Her name had been Emilie Bouchard in another life. Now, she was simply tagged as Meatgirl AAFC-EB992343 in the system. Age, 19. Weighed in at 127lbs, height 4' 9", blood type AB. Her formerly long hair had been cut short the day she had entered the processing center.

The person at the intake desk had taken one perfunctory look at her naked form and pressed a single key on his computer terminal. B- grade, recommended for ground and canned meat. AAFC-EB992343 had accepted this with stoic nod. Her build and facial features were simply not what society deemed "beautiful", thus there would be no point in preserving any sign of it for consumption.

Her body would be emptied of its soul, its organs, the hair and skin, deboned and then dropped into a grinder along with the rest of the B grades assigned for processing that day.

There was a waiting room. Soft tinned muzak played over hidden speakers. Every so often, an ID number would flash on the large TV bolted to the wall. Someone would glance at their watch, stand up and exit the room. Some of them deliberately drew the process out.

One wall was covered with a large mural. It depicted a dozen nude figures, of both sexes and of multiple races, all holding hands and walking into a stylized sunburst. An idyllic mountain landscape decorated the background, snowcapped peaks glowing pink as that sun slipped behind the horizon. The figures were smiling and laughing. All sported watches with red faces.

The TV screen flashed again, a low ping overriding the muzak for a second. She felt her watch vibrate on her wrist, and knew it was her turn.

Her body moved on its own. She watched herself walk over to the door where everyone else had gone in, watched as her slim fingers grasped the handle and pulled. A man was waiting on the other side. He was nude, toned. A workbelt around his waist festooned in various instruments and the watch on his wrist flashing yellow indicated his status.

A real Butcher.


She stood in front of the door to the processing chamber. The Butcher swiped his watch over the ID reader, the door unlocking with a heavy ka-chunk. It was cold and dry inside the chamber, like a walk in refrigerator. Her breath puffed out. Goosebumps prickled her pale white skin.

The Butcher turned to her.
"Please sit on the table while I go over your file. If there's any final requests, now's the time to make them."

She obligingly got up on the table and swung her legs over the side. The Butcher picked up a tablet from a rolling toolbox and began to swipe rapidly through various menus, ticking off checkboxes.

The Meatgirl pursed her lips. Her life played backwards in her mind. All the good and the bad. Ultimately meaningless. The cool stainless steel surface of the table slowly warmed up as her body radiated heat.

"...Just get it over with".

He nodded.

"If you would, please place your legs on the table, and I'll take it from there."

She obliged. The Butcher took an ankle restraint from the toolbox and slid it over her feet, tightening it with a single motion. He retrieved a pair of handcuffs and similiarly secured the Meatgirl's wrists behind her back.

He grabbed the hook hanging from the ceiling and secured the restraint. A power switch dangled from the ceiling. He pressed it, and the electric motor hummed. The Meatgirl's legs were drawn upwards, then her torso, then her head.

Her view swung. The room was clean, brightly lit. White tiles reflected white overhead lights, reflected off of stainless steel surfaces. Firm, yet gentle hands reassuringly held her, stopping the swinging.

She resolutely stared forward at the wall. She resisted the temptation to swing her head around, to look her killer in the eyes.

"Now, if you'd kindly look down, towards the floor."

She did so. One of the hands holding her waist disappeared.

A moment passed.

Sharp, hot pain erupted across her neck. Metallic iron tang bursting into her mouth. Searing pain. Steam rose as hot liquid met chilled refrigerated air.

Someone grabbed her hair and pulled back. She could feel the air blowing across and into her neck. Pinpricks of light starburst across her vision. The Meatgirl tried to say something, but only wet gurgles came out.

Her eyelids closed. They never opened again.

The Butcher felt her body tense, go rigid the second he drew the knife across her neck. It was a clean, textbook cut. Both arteries opened.

She maintained that rigidity for a few more seconds before her body relaxed, went limp in his hands. Blood pressure had dropped and knocked her out. Gravity would do the rest.

Her blood collected in the basin and swirled down the drain.