Melissa makes a choice she believes will let her live.
A sequel to Middle Child Designation.

(No-sex, cannibalism, underage, dehumanisation, enforced nudtity, power imbalance/authority)

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Melissa had spent the night in Habitation.

Miss Pike had dropped her off without much ceremony, like she was handing something over that had already stopped being hers, and the staff at the Processing Centre had taken over from there. No introductions, no explaining things in a way that meant anything—just a smooth, uninterrupted sequence of movement. One room to the next. One instruction after another. Always forward.

Intake hadn’t been loud or aggressive.

That was the worst part.

It had been quiet. Controlled. Efficient in a way that made it feel practiced down to the smallest detail, like they’d done it a thousand times and didn’t need to think about it anymore. The staff spoke in short, even sentences, never raising their voices, never repeating themselves. They didn’t need to.

She’d followed.

Not because she wanted to, but because there wasn’t really a moment where she could do anything else. Every step had already been decided before she got there.

The touching had started early.

Not sudden. Not rough.

Just there.

Hands at her shoulders, turning her slightly. Fingers at her arm, guiding her forward. A palm at her back when she hesitated for half a second too long. It wasn’t invasive in the way she would have expected. There was no lingering. No intent beyond movement.

That somehow made it worse.

No one looked at her like a person while they did it. But they didn’t look at her like prey either. Just something being handled properly.

Positioned.

Adjusted.

Moved along.

At one point she’d flinched—barely—and the hand on her side hadn’t pulled away. It had just waited, steady and patient, until she stopped resisting, and then continued like nothing had happened.

Like her reaction didn’t matter enough to interrupt anything.

No one commented on her body. No one reacted to it. No one even really looked at it for longer than they needed to. It wasn’t shameful. It wasn’t exposed in a way that invited anything.

It was just… visible.

Accessible.

Part of the process.

That was what got under her skin.

Not fear. Not even embarrassment, not properly.

Just this slow, creeping realization that none of it meant anything to them. Not her, not the way she stood, not the way her hands clenched at her sides like that might somehow give her back a bit of control.

She wasn’t being humiliated.

She was being processed.

And somehow, that felt worse.

Melissa had been given a small space to herself, surprisingly private. The door shut cleanly, sealing her in without a sound, and for a moment it almost felt like choice. She could come and go as she pleased, that’s what they’d told her. Encouraged to enjoy the facilities, take advantage of what was available.

She didn’t.

The room was comfortable in a way that felt deliberate. A proper bed. Clean sheets. Soft lighting that didn’t quite reach the corners. Everything placed neatly, like it had been considered, adjusted, approved.

She knew what these places used to be.

Most Processing Centres had started as prisons. Everyone knew that, even if no one really talked about it anymore. It had been reframed, repurposed, turned into something functional. Something necessary.

Normal.

Her room was just a refurbished cell.

The walls were too thick. The space too contained. Even the quiet felt… structured.

Comfortable, yes.

But not free.

Melissa sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting in her lap, and stared at the door for a long moment.

They said she could leave.

She didn’t test it.

Because she already understood the difference.

She wasn’t being housed.

She was being kept.

Eventually she got up, the decision feeling smaller than it should have, and held her ID watch to the scanner by the door. It read instantly. A soft confirmation, then a heavy clunk as the lock disengaged, something old and mechanical shifting behind the wall like it had been doing long before this place had been repurposed.

The door opened without resistance.

She stepped out.

Breakfast was… fine.

A wide spread laid out neatly along the counter, everything arranged with that same careful precision she’d seen everywhere else. Warm trays. Fresh options. Clean plates stacked in perfect lines.

Vegetarian.

Every single dish.

No meat in sight.

It shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did, but it did. The absence felt… deliberate, even if no one had said anything about it.

Melissa lingered for a second, scanning the options like something might have been missed.

It hadn’t.

She picked something at random, barely looking at it as she moved along.

She loved bacon.

The thought came uninvited, sharp and familiar.

For a second, it didn’t feel like a preference anymore.

Just something she used to be allowed to have.

In the afternoon she risked going into the garden.

The doors leading in only opened for Animals. The gates out to the street only opened for Humans. It sat in the middle, carefully balanced between the two, a space designed to let people exist together without ever quite crossing over.

A shared space.

Families used it, she knew that much. A quiet place to talk, to sit close, to pretend things hadn’t already been decided.

Nobody would be coming for her.

Melissa sat on one of the benches, the metal still faintly warm, and watched.

A group of Blue Orphans had gathered off to one side, crouched in the grass, threading together small daisy chains with clumsy, practiced fingers. They worked in quiet focus, occasionally holding one up to check it before passing it along, building something between them.

It didn’t last long.

A staff member approached at an easy pace, not hurried, not annoyed, and stopped just close enough to be noticed.

“Clothing is contraband,” they said, calm and even.

The chains were taken without resistance.

The children didn’t argue. Didn’t complain. They just watched them go for a second, then looked back down at the grass, already reaching for more flowers like nothing had been lost.

Melissa stared a little longer than she meant to.

It didn’t seem to dishearten them.

If anything, it just gave them something to do again.

Her watch beeped suddenly, sharp enough to cut clean through the quiet.

Melissa glanced down, half expecting some leftover reminder from before—something small, normal, something that didn’t belong here anymore.

The screen had already updated.

Report to transport bay by 0200.

She stared at it for a second longer than she needed to, like the words might shift if she gave them time.

Transport bay?

Her grip tightened slightly around her wrist.

Were they moving her?

She had twenty minutes.

That was what the watch said, and for a second she just stood there, staring at it like waiting might change something.

So she moved.

Melissa pushed herself up from the bench and crossed the garden slowly, her steps measured, like she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing until she was already doing it. The Blue Orphans were still where she’d seen them, scattered low in the grass, fingers busy again like the interruption hadn’t mattered.

She stopped just short of them.

“Can I join you?” she asked.

The children paused, not all at once, but enough that it felt noticed. A few of them glanced up, then sideways at each other, quiet in that way groups got when something new entered it.

They were naked.

But not like her.

Melissa felt that difference immediately, even if she couldn’t have explained it properly. She’d gone to school with Blue Orphans before. Sat in the same rooms, shared the same lessons. They’d always been… adjacent. Raised by the System, guided through it, but still allowed to exist alongside everything else.

Not removed.

Not processed.

Just… placed.

One of the younger ones tilted their head slightly, studying her.

Then, after a moment, they shifted, making a small space in the grass.

An answer.

“Sure, you wanna make a tiara?”

Melissa blinked, the offer catching her slightly off guard in how normal it sounded. For a second it didn’t fit with anything else around her—the walls, the staff, the watch still sitting heavy on her wrist—but the girl said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’ll make you one,” she added, already reaching for more flowers. “So you can be a princess.”

Melissa smiled, small but real, something softer slipping through before she could stop it.

“Sure,” she said, giving a slight nod as she lowered herself into the grass beside them. “Make me a princess.”

The words felt strange coming out of her mouth.

Not wrong.

Just… out of place.

Around her, the children went back to work without hesitation, threading stems together with careful fingers, passing pieces back and forth, fixing each other’s mistakes without comment. One of them leaned in closer to her, measuring the length against her head with quiet focus, like it mattered that it fit properly.

Melissa stayed still for it.

For a moment, she let herself sit there with them, watching their hands move, listening to the low hum of their voices, the garden stretching quietly around them.

No one called her.

Nothing interrupted.

And for just a second, it felt like something she recognized.

When it came time for her to leave, Melissa stood slowly, brushing bits of grass from her legs as if that mattered.

One of the children held up the finished tiara, careful with it, like it was something delicate and important. She leaned down slightly to let them place it on her head, the small stems cool against her skin, uneven but secure.

Melissa straightened, lifting her chin just a little.

“Alright,” she said, putting on a kind of exaggerated confidence she didn’t quite feel. “How do I look?”

She turned slightly, giving them a small pose, one hand settling at her hip like she’d seen people do before.

The children laughed.

Not mean. Not forced.

Just… delighted.

For a second, it almost felt like she’d done something right.

Like she was part of it.

Like this was just another stupid, harmless moment.

Or so she thought.

“Now you can look pretty when you die!”

Melissa flinched.

Hard enough that she felt it in her shoulders.

Her shoulders tightened, the smile faltering before she could stop it, something cold slipping straight through the warmth that had been there a second ago.

The children didn’t notice.

Or if they did, it didn’t matter.

They were already looking at her, waiting, still smiling, like they’d just given her a compliment.

“I have to go,” Melissa said, forcing the smile back into place. “Bye.”

They all stood as she stepped away, small hands lifting in unison, waving her off like she was just heading home, like she’d be back later. One of them even adjusted the tiara slightly as she passed, making sure it stayed straight.

Melissa didn’t look back.

She didn’t want to.

She found the transport bay quicker than she expected, guided more by the layout than anything else. The place made too much sense, and she didn’t like that. Everything connected cleanly. Everything led somewhere it was supposed to.

A member of staff spotted her almost immediately and raised a hand in a small, efficient gesture.

“Melissa?” he asked, glancing down at a clipboard.

His tone was flat. Not rude. Just… empty of anything else.

She nodded.

“During Intake, you put your name down for Live Service,” he continued, eyes already moving across the page. “Is this still correct?”

Melissa hesitated for the briefest second, then nodded again.

She’d assumed it meant something else.

Service stock. Floor work. Something like that.

Not this.

She was guided into the back of a truck, the door lifting with a heavy rattle before settling open. From the outside it almost passed for something ordinary—long rows, narrow aisle—but once she stepped up and inside, the differences settled in quickly.

Each seat had restraints.

Not hidden. Not disguised.

Cuffs fixed neatly at the wrists and ankles, already in place like part of the design rather than an addition to it. Several other Animals were seated and fastened in, bodies held in position while they talked quietly among themselves, voices low and easy like this was just another part of the day.

Different ages.

Some younger. Some older.

All settled.

Melissa hesitated just long enough for it to be noticed before she was guided into an empty seat and secured in place. The cuffs closed with a soft, final click—firm, but not uncomfortable. Just… definite.

Beside her, a guy a little older shifted slightly, turning his head toward her.

“Hey,” he said.

Melissa glanced at him, offering a small smile out of habit more than anything else, already half-looking away.

“Have they told you where they’ve put you?”

She assumed he meant work.

Something practical. Something survivable.

“I dunno,” she admitted, shrugging slightly against the restraints. “But it sure beats dying here, right?”

The words came out easier than they should have.

He gave a small nod, like that made sense.

“Yeah,” he said. “At least with Live Service we’ll be treated better.”

Melissa blinked.

Something about the way he said it—too certain, too settled—sat wrong in her chest, even if she couldn’t quite place why.

She didn’t question it.

Not yet.

The engine roared to life somewhere behind them, a low, heavy sound that settled into a steady vibration. It travelled through the frame of the truck, into the seats, into her back and legs in a way that felt too even, too consistent to be accidental.

Melissa stiffened slightly.

The sensation built in a way she wasn’t expecting, subtle at first, then harder to ignore the longer it went on. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t even uncomfortable in the way she would’ve preferred.

Just… there.

Unavoidable.

Heat crept up her neck before she could stop it, her cheeks flushing as her body reacted in a way she didn’t feel in control of, the same unfamiliar response from earlier surfacing again without asking her permission.

She shifted slightly against the restraints, trying to steady herself, trying to make it stop.

It didn’t.

Beside her, the guy had gone still.

Not tense.

Just aware.

She glanced sideways before she could stop herself, and the change in him was obvious enough that she looked away just as quickly, her stomach tightening in a different kind of discomfort.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t try to hide it.

Didn’t seem embarrassed.

If anything, he just settled back into his seat like it didn’t matter at all.

Like it was expected.

Melissa swallowed, staring straight ahead now, her jaw tightening as she tried to ignore it—ignore all of it—but the steady hum of the engine didn’t let up, and neither did the feeling that something about this had been designed.

The drive didn’t last long.

It felt longer, stretched out by the constant hum under her skin, but when the truck finally slowed and came to a stop, it happened all at once. The doors opened, light spilling in, voices from outside bleeding into the space like nothing about this was hidden.

Only her watch was scanned.

A quick check. A quiet confirmation.

Then the restraints released, and she was the only one guided out.

Melissa stepped down onto a busy street, the noise hitting her properly for the first time—people talking, footsteps, the low constant movement of a place that didn’t stop for anything. It was… normal. Completely normal.

Her first instinct was immediate.

Her arms moved before she even thought about it, crossing over herself, trying to cover what she could.

It didn’t last.

The handler caught it instantly, his hand snapping her wrists back down with practiced ease.

“Hands down, Meatgirl,” he said, voice firm, not raised, but carrying enough weight that it didn’t need to be.

Melissa froze, breath catching, trying to hold herself still.

A group of teenagers came into view just ahead, clustered together, mid-conversation, their attention shifting the moment they noticed her. Her stomach dropped.

She tried again.

Just a small movement—enough to hide something, anything—

The slap came sharp against her rear, fast and clean, the sound cracking louder than it needed to.

“I said hands down,” the handler repeated, louder now, not angry, just enforcing.

The girls had stopped completely now.

Watching.

One of them pointed, a grin already spreading across her face.

They laughed.

“Dumb Animal,” one of them said, the word easy, casual.

Melissa’s jaw tightened.

“She isn’t even that pretty.”

“Maybe she should hide herself,” another added, voice dripping with mockery. “Save us from her ugliness.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Hot, immediate anger surged up in her chest, sharp enough to make her chest tighten, her breath catch, her mouth already opening—

She was ready to snap back. To say something. Anything.

The handler didn’t give her the chance.

His grip tightened, pulling her forward without hesitation, steering her straight toward the building ahead. The door opened, and just like that, the noise of the street cut off behind her as she was taken inside.

A different kind of noise met her the second the door shut behind them.

Lower. Softer.

Polite conversation layered over the quiet clink of cutlery and glass, voices kept just below a certain level like everyone had agreed on it without needing to say so. The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of cooked food and something sharper underneath it—alcohol, rich and constant.

Melissa swallowed, her senses still catching up as the handler guided her forward.

They stopped at a reception podium near the entrance. He didn’t speak, just waited, one hand still firm at her arm like she might wander off if he let go.

A waitress approached after a moment, already smiling.

“Oh good,” she said, glancing between them. “The other Meatgirl just arrived as well.”

The handler gave a small nod.

“Oh yeah?” he replied, casual. “Where’d you get her?”

“She’s a Farm Girl,” the waitress said easily, like she was talking about a delivery. “Really sweet, but dumb as bricks.”

Melissa felt something twist in her chest at that.

Not shock.

Not even surprise.

Just… recognition.

She was handed off without ceremony.

The handler didn’t say goodbye, didn’t even look at her again once the waitress had her. Just a small transfer of responsibility, a shift in who she belonged to for the moment, and then he was gone, already turning back toward the door like she’d never been anything more than a delivery.

Melissa watched him leave for a second.

He would come back.

Right?

“This way, Meatgirl.”

The waitress didn’t touch her. She didn’t need to. She just turned and started walking, expecting Melissa to follow like it was already understood.

Melissa did.

The shift into the kitchen hit her immediately.

It was loud. Not like outside—this wasn’t distant chatter or polite conversation. This was sharp, constant noise. Raised voices cutting over each other, orders being shouted, metal clanging against metal, something heavy slamming down hard enough to make her flinch slightly.

Heat pressed in from all sides.

The air felt thicker here, harder to breathe properly, filled with smells that were stronger, heavier, impossible to ignore.

She slowed for a second, taking it in.

Service Stock moved through it all like part of the machinery. Heads down. Hands busy. Cleaning, scrubbing, carrying stacks of dishes from one place to another. The collars around their necks caught the light as they moved, clear markers of where they stood.

Where they belonged.

Melissa’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before she looked back to the waitress.

“When do I start?” she asked.

The waitress glanced at her, eyebrows pulling together slightly.

“Start what?”

“Working,” Melissa said, like it should’ve been obvious. “I’ll need a collar since I’m Live Service, right?”

The reaction was immediate.

The waitress laughed.

Not a small laugh. Not polite.

A full, sharp burst that cut right through the noise around them, drawing a few quick glances from nearby staff before they went back to what they were doing.

“Oh, dear lord, no,” she said, still smiling as she shook her head. “Live Service Animals don’t fuck around with the help. You’ll be out front, where everyone can see you.”

Melissa frowned, something tightening in her chest.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “I thought I was here to work.”

The waitress tilted her head slightly, studying her for a second like she was trying to figure something out.

“Did you think Live Service meant Service Animal designation?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The woman’s smile shifted, not unkind, just… knowing.

“You silly thing,” she said lightly.

“It means you’ll be cooked alive.”