Caught

A solid handshake. A minor stumble, only to steady yourself on her arm. A step back—

—a thorny frond wraps around your wrist. The Horticulturalist jabs at it with a secateur, and it unfurls. "I didn't feel that. You're unlucky the plants got you." She looks you up and down. "You'll fit right in; we find ourselves needing to steal a lot of our supplies. Follow me. I'll show you what we've got."

Travelling across the rooftops of the Flit, you pass other impromptu allotments. The Sneering Horticulturalist explains it all between leaps and scrambles. Since the disaster that befell London's first (and to date only) Horticultural Show, the noble art of horticulture has been rather sidelined by the great and the good. Nobody wishes a repeat of the Starved War, and being too keen on gardening is seen as an ill omen. ("Cowards," she mutters.)

But, as is often the case, society frowning upon a pastime did not eradicate it – it merely forced it underground. Or, in this case, overground.