Short and sweet. So well written. You captured the essence of the world as well. How conditioning can break when realisation hits. How children will often be naive.

A few questions:

Was this supposed to be a bus that exclusively ferries Animals to their final destination or was Jackson only noting the other Animals?

Are you planning on different characters per short story?

Was the world easy to write creatively in or is it too macro detailed?

Here's Jackson when he arrives at Intake. Likely being ordered to kneel and spread his legs so the Butcher can inspect his little hot dog.

>>29635
I figured the government would probably run Animal specific shuttle services on high volume days such as Mondays.

As to your second question, I will probably do short little vignettes detailing various aspects you've laid out in your worldbible thread. For example, how a private Animal processing license holder would work. I have a concept of these license holders being Butchers who travel and get hired by smaller towns and villages that are too small to have their own dedicated processing plant. That, or they're hired by wealthy families to do very sophisticated, luxurious slaughtering so their children or partners dont need to slum it up with the common folk in the government run processing sites.

The world definitely offers a lot of space for semicon/noncon concepts revolving around industrial cannibalism. Biggest roadblock for me is that Animals coming in to the processing center on their 7 day grace period seemingly get put through a whole battery of psych evaluations when a totalitarian society like this would probably already have built up a personality profile of every citizen on record just through monitoring via the smartwatch.

>>29638
I remember a story from years ago called "Jenny's gonna have her titties munched" that took place in a broadly similar world, with the meat-lottery system etc. In that story, there were fairly luxurious train services to take the meatgirls to the processing centre where they got snacks and drinks and were generally pampered like first class passengers.

I never considered that Monday's would be high volume for intake. I'll probably add this to the lore and make an addendum on the post.

And you've also highlighted a problem I didn't consider. What options to small towns and rural communities have? Private slaughters permits can be attained by normal citizens but there's stipulations to follow:

- The slaughter must be recorded and submitted to a System website
- The permit expires after slaughter
- If the Animal is still a citizen (watch is green) then the slaughter is illegal whether they were willing or not. Volunteers must register. They cannot convert themselves.

As for the travelling Butchers idea. It's possible but extremely conditional.

- The Butcher must return to their assigned Center after they finish the home visit
- They cannot share Butcher secrets.
- The Animal must be slaughtered. Not reclassified to labour details.

And yeah I can see rich folks paying to not have to go into a Processing Centre but still demanding the professionalism of a Butcher.

And the psych evaluation stuff. A big theme is dehumanisation in this. The idea is to make sure the Animal believes they aren't Human anymore. It's also for control. An Animal who tries to run can destablise the general population of a Centre so if they go willingly, with smiles and excitement, then the System can tell itself that 'it works'

Looking forward to your next idea :)

"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.

I'm intrigued by Emille. Her treatment is awful but she clearly has some fight left. Will you be continuing her story in short bursts?

>>29663
Yeah, her story is not done yet.

She sat on the grass, idly picking at the brown, bone dry blades. It was her second day as an Animal, and there hadnt been much change in her routine. Her father had come home late, a case of beer in hand and crashed out on the ratty old couch in the living room. She had tiptoed past him, his bulk shifting as he muttered in half conscious rebuke as the TV played. His hand brushed across her bare ass.

The thought of letting that old bastard use her again made Emilie want to puke. It was that nauseating thought that had finally forced her outside, out of that opressive little shoebox apartment. Mid-summer, the sun high up and beaming. A few whisps of cloud marring the otherwise pure blue sky.

She played back her life up to this point. It had been quite pointless. She remembered the shouting and screaming arguments between her late mother and the old pig. The quiet resentment. The way the old man had smirked when mom had come home nude, wet and shivering, wearing nothing but that blinking red smartwatch. Bad luck to have gotten converted in the midst of a wet October. The way her mother had bit her lip and held her breath as the old man fucked her in the kitchen, Emilie a few feet away sitting at the table shoveling cereal into her mouth in the morning, milk dripping onto the tartan skirt of her school uniform.

Emilie had compartmentalized everything. She shifted to her memories of school. Tamara, her best friend in elementary school. Pale ginger girl, rosy cheeks spotted with freckles, crooked smile that flashed as sun caught her braces. The year before 7th grade, she had moved. They had promised to keep in touch through email and social media, and had made good on that promise.
Tamara had been the first person to know that Emilie had been converted. There had been a tearful voicecall as Tamara consoled her, although Emilie knew it was more Tamara that needed consoling. Emilies BFF had grown up from that slightly chubby redhead into a curvy, busty policewoman. The Irish-American cop family effect, Tamara said, smiling through tears.

Her thoughts turned to her clumsy efforts at romance. Micah, in 8th grade. Gangly, tall, skinny, bespectacled, half-asian. A genderbent version of herself. They had bonded over anime, mostly pre-War stuff that had managed to avoid the government censors. One day, after school, he had invited her over to his house. His parents were out at some meeting, wouldnt be back until midnight. Her cheeks flushed. They were sitting side by side on his bed, watching some cheap romcom from the 2010s. She leaned on his shoulder. The heroine on screen blushed and kissed a boy, she felt Micah's hand tug on the strap of her camisole, his heated breath against her neck. A soft hand grasped at her exposed chest, another reaching down in between her legs. They kissed, the tinny sound of the poppy anime ending playing through the cheap laptop speaker. His clammy hand slipped under the rubber band of her panties, finger pressing against her slit. Time blended the events of that night together. Emilie on her knees, pulling down Micah's briefs. His little pecker at full mast, her little fingers pulling his foreskin back. The scent of his sex, the taste of his penis on her tongue. She had pursed her lips, sucking and licking for what had felt like minutes but was surely just seconds before he came inside her mouth.

The sound of footsteps outside clomping up the front steps leading to the door of the house made them rush to get dressed. By the time Micah's mom had peered into the bedroom, the pair of them were studiously looking over a school textbook, notes artfully arranged on the desk. The lingering taste of his semen in her mouth, Emilie had thanked Micah's parents for the overnight stay. They had giggled about it after his parents had gone to bed.

That one cool September Monday. The Monday where Micah's watch flashed red at noon. Every pair of eyes had shifted towards his seat, peripheral vision trained by what had now been a year of weekly selections. Emilie watched as Micah stiffly stood up from the desk, announcing his selection. He made his way to the front of the classroom, mechanically removed his uniform, each article of clothing neatly folded and placed into the waiting collection bin. His voice cracked as he thanked the class. She could see the perspiration on his skin and the tremor in his hands as he turned and left. It was the last time she saw the only boy she had ever liked.

Her love life after Micah was one long empty stretch, despite Tamara's long distance wingmanning. Sexually, she quelled her urges with the help of a vibrator wand. That Micah-shaped emptiness sat in her heart, weighed down like a lead blanket. Her lottery selection might not be so bad, she thought. Perhaps in whatever afterlife exists, Micah would be waiting. Not that a 19 year old like her had much in common with a middle schoo-.

A shadow cast itself over her, interrupting her reverie.

"Can I have sex with you?"

A schoolboy looked down at her. His school uniform was custom tailored. Her eyes focused on the little coat of arms on his blazer. Saint Augustine Private Secondary. A Catholic school, one of the few that made it through the throes of upheaval from a century ago. She looked at his face. His face looked wealthy. Sharp grey eyes beamed with self assurance and poise. An angular nose, thin lips set firm. She turned her head. Two other boys stood close by. They looked like his friends, had probably been the ones egging him on to annoy her.

He stood there, legs set apart, hands in his trouser pockets. He cut a very confident figue.

"Okay".

His grin faltered.

Slowly, Emilie straightened out and got up. She brushed the dirt and scraps of grass trimmings and leaves off her butt and thighs. He looked surprised, as did his friends.

"Animals cant refuse"
Emilie said, matter of factly.

"I know that".

She grabbed his hand. He yelped in surprise. In the background, above the whispering wind shaking the trees, Emilie could hear the two lackeys gasp. Meatgirls rarely took the initiative.

"Whats your name, little guy?" Emilie asked.

He snorted.

"Why does it matter to a meatgirl?"

Emilie leaned against him, pressed her breasts against his chest. Her leg rubbed against his. She felt his rapidly hardening dick pull against the tailored cut of his school trousers.

"I like to know things". She shifted her leg sideways, brushing her inner thigh against his crotch.

His eyes shifted downward. His prior cockiness had disappeared.
"....Raymond, but people just say Ray".

Emilie grabbed his belt buckle and undid the clasp. Raymond's trousers dropped down to his kneeds. His erect penis tented his underwear.

"What grade are you in?"

His boxers were pulled down.

"Grade 8".

Emilie got to her knees and examined Ray's penis. It was cut, about 4 inches in length at full mast. A slight tuft of pubes at the base. She took his dick in her hand and stroked it. It was warm, hard, a bead of precum oozing at the tip. She could feel blood pumping through it, rythm in pace with his young, strong heart.

"What do you think about the lottery?"

Emilie sat down and spread her legs. She grabbed Ray's thin waist, guided him as he clumsily inserted into her.

"...my sister".

Ray whispered. His hands grasped her wrists. He began to pump, muscles flexing.

"My older sister was taken yesterday".
His face flushed. In between thrusts, he continued. The words pushed out breathlessly.
"She kinda looked like you. She was from a woman my dad met on a business trip overseas. Her country isnt part of The System. I think she wished her mom had kept her back then."
Ray's face screwed up, his grasp on Emilies wrists tightening as he ejaculated inside her. Emily gasped, exhaled, caught in the wave of pleasure.

"She was crying when we dropped her off at the processing center."
The boy laid his head against her chest.

"She was kinda like my mom". His voice was a whisper again.

Emilie laid there on the dry grass. Cooling semen oozed out of her pussy. Her hand reached up, and she tousled Ray's crewcut.

There were tears rolling down his cheeks.

I was worried you'd stopped writing. I really like the perspective you've shared. Setting it a century after the Famine, when the survivor generation have all passed away, means that the System's normalisation has become habit. There's no horror stories from Gran and Grandad anymore, just the knowledge that the System works and the comfort and security it brings is worth the sacrifices.

>>29970
Yes, I really like the sacrificial aspect of this world-setting. In my view, very few willingly choose to lose all their rights with a very certain chance of being euthanized and turned into food, but they go ahead with it because its what society expects, demands of them. Its all very detached and impersonal. The people carrying out the killing and the people giving up their life all accept "this is how society works", despite any personal misgivings they may individually have.

Not really into the whole meat slaughter thing but very nicely written. I really like the headspace and panic. Maybe it'd be more interesting to leave the age to the reader's imagination for young characters like Jackson? Let us decide if we picture him as 12, 14, whatever. Anyways nice work, keep it up!

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.

Very restrained slaughter and absolutely on point with the world. The grinder shouldn't be the slaughter method unless the Animal asks.

This is exactly why I didn't write a mandatory methods section when it comes to slaughter. In my canon the default is lethal injection to reduce panic. But cutting the throat is much more visceral and interesting.

Rest in pieces Emille

Visual inspiration courtesy of https://www.pixiv.net/en/users/110020483

>>29658
> The waitress had been called up for Conversion duty when Emilie was 3.
compared with
>>29966
< The way the old man had smirked when mom had come home nude, ... , milk dripping onto the tartan skirt of her school uniform.
Was Emilie already attending a preschool or is a uniform also worn in kindergarten?


>>29658
> Six days left to do everything she would ever want to do.
>>29966
< The thought of letting that old bastard use her again made Emilie want to puke.
What if she wants to kill the bastard? What punishment would she have to expect ‒ death sentence? :/
Wouldn't it be an option to run? If I understand the system correct that would the bastard be terminated automatically.


>>29967
>Her country isnt part of The System.
If not the whole world is involved then I'm wondering if there are people emigrating. Even if there is a kind of Iron Curtain it would be an option to try an escape.

>>30381
Unintended error, sorry about that. I tend to write these in a single sitting.

Emilie was suffering from a sense of ennui, more akin to depression. She resented her father, but her nihilistic outlook meant she could never muster up the courage to actively seek revenge.

Indeed, the System is not a universal one world government deal according to the original creator of this worldbuilding, Symbri.

If she did kill her father she'd be hanged in public. Serious crime always end with public execution with different degrees of severity and pain depending on the crime.

Emile was abused, her actions were retaliatory, so she might even be beheaded as a form of mercy.

Distribution Probability

Friday, March 10th.
6:34PM.

Region 12 Conversion Lottery Headquarters.

The office was half empty now. A few stragglers stared at the monitors glowing. New desktop PCs, still wrapped in plastic, were in the midst of being installed in the room next door. System Lottery Analyst Jess Han was one of the few still working.

He had aged out of Lottery eligibility the previous year, a fact that still bought a wave of relief washing over his shoulders whenever he felt the stress creep back up. Not that Jess would ever admit that happiness to anyone. While not illegal, it was still a societal belief that anyone who was...overly joyful about dodging the butcher's blade was looked down on as a shirk and the possessor of a serious moral failing. It would be especially looked down as he worked for the Lottery.

Jess stretched his fingers and yawned. There was a ping on his work groupchat application. He shifted his mouse cursor and clicked on the notification pop up.

It was his supervisor. A priority alert accompanied the message.

"Jess, we've just gotten revised numbers from Central Branch. They want Region 12 lottery numbers boosted by about 12%. Grain harvest projections arent looking great, so they need to cover that shortfall."

He tapped out an affirmative, then moused over to the National Lottery Probabilities widget. A few clicks of the mouse and Region 12 would have 4000 more newly minted Animals next Monday than they were a couple minutes ago. Jess pressed the enter key, logged the action and went back to reviewing Processing Center weekly metrics. Idly, Jess started thinking about dinner and the ice cold beer in his fridge.


Friday, March 10th.
6:35PM.

Alyssa Kwon was thinking about her future. On her bedroom desk, an acceptance letter from a prestigious university. Her grades were good enough for that, although not to the extremes that would have gotten her a full ride scholarship, all expenses paid. The other letter was a warning from the bank, addressed to her parents. The economic downturn had left both jobless, and payments on the house had been put toward simply putting food on the table. The bank had given a one week deadline before they would take the house.

She stared at her phone. The cracked screen displayed the online web portal for Volunteer Conversion. She had filled out all the forms. All that was left was to tap on the "Accept and Send" button. Trembling, her finger hovered above the screen.

Once more, Alyssa reviewed the benefits of volunteering herself. An immediate direct deposit payment towards assigned beneficiaries. A tax rebate. A portion of debt forgiven. The removal of a large expense from the household. Then, she went back over the university acceptance. The up front costs, the need to travel across the country. It would take 5 years to complete her degree, all the while there would be the constant chance of Lottery conversion. Lottery conversions did not recieve an immediate cash infusion for beneficiaries.

The math won out.

Her finger pressed the screen. The phone pulsed.
Alyssa's watch shifted red a few seconds later.

Alyssa Kwon, now known in the Conversion database as Animal USDA-AK557872.
Age 18. Height 4'6". Weight 128lbs. Blood type: O. Prior sexual partners, zero.

IQ of 122. Several 1st place positions at math olympiads starting from age 8. 4.0GPA. A passion for space travel had lead to her application towards the lead aerospace engineering program in the country. Instead, economic insecurity lead Alyssa to a very different program.