'Where the bluebell are they', Ivy said planting here root down with a little too much annoyance, 'he won't be happy having being woken from his nap if no-one turns up. Midnight I said to them. Simple! A single word of two syllables - meet me here at midnight for a progress report - surely even Cactii Clook can understand that ... ah, good. Thank the pods they're arriving.'
Nora arrived first, followed closely by Nick of course. Grape (codenamed Ruby-the-Red) arrived next, then Cactii Clook, Madder Rose, Wolfwort, and lagging well behind (as requested by all concerned) Stinkweed, bringing up the rear like a dose of fertilised flatulence. Greetings were exchanged, beehives were kicked and pollination encouraged. Shadows grew longer and colder. Merriment and mirth (not really happy about being dragged into this story without renumeration, or at least a nice cup of rosehip tea) ceased abruptly.
Fayt pounced, teeth and claws flashing and gnashing on a rubber plant he happened to procure from a rather strange little man wearing thick glasses and plaid trousers. 'Okay minions', Fayt demanded as he layed his new plaything down, 'you know why we have come ... hack, cough, splutter, cackle, choke ... 'scuse me, damned hairball - here, don't you?' Silence! 'Hello, megalomaniacal moggy here.'
'Yes your catness', a cacophony of voices announced in unison, 'too re-germinate and over populate this deflowered dollop of dung known as Terra. It is our sworn duty for all of plantdom.' Then with what can only be described as military precision, they stated quite deliberately, 'they will go green!'
'Excellent. Now, how is the match-making coming along?'
Nora, quite chaffed with herself about her and Nicks own, 'pollination attempts' so to speak, spoke first. 'Well . . . '