, are mutating. New strains. And they’re beautiful, Hannah. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.”

That night, the seduction began. A breeze carried the scent of the Wassoon blossoms through the slats of the hut. It was a perfume that bypassed the nose and seemed to seep directly into the brain, a whisper of pure, uncut tranquility. Hannah felt her muscles loosen, her vigilance soften. It was a dangerous, delicious feeling. She fought it, anchoring herself to the memory of the City’s steel-and-stone reality.

Felicia appeared in the doorway, her figure silhouetted by the bioluminescent fungi that lit the path. “It’s stronger tonight,” she said, her voice low. “Feel it? It’s not just a smell. It’s an invitation.”

“An invitation to what?” Hannah asked, her own voice tighter than she intended.

“To stop running. To stop fighting. To just… be.” Felicia moved closer, and in the dim light, the hard lines of her face seemed softer, more inviting. Her hand reached out, not to touch, but to hover near Hannah’s arm. “Out here, you forget what peace feels like.”

Hannah caught her wrist. Not hard, but firmly. “Peace that comes from a flower is just another form of surrender, Felicia. What aren’t you telling me?”

Felicia’s sky-blue eyes flickered, a shadow of the old sharpness returning. “Tomorrow. At dawn. I’ll show you the grove.”

Dawn painted the sky in streaks of orange and red. Felicia led Hannah out of the city, past the last cultivated terraces and into the true jungle. They followed a path that was less a trail and more a memory of one, until they came to a place where the air grew still and heavy. It was a grove of Wassoon blossoms, but these were no small, white flowers. They were enormous, waist-high, their petals a pure, luminous white that seemed to generate its own light. Each petal was edged with a fringe of tiny, glistening hairs that trembled in the stagnant air.

“Don’t touch them,” Felicia whispered, unnecessarily.

Hannah knelt, her eyes tracing the plant’s structure. At the center of each flower, instead of a stamen, there was a single, bulbous pistil that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat, like a heart. She noticed the ground around them was bare of insects.
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