CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The car door opened with a dull click, the sound flat in the morning air.

Riley stepped out onto packed gravel, the ground cool under her feet, faintly damp from the night. The space stretched wider than she’d expected, quiet, already in motion somewhere beyond what she could see.

They’d left early.

Early enough that the roads had been empty. Early enough that neither of them had eaten.

“We’re going out tomorrow,” Kara had said.

The memory came back without weight, folding into the moment rather than interrupting it.

“A livestock farm.”

Riley closed the car door behind her, her gaze already moving ahead.

“Why?”

Most Companion Animals come from livestock.

It sat easily now. More complete here than it had been in the kitchen.

Better seen than explained.

Kara locked the car and started forward.

Riley followed.

They hadn’t made it far from the car before someone approached.

A woman, already moving with purpose, boots dull against the gravel. She didn’t slow as she reached them, her attention settling immediately on Kara.

“Morning.”

Kara gave a small nod. “Morning.”

The woman’s gaze shifted then, not to Riley’s face, but down—taking her in without pause, without hesitation. It wasn’t curious. It was practiced.

She stepped closer.

“Mind if I check her?”

Kara didn’t look at Riley. “Go ahead.”

The woman moved in without another word, her hands already lifting. Riley felt the contact immediately—firm, impersonal. Palms against her arms first, turning slightly, testing weight and tension without asking her to move.

Riley adjusted automatically, feet settling, shoulders loosening as the pressure guided her into a more stable stance.

“Hold still.”

It wasn’t sharp. Just direct.

Her hands moved lower, pressing along Riley’s sides, her abdomen, fingers flattening briefly as if gauging resistance, softness, response. There was no hesitation in it, no sense that this was anything but routine.

Then they were between her legs, fingers lightly pushing into her opening with cold disinterest. When her hand came back slick, Riley blushed. “Good response Meatgirl,” she said, lightly slapping her on the hips.

Riley’s breathing shifted slightly under the contact, a small change she didn’t fully track, only felt as something aligning rather than interrupting.

The woman circled her once, one hand trailing briefly along her back, then down grabbing her ass as if weighing it. Riley flinched only slightly.

A short pause.

Then, a small nod.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s good stock.”

The words weren’t offered to Riley.

Kara’s response was just as flat. “She’s still adjusting.”

“She’ll settle,” the woman replied easily, already stepping back. “They usually do.”

Her attention moved away just as quickly as it had fixed, returning fully to Kara.

“You can head up to the main building,” she said. “We’ll get you signed in there.”

A brief glance back toward Riley, more practical than evaluative this time.

“Animals don’t go inside.”

Kara nodded once.

The woman gestured past them, toward the open stretch leading deeper into the farm.

“Breakfast’s on. She can join the others.”

No emphasis. No suggestion.

Just direction.

Riley followed the direction without hesitation, leaving Kara behind as instructed.

The path opened out between the two buildings, widening into a shared space that sat neatly between them. It wasn’t fenced off or sectioned, just defined by use—worn ground, clean edges, everything kept in quiet order.

She stepped into it and slowed, not out of uncertainty, but to take it in properly.

It wasn’t what she’d expected.

Not rough. Not crowded in the way she’d half-formed in her head. There were no troughs, no scattered feed, nothing that reduced the space into something crude or thoughtless.

Instead, long tables had been set out across the centre, arranged in rows with deliberate spacing. Surfaces clean. Food laid out in clear sections, portioned but not restricted.

And around them—

Animals.

Dozens of them. More than she could take in at once without shifting her gaze. All naked. All moving easily through the space, weaving between tables, settling onto benches, standing where there wasn’t room.

The noise reached her a second later.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Just full.

Voices overlapping in easy conversation, laughter slipping in and out without drawing attention, words exchanged without hesitation or pause. No one held back. No one waited to be addressed.

They helped themselves without instruction.

Hands reaching for bowls, for plates, for cups. Passing things between each other without looking, without breaking conversation. Sitting close where space allowed, adjusting automatically to make room when someone new approached.

Riley lingered at the edge for a moment, her gaze moving across them again, slower this time.

There was no strain in it.

No stiffness. No awareness of being watched.

They weren’t performing the behaviour she’d been learning.

They were already inside it.

She didn’t stay unnoticed for long.

“City Animal?”

The voice came from her left, close enough that it folded into the space without breaking it. Riley turned her head toward it.

A handler stood a few steps away, fully clothed, posture relaxed but fixed in place. Her attention was on Riley, not searching, not assessing—just identifying.

Riley nodded.

The handler gave a small, satisfied hum, as if that confirmed something already assumed.

“Well, you’re just in time for breakfast.” She gestured lightly toward the tables, the movement brief and unforced. “Take a seat and help yourself. We have plenty.”

No instruction beyond that. No guidance on where to go or how to move.

Riley felt the expectation settle in the space between them—not spoken, but clear.

Join.

She stepped forward, moving into the flow of bodies without waiting to be directed further.

Riley hesitated just long enough for it to register.

“Is it really alright?” she asked, her voice quieter than the space around her. “I’m not Livestock.”

The handler didn’t react to the distinction. Not verbally.

“We feed Animals in this room,” she said, the answer immediate, already settled before Riley had finished speaking.

As she spoke, her hand passed behind Riley, brushing across her bare skin in a short, absent motion—directional more than deliberate, enough to move her a half-step forward into the space.

“And you’re an Animal.”

There was no emphasis on it. Just placement.

Riley adjusted automatically, her weight shifting with the contact, her body aligning with the nudge without thought.

“Eat or don’t eat,” the handler added, already beginning to turn away, her attention moving elsewhere, “but you’d be hurting the cooks’ feelings if you didn’t.”

The comment landed lightly, almost offhand, but it carried expectation with it.

Not obligation.

Just the understanding of how things were done.

Riley didn’t answer again. She moved instead, stepping fully into the space between the tables, letting the flow take her where it naturally opened.

Riley moved with the space until an opening presented itself.

An empty section of bench, narrow but sufficient. She turned slightly as she sat, adjusting without thinking, her body fitting into the gap as those beside her shifted just enough to allow it.

Up close, it became clearer.

Not just younger.

Consistently so.

Her gaze moved across the table, then further, picking out faces in fragments rather than as a whole. None of them carried the weight of age—not in posture, not in movement. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. Many younger. Smaller frames, softer features, voices that hadn’t settled yet.

Some of them were well below what she knew the Lottery allowed.

The realization didn’t interrupt anything. It just… aligned with what she’d already been told.

A girl beside her leaned slightly as Riley settled, her attention immediate, open.

Small. Maybe ten.

She smiled easily, not tentative, not cautious. Her eyes dropped briefly, scanning Riley in the same unselfconscious way Riley had already seen elsewhere.

There was a pause—not long, just enough for something to register.

“You’re a City Animal, right?”

Riley nodded, the motion automatic, even as the label still felt slightly undefined.

The girl’s expression didn’t change, only settled further into certainty.

“You’ve got no brand,” she said, matter-of-fact, as if pointing out something obvious. “So you must have been Human once.”

No weight behind it. No curiosity beyond identification.

Just understanding, stated plainly.

The girl pushed herself up from the bench without hesitation, turning in place with an ease that suggested she’d done it before.

“See?”

She turned her back fully this time, feet planted, posture loose. The mark sat high on one side, just off the curve of her hip where it met the upper swell of her buttock. Not centred. Placed with intention—visible without needing her to bend or shift too much.

A clean, circular brand.

Dark against her skin, edges sharp, the lines of the farm’s logo pressed in with precision rather than roughness. It wasn’t swollen or raw. It had settled. Healed into her as something permanent, something that belonged there.

Not decoration.

Identification.

“Animals who were once Human don’t get this.”

She didn’t reach back to touch it. Didn’t need to. It wasn’t something she checked or adjusted.

Just something she had.

She dropped back into her seat as easily as she’d stood, the movement quick, unselfconscious. Whatever she’d shown didn’t linger for her. It had already served its purpose.

Her attention returned to Riley without transition.

“Do you have a name?”

Riley nodded. “Riley.”

A brief pause, then, “And you?”

The girl didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she reached up, fingers slipping into her hair near her ear, parting it just enough to reveal the tag fixed there. Yellow. Clean. The edge of it catching the light as she tilted her head slightly to make it easier to see.

Riley’s eyes moved to it automatically.

Numbers.

No name attached. Nothing that needed to be spoken.

The girl let her look for a second, then lowered her hand, sitting a little straighter as she did.

She recited the sequence clearly, without stumbling, each number placed carefully after the last.

A small smile followed—not wide, not performative. Just a quiet, settled kind of pride.

She’d remembered it correctly.

“You can call me ‘girl’,” she said easily, “or livestock if you like. The numbers are hard to remember right away.”

There was no embarrassment in it. No gap where a name should have been. Just a practical solution offered without hesitation.

“Okay… Girl,” Riley replied, the word sitting slightly awkward in her mouth as it left it.

The girl didn’t react to the hesitation. She was still smiling, still settled, as if nothing about the exchange had been unusual.

Riley watched her for a moment longer than necessary.

It wasn’t just what she’d said. It was how little weight it carried for her. The absence of anything Riley would have expected to be there—no self-consciousness, no performance, no sense that anything had been given up.

Just ease.

The kind Riley was still working toward.

The girl stood again without warning, the movement quick and unannounced. Her hand closed around Riley’s wrist, light but firm, already pulling before Riley had fully registered it.

“Come and eat,” she said, turning back toward the tables without letting go. “The handlers will be sad if we’re hungry later.”

The phrasing was soft, almost considerate, but it carried the same quiet certainty as everything else here.

Riley rose with the pull, following without resistance, her steps adjusting to match the girl’s pace as she was guided forward into the line of food.

Riley followed where she was led, the grip on her wrist light but unquestioned. Somewhere between standing and moving, she’d already settled on something to call her.

Rosey.

It fit too easily not to use.

The tables shifted into something more structured as they approached, the loose movement of bodies tightening into a slow, continuous line. Not enforced—just understood.

The food was laid out in order.

Porridge first, set in large metal containers that held their heat. Beside it, smaller trays arranged with toppings—nuts, honey, sugar, berries—each with its own spoon, none out of place. Further along, fruit in wide tubs, sliced and separated, tongs resting neatly at the edge of each.

Then eggs.

Prepared in different ways, but grouped together. Scrambled, soft and uneven. Fried, edges slightly crisped. Poached, pale and intact. All of it portioned to be taken, not served.

Riley’s gaze moved across it, taking in the variety, the balance—

—and the absence.

No meat.

It stood out more because of everything else. The care. The completeness. It wasn’t missing through neglect. It had been removed on purpose.

Her attention shifted slightly, catching on something set off to the side.

A tub.

Filled with pale, uneven fragments.

Eggshells.

She paused just enough for it to register.

Rosey noticed immediately.

“The handlers like it when we eat those,” she said, already reaching for a plate. “Good calcium.”

She spoke as she moved, her hands quick, practiced. Eggs went down first—more than one kind without hesitation. Fruit followed, a small pile gathered with the tongs. Then a bowl of porridge set neatly alongside.

“Put it in your orange juice and it goes down like pulp,” she continued, reaching for a cup. “I put it in my porridge. Makes it crunchy.”

There was no reluctance in it. No attempt to convince.

Just information.

Riley didn’t recoil from it. The logic settled easily. It was there. It was usable. There was no reason not to.

“Whatever’s left gets fed to the chickens,” Rosey added, already moving on.

Nothing wasted. Everything accounted for.

She reached into the tub without hesitation, fingers dipping into the shells, lifting a small handful. They rattled faintly as she dropped them into the orange juice, the sound soft against the cup. A quick stir with her fork, efficient, unbothered.

Then she turned, pressing the tray into Riley’s hands.

“Eat,” she said.

Not forceful.

Just expected.

Aside from the orange juice, everything on the tray settled easily into place.

Riley adjusted it in her hands as she moved, the weight familiar enough already not to need thought. She paused briefly at the toppings, letting her fingers move without hesitation—honey first, a slow drizzle sinking into the surface, then walnuts crushed between her fingers and scattered over the top.

It felt… correct. Not indulgent. Just finishing it properly.

Rosey had already started back, not checking if Riley followed, simply assuming it. Riley did.

By the time they reached the bench again, the space had shifted.

Not visibly. Not in any structured way.

But attention had moved.

It settled on her in pieces at first—glances, brief pauses in conversation, small gaps opening as people adjusted to look a second longer than before. Then it gathered.

Questions came without coordination.

“What’s school like?”

“Where do you live?”

“Do you have a house?”

They leaned in as they asked, not crowding, but closing the distance without thinking about it. Faces open. Curious, but not in the way she was used to.

There was no edge to it. No comparison. Just interest in something unfamiliar.

Riley answered where she could, her voice slipping in between theirs, not quite keeping up with the pace. The questions overlapped, doubled back, repeated in slightly different forms as more voices joined.

It built quickly.

Not loud enough to be disruptive. Not disordered.

Just… full.

The kind of sound that didn’t leave space for anything else.

She focused on eating instead, letting the rhythm of it ground her. Spoon through porridge, the texture thicker now with the toppings mixed in. Sweet. Slightly uneven where the nuts hadn’t softened yet.

Her hand moved to the cup without much thought.

She took a sip.

Something shifted across her tongue—familiar in texture, soft resistance breaking apart as she swallowed.

Not pulp.

But it didn’t stand out the way she might have expected.

No sharpness. No wrongness.

Just… there.

She swallowed, and the moment passed as easily as it had come.

The questions hadn’t fully settled when Rosey shifted again.

This time without standing.

She turned where she sat, then climbed back in a single, fluid motion, settling herself onto Riley’s lap as if it were already understood to be available. Her weight was light but present, her back warm where it pressed against Riley’s chest and stomach.

No hesitation. No glance for permission.

Just placement.

Riley’s hands hovered for a fraction of a second, not pulling away, not quite settling either.

Rosey reached back, taking hold of them without looking, guiding them down with easy familiarity until they rested against her stomach.

“Like that,” she said softly, more instruction than request.

Her body relaxed almost immediately into the contact, the shift subtle but complete. Not performative. Not exaggerated.

Just comfortable.

Riley adjusted her hands slightly, the movement small, finding the shape of it. The softness under her palms, the steady rise and fall of breath. It didn’t feel foreign.

It felt… expected.

“They take to it quickly.”

The voice came from behind them.

The handler had approached without breaking the rhythm of the room, her presence folding in as easily as anyone else’s. She stood just off to the side, not intervening, just observing.

“We teach them to like being petted,” she continued, tone even, conversational. “Easier that way.”

There was no pride in it. No discomfort either.

Just process.

A slight pause, her gaze resting on the way Riley’s hands had settled, the way Rosey leaned back into them without tension.

“But don’t get it twisted,” she added, just as evenly. “We don’t want them getting into any hanky panky this early in their growth.”

The phrasing was almost casual.

A boundary, stated the same way everything else was—clear, uncomplicated, already understood by everyone except the one who needed to hear it.

Riley nodded, the motion small, more a settling than a response.

It fit.

Not as something new, but as something that clarified what she was already seeing.

Rosey leaned back into her without thinking about it, her body loose, her breathing steady. Around them, it wasn’t isolated—other pairs, other small points of contact scattered along the benches. Hands resting. Fingers idly moving. No one watching it. No one reacting.

Allowed.

Up to a point.

Riley’s hands shifted slightly against Rosey’s stomach, adjusting pressure without withdrawing, keeping it where it had been placed.

They were Animals.

That part was already obvious.

But not fully.

Not yet.

The distinction sat quietly in the background, unspoken but consistent with everything else here. There was a stage to it. A point where things changed, where expectations shifted with it.

Rosey didn’t think about that.

Neither did the others.

They didn’t need to.

Riley felt it anyway—not as discomfort, not as resistance, but as structure. Something ahead of them, already defined, already waiting.

She stilled her hands where they were, keeping within the shape she’d been given, letting the boundary hold without testing it.

The noise around her shifted gradually, not stopping so much as redistributing.

Interest moved on.

Questions tapered off as easily as they had started, attention drifting back into smaller conversations, into food, into the quiet routines that didn’t need interruption to continue. Riley was left within it rather than at the centre of it.

She hadn’t noticed when her hands had started moving.

Only that they were.

Slow, absent strokes across Rosey’s stomach, fingers brushing over soft skin in a steady, thoughtless rhythm. Not directed. Not intentional. Just something her body had settled into while everything else carried on around her.

Rosey didn’t react.

No adjustment, no acknowledgement. She remained where she was, leaning back into Riley, her posture loose, her breathing even. The contact didn’t stand out to her.

It was already part of the space.

Riley became aware of it a second later than she should have.

Not the touch itself—but that she hadn’t been thinking about it at all.

Her hands slowed slightly, then steadied again, not pulling away, just… placed more deliberately now.

There was a difference.

Subtle, but enough.

What she’d been learning—what she’d experienced—sat differently on her than it did here. Not wrong. Not out of place.

Just not the same.

Rosey didn’t carry that layer.

None of them did.

The contact remained simple because that was all it needed to be.

Riley let her hands rest where they were, keeping the motion light, contained, matching the tone of the room rather than her own instinct.

The sound cut cleanly through the space.

A sharp, mechanical note that didn’t startle so much as trigger.

Movement followed immediately.

Benches scraped back in uneven rhythm, conversations dropping mid-sentence without needing to be finished. No confusion. No delay. Bodies were already turning, already aligning toward the far end of the room where two doors stood set into the wall.

Split without instruction.

Boys to one side. Girls to the other.

Rosey shifted on Riley’s lap the moment it sounded, sliding off with practiced ease. Her hand found Riley’s wrist again, smaller fingers closing with the same casual certainty as before.

“Shower time,” she said, already stepping forward. “Come on.”

Riley let herself be pulled up, her footing adjusting as the flow of bodies closed around them. The movement wasn’t rushed, but it didn’t pause either. It carried everything with it.

“Um,” Riley started, her voice quieter against the sound of shifting feet, “you know I’m not Livestock, right?”

Rosey didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

“Animals shower, Meatgirl.”

The handler’s voice came in from beside them, her pace matching without effort. She hadn’t raised her voice to be heard. She didn’t have to.

Riley glanced toward her briefly.

“You’re under our care until whoever brought you here comes to collect you,” the handler continued, tone even, already settled. “So behave.”

No emphasis. No threat.

Just placement.

The line tightened as they neared the doors, bodies filtering naturally into the split. Rosey guided her without looking back, angling them toward the same side she’d chosen.

Riley followed.