"Spent your whole life cooped up in yer room didnt yah, and now look, lottery's done punched your number in."

The old man hocked up a looger and spat into the waste basket beside the dingy mattress. With one hand gripping the Animal's thigh, he guided his erect penis into her bared, bald pussy. The Animal exhaled through her nose, the only reaction as her former guardian drew blood.

"Don't be givin' me that high n' mighty look, you little cunt", he grumbled.

AAFC-EB992343, formerly Emilie Bouchard. 19 years old, weight 122lbs, height 4' 9". The product of a loveless coupling between an alcoholic trucker and an immigrant restaurant waitress. The waitress had been called up for Conversion duty when Emilie was 3. The trucker was away on the road most days, bullying when present.

There was, Emilie felt, nothing much tethering her to life. She had managed to avoid getting Converted throughout her teenage years. Her grades were middling. Half a semester at the local community college for some bullshit certification as a hairdresser didnt pan out. A few odd jobs here and there, accumulated a small amount of savings. A life of ennui that had finally shattered the day before. That Monday, when Emilies' watch finally pulsed red.

The old man grunted, his rough hands squeezing his daughter's hips as he came. Warmth spread in her loins. Emilie looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes hyperfocused on the little cracks of the paint, the cheap ceiling lamp, the brown spots.

She wasn't a person, so she had no right to resist. The only action available to an Animal like her was what she had already been doing for the past 19 years. A refusal of acknowledgement.

"Can't even get anythin out o' yah on yer final week. Just like yer momma. Slant eyed bitch with a tongue that could flay the skin off your flesh." Emilie felt the mattress shift as the old man rose. The floorboards creaked as he shuffled off. Emilie laid there for a few minutes. Slowly, her hand felt down between her legs. Her father's cum, slimy and cool. Emilie reached for the box of napkins on the side table and towelled it off.

Skinny, unathletic. Small breasts, flat ass, ribcage dimpling her skin when she inhaled. A body that was probably destined to be processed into ground meat. Emilie remembered "C As In Conversion", the glossy documentary they had been shown in school of the intake process. Some famous young teen actress had been called up for conversion, perhaps in part because the government wanted an attractive, well known face for their propaganda. The girl had been gamely smiling along as she deposited her clothes. The camera panned over her large breasts. Shots of her shapely rear swaying as she walked past the lumpy common Animals awaiting their final date. It had ended with a shot of a ribcage, yellow breastfat still attached, being wrapped in plastic.

Emilie grimaced. She supposed there was nothing wrong with her flesh being mixed with the flesh of a thousand other ordinary, unexceptional girls and boys like her. Not everyone could be an A-list teen actress who'd had their whole body parceled out and preordered before their slaughter. Still, there was a part of her that stung by the thought of her existence now solely remembered by a loathsome old lecher.

Six days left to do everything she would ever want to do. If only she had something, or someone.