SMASH or PASS

Farm, day two.

The number 623 was on my clipboard this morning.

A designation request. I thought the "come again" after yesterday’s session was just a polite greeting, but it seems she seriously submitted a request to the farm staff.

Well... That’s not really bad.

◇◇◇

The morning rotation had five Cowkins. Similar faces to yesterday.

The first four were the same as yesterday.

It could be summed up in one line. Because that’s really all the experience was.

Cowkin comes in. We fuck. It ends. She leaves.

[+6 SP]

Cowkin comes in. We fuck. It ends. She leaves.

[+7 SP]

Cowkin comes in. We fuck. It ends. She leaves.

[+5 SP]

Cowkin comes in. We fuck. It ends. She leaves.

[+7 SP]

The system dutifully slapped a price tag on each one, and I dutifully minimized each one in turn.

SP went up. Gold went up.

This contract wasn’t very bad~

◇◇◇

There was about two hours of free time between sessions.

After lunch, I walked around the ranch.

Della’s tour yesterday had been a tour of "things she wanted to show me," not a tour of "everything." The things she didn’t show were the ones that interested me more.

Pixia is on my shoulder. Fenra is waiting in the barn. There are ranch staff watching, but there’s no rule prohibiting walking around the grounds. Contract holders can move freely between the breeding building on the north side and building C.

The south is a restricted area.

But the east was open.

◇◇◇

The first thing I found was the processing building.

Its loading dock faced the road, making the inside completely visible.

It was the production line.

Milk squeezed from the Cowkins was poured into bottles, labels went on, quality stamps were pressed, and the bottles were packed into wooden crates. Every crate carried the same logo.

A green background with cow horns.

"Greenveil Premium."

...That green label. I’d seen it in some shops back in Brannock. It wasn’t cheap.

If I remembered correctly, it was the Baron’s fifth wife’s favorite.

Two farmhands stood at the loading dock checking a ledger against the cargo.

"This week’s shipment is two hundred barrels, going out on tomorrow’s transport. Distribution list unchanged: Brannock south market, central market, and the three accounts inside the Sovereign Wall."

"You sell inside the wall too?"

"Our top-grade line only. The ones where fat content clears the premium threshold. The people inside the wall are picky about taste."

Milk from two thousand cowkins, bottled, and distributed throughout Brannock.

In a fucked up way, that was amazing.

◇◇◇

Past the processing building was another row of buildings. The sign on the nearest one read "Birth ward."

...Birth?

I peeked inside.

Small rooms lined on both sides of the corridor. Each room had a cushioned bed, a small shelf, and a single window for light.

And in the rooms were Cowkins.

With... large bellies.

The first was so swollen she looked like she was about to give birth. She was leaning against the wall, supporting her belly with both hands.

The second had a slightly smaller belly. She was knitting.

The third was holding a newborn baby.

Small horns, small ears, tiny hands clung to the mother’s chest.

"..."

Well, that was to be expected.

I couldn’t help but remember what Della said.

The farm doesn’t only bring in stock from outside.

It "produces" internally too.

And the children that are born here...

They grow up here.

They receive their numbers here.

They never leave here.

Well, except for 0.1% of them.

I spoke to a farmhand passing through the corridor.

"Were all the children in this building born here?"

"Yes. This building is exclusively for children born internally."

The farmhand was a young woman with a clipboard, and she answered in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Nutritional intake increases during pregnancy. Growing stock requires investment."

Makes sense.

"And after birth?"

"Cowkin calves grow quickly. They can stand in a few hours. They learn to speak at six months. Basic obedience training begins at two years old. By five years old they understand the schedule."

That’s... something.

"After five?"

"We conduct milking suitability tests, and if they pass, they’re assigned to the South Wing. If they fail, they go to the breeding facility. Either way, their development is completed within our farm."

This is... very organized.

Maybe that was another way of saying, "They never leave here."

"What about the retirement area?"

"Ah, it’s in the back. Would you like to see it?"

◇◇◇

The retirement pasture was at the eastern edge of the property.

A wide grassy area surrounded by a fence. Three large trees provided shade on the well-maintained lawn. Benches were scattered around, where the cow-people sat.

"Thirty-eight Cowkins," the farm worker said.

"How old are they?"

"Well, I think the eldest was around sixty-two?"

Some of them were knitting. Some were talking to each other.

Some were doing nothing.

They sat on benches, gazing beyond the fence.

Past the fence, the Wall was visible. The grey line of the Outer Rampart, cutting the sky horizontally.

There’s a whole world beyond that wall. Do they know that?

Born here, milked here, bred here, and retired here.

They didn’t know what’s beyond the wall.

Brannock didn’t know either.

Nor did I.

All they know is the farm, the numbers, and the schedule.

That’s all.

...Sixty-two years.

Sixty-two years inside this fence, wonder how that Cowkin didn’t go mad.

Maybe because they weren’t human?

Or simply because they never got to experience any higher joy in their lives?

"It’s comfortable, right? They have a private room, and three meals a day. Honestly better than the life in the human Outer Sanctuary."

The farmhand said this.

She was smiling. She wasn’t lying. She really meant it. That was her point of comparison.

"...What about the Training Facility?" I tried asking.

"Ah, that area is off-limits to contractors. It’s Della’s order. Staff only."

"What happens in there?"

"It’s for retraining Cowkins who can’t adapt to the schedule. The ones that go in are much calmer by the time they come out."

Her voice didn’t change.

Her answer wasn’t really much different than what I got from 623.

But I believe that I have a clear idea of what really happens in there.

◇◇◇

On my shoulder.

Pixia wasn’t glowing.

Not ever since we entered the Birth Ward.

The fairy who’d been chattering about random things all morning, was strangely quiet.

"Pixia?"

"Shhh." She said in a low whisper.

"...?"

"I’m doing something right now. Do not bother me."

"...Sure?"

◇◇◇

The afternoon rotation had 623 on it.

She entered the room holding something in both hands.

It was a cup.

A handmade ceramic cup with a slightly crooked handle.

"Here you go! It’s different from yesterday’s!"

"...It’s different?"

"It is! I fired it during recreation time. Look, the handle. It’s straighter than yesterday’s, right?"

I looked. It was, in fact, straighter than yesterday’s. By maybe half a degree.

"...Yeah. Definite improvement."

"Right?!"

Her face brightened instantly.

The same brightness as yesterday. Since arriving at this farm, she was the only cowkin with a face like that.

◇◇◇

She poured milk into the cup (her own, of course), and offering it to me, 623 spoke.

"I’m learning more about pottery right now. Have you ever done it?"

"No."

"It’s hard. Harder than it looks. Clay collapses if you’re rough with it." She wrapped both hands around her cup. "Like milk foam. You have to be gentle, or the shape won’t hold."

....

That’s the sort of comparison that only comes out of this girl.

"Big brother, you live in Brannock, right? What’s it like?"

"Well... It’s huge? Lots of buildings. With even more people."

"Are there buildings bigger than the milking barn?"

"Quite a few."

"...Wow. A little scary."

Scary?

Well, I guess for her, "buildings bigger than the farm" are naturally scary.

Because this farm is her whole world.

"623, were you born here?"

"Yep."

"Ever been outside?"

"Nope? There’s no reason to go outside."

It’s not that there’s no reason. It’s that there’s no way to go outside.

But she herself can’t tell the difference. And because she can’t, she doesn’t look sad. And because she doesn’t look sad, something catches in my throat even worse.

For some reason. I didn’t like that.

I don’t really care about the other Cowkins, for me they are as good as animals but...

Why was I feeling sad when I looked at her?

"...Thanks for the cup. It’s good."

"Ehehe."

Same smile.

No matter how many times I look, she had the same smile.