SMASH or PASS

Morning in Brannock, at the northern wagon station.

I was sitting in the back of a supply wagon with Fenra beside me, Pixia on my shoulder, and one travel bag at my feet.

Our destination was Greenvale Ranch. Two hours from the city, in an agricultural area near the outer city walls. The reward was two gold coins and three days’ worth of SP. This was practically the only pillar of my academy funding plan at the moment.

My entire academy fund plan stood on that one fucking pillar, so I hope I don’t fuck it up.

The catkin mating did give me a lot of SP. But it didn’t specifically give me a lot of gold coins. Not enough for the whole academy.

The wagon began to move with a rumbling sound.

And the tour guide on my shoulder began her sales pitch.

"Oh, look, look! That field." Pixia pointed to the farmland on my left. "The soil color’s weird, right? Just that one section, all dark."

Now that she mentioned it, the soil in one section was noticeably darker.

"It’s an old battlefield. From before the second expansion. That black stuff is old blood. Really, really old blood of Druids."

"...Do crops even grow in that?"

"They do! They grow almost too much, actually. I don’t think you should think about the reason."

I decided not to think about it.

"On the hill to the right, there’s a collapsed stone structure, right? That’s a temple. A goddess’s temple that nobody worships anymore. It was popular before the convergence, but after the convergence, everyone found new things to believe in."

"New things like what?"

"The Walls, mostly."

...As crazy as some religions go, that one’s at least honest.

"Also, if you look at the outer wall from here—see, at the base. The color of the stones is different, right? Below that dark line is the original wall. About fifteen meters high. It’s cute, isn’t it? Like a garden fence."

Looking, indeed, only the base of the wall was a darker color. Those dozens of meters piled up on top were all added later.

Geological strata of pure oh-shit, basically.

"Hey, Pixia. I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while."

"What?"

"What exactly was this ’convergence’?"

The swinging of the tiny legs on my shoulder slowed slightly.

"...That’s a big question. Can I give you a short version?"

"Please."

"The world changed. Species that didn’t exist were suddenly here. The ratio tilted. Men got rare. Nobody knows the reason. There are lots of theories, though. The gods-did-it theory. The ancient-magic-misfire theory. And the one where a certain specific goddess did a certain specific thing."

"Tell me more about the last one."

"I don’t want to talk about that part."

She answered immediately.

"...Why not?"

"Because I was there. It wasn’t fun."

She said that and ended the conversation. Then, as if nothing had happened, she told me the names of three roadside flowers. They were all poisonous. Aren’t the plants in this world too poisonous?

Throughout the journey, Fenra growled softly every time Pixia came close to my ear. Pixia pretended not to hear each time.

◇◇◇

Two hours later.

"I can see it," Pixia said.

I... could not call the thing ahead of us a "farm."

It was a factory.

Buildings lined the grounds. Fenced sections stretched on endlessly. All the gates were numbered, from one to fourteen. And beyond them, a cluster of low, massive buildings.

The wind shifted, and the smell arrived.

Milk. Feces and urine. And beneath it all, a strong chemical smell. Alchemical fertilizer, or alchemical cleaner of sorts?

However, the intense smell of milk was the strongest of them all.

◇◇◇

Women were everywhere. Cowkin women. Walking between buildings, carrying buckets, standing in enclosures. Hundreds of them visible from the gate alone, and according to the posting there were two thousand total. They were big. Taller than human women, thicker, with the bovine features that marked the species: small horns curving from the temples, massive breasts, wide hips. Every one of them had a number branded on her hip. I could see them from fifty meters away. 312. 506. 891. 44.

A woman was waving at the gate.

"Welcooome! You’re this week’s contractor, right?"

"...Yes." I nodded.

"You must be the new breeder then! Noel, right? I’m Della. I run this place." She grabbed my hand and shook it with a strong grip. "Welcome to Greenvale! Now, let me show you around. Follow me!"

She walked fast. I followed.

Della was a woman in her twenties, with a long dark hair, a slightly dark skin, and a deep love for her business. She had the same passion as a restaurant owner talking about their kitchen.

While she wasn’t extremely beautiful, I will give her an 8/10 on my personal scale.

She talked as she walked. Without pause.

"We have two thousand Cowkins! It fluctuates, though. There are twelve ranches in the Greenvale area, but most are small-scale. Fifty, maybe a hundred. We’re the only industrial-scale one. The only one!"

"Two thousand..."

"Our stock rotates quarterly. The southern pasture is for milking, the north is for breeding. Your workplace is in the north."

Beyond the fences, I could see the cowkins.

They sat, stood, or walked in a line towards the building in the grassy field.

Each of them had a number branded onto their waist.

"We put a number on every cow’s waist or hip when they arrive. Makes tracking easy! We used to use names, but come on, who remembers two thousand breeding-sluts’ names? Numbers don’t have feelings. Waaay more practical!"

That... did make sense as fucked up as it was.

"The peak of milking is between twenty-two to twenty-five years old. After thirty we convert them to breeding-only. Past forty, they go to the retirement pasture. The retirement section is comfortable, you know. They even have private rooms!"

She sounded like a landlord boasting about the property’s amenities.

Well... I guess when you are treated as an actual animal having their own rooms is a huge privilege— wait why am I starting to think like the fuckers in this world?

I mean... it might not be a bad thing.

That’s just adaptation. Whatever worldview or logic I used to have on earth clearly has no use in here.

Not to survive anyway.

"The guild sends us about thirty contractors a month. Most are repeated partners. I always remember the good workers~"

There she stopped walking and looked me over, top to bottom.

"You’ve got a good worker’s look. Great hips. Good ass too."

"...Thanks?" WTF? Who throws a random comment like that as if talking about the weather?

Nobody prepares you for a life where a stranger rates your hips and ass within five minutes of meeting you.

"I leave the supply network to Silken Crow. New stock from the breeding facility, transportation, security during transport. Those guards there are competent. A little scary, but competent. Oh, right, we’ve got a delivery due tomorrow. You might be able to see it!"

She continued. "Feed is our biggest expense. Cowkins eat a lot. Three times as much as humans, minimum. The alchemical supplements for milk production stack another thirty percent on top. But the numbers work! Two thousand Cowkins, milked three times a day, twelve months a year. Wholesale to every distributor in Brannock. The numbers work!"

I cannot afford the Cowkin milk, little too expensive for me but I did drink it every day when I used to live at the Baron’s mansion. It was... really tasty. Better than the normal one at least.

"The breeding division has a separate account from milking. Breeding produces new stock, and we also get income from selling some newborns for the mages and bored nobles. Two revenue streams! Smart, right? I designed this rotation."

She sounded proud.

She was genuinely, deeply proud. Her tone when speaking of 2,000 women was like a factory owner talking about her machines, and her love for those machines was real. Only her ability to see the substance was completely zero.

I have a lot to learn when it comes to pragmatism.

There are levels to this shit.

And the entire time...

[SMASH / PASS] [Target: Unknown (Cowkin #1108)] [Common] [SP: 9]

[SMASH / PASS] [Target: Unknown (Cowkin #0472)] [Common] [SP: 11]

[SMASH / PASS] [Target: Unknown (Cowkin #1560)] [Common] [SP: 8]

The system kept firing on every Cowkin we passed.

A dozen or so. All Common, 8 to 15 SP. They were very cheap. All within my current balance.

Coincidentally, it looked like the bigger the boobs were, the higher the sp count.

Was that just a specific system preference?

[...]

Well, regardless of which, I can’t just pick up one of them randomly. Not now anyway.

I minimized them all.

◇◇◇

"Any questions so far?"

"How long do contracts usually last?"

"Three to five days for standard breeders. We offer weekly packages for repeats. Some of our regulars come back every month. I’ve got one breeder who’s been on my roster for twelve years. Twelve years! same man, once a month. His output is declining but the girls like him so I keep the contract open." She laughed. "Loyalty matters in this industry."

"What happens if a cowkin gets pregnant from a contractor?"

"Well, since it’s the whole reason for the contract. Some of the babies with rare traits like pink hair or rare magical affinity They go into the public lottery system. Although 99.9% of the offspring stay here. They’re farm stock. Born here, raised here, milked here, bred here, skinned and sold here. The cycle sustains itself~" She said it like she was describing crop rotation. "We haven’t needed to buy external stock in six years. Everything grows in-house. Self-sustaining operation."

"And the Silken Claw deliveries?"

"Those are specialty requests. Sometimes a client wants specific genetics. Temperament traits, body type, horn shape. The Silken Claw sources from their nurseries and delivers to order. It’s a premium service but the product is premium." She checked her watch. "We’re almost at the south compound. One more building to show you."

Pixia was silent on my shoulder. She hadn’t said a word since we entered the gate.

It happened at the tail end of the tour.

We were passing the side of a milking barn.

A cowkin was on her knees outside the barn door. Large, heavy-chested, number branded on her hip: 664. She was clutching her breasts with both hands. They were swollen, visibly painful, the skin stretched tight.

She was crying.

"Please." She looked up at Della as we approached. "Please, it hurts so much. I need to be milked. Please, I missed my slot and it hurts, please—"

Della stopped walking. She looked at #664, Annoyed.

"664." She said her number. "Your slot was 3 PM. It’s 5:30. Why did you miss your slot?"

"I was— I was in the east pasture, they moved the afternoon rotation and I didn’t know—"

"The rotation schedule was posted this morning. Did you check the board?"

"I— no, I—"

"You didn’t check the board." Della sighed. She crouched down next to #664. "This is what happens when you don’t check the board."

She reached down, gripped #664’s swollen chest with both hands, and squeezed.

The cowkin screamed. The sound was raw and animal and it echoed off the milking barn walls. Milk sprayed across the dirt path, white streams mixing with the dust. Della squeezed harder. Twisting. Compressing. Her face showed nothing. She could have been wringing out a wet towel.

#664’s scream dissolved into a wet choking sound. Her body convulsed. Her legs buckled. She went down face-first into the dirt. Della kept squeezing for another three seconds, then released. She stood up. Wiped her hands on her coat. Then checked the milk on the ground.

"That slut has low viscosity. She’s been off-schedule for at least four hours." She looked at the farmhands who’d come running. "Send her to the Training Facility for a standard reorientation. And dock her recreation privileges for the week."

The farmhands took the unconscious 664 by both arms and dragged her off across the grass. Her swollen chest scraped the ground, and one long line of milk drew itself across the dry dirt.

Della turned back to me.

Same smile. Identical, to the millimeter, to the smile from one minute ago. As if she’d paused to check a gauge rather than crushed a woman’s chest until she fucking passed out.

"Sorry about that. Schedule compliance is everything in this operation. One girl off-cycle throws the whole rotation off. We milk on a three-shift system. 6 AM, 12 PM, 6 PM. If a girl misses a slot, her output backs up and the pain response triggers exactly what you just saw. It’s avoidable if they just check the fucking board." She shook her head. "They never check the board."

She started walking again. "Anyway! Your quarters are in Building C. Dinner’s at seven. The girls will be assigned to you by morning. The mess hall is in the main building, can’t miss it. If you need anything, the duty farmhand’s office is next to the gate."

She walked away. Her boots left prints in the milk-wet dirt.

I stood in the path. Pixia’s glow was gone. Completely off. She was dark on my shoulder, just a tiny weight with no light.

Well that was... Something.