NexTech Bio-Industries Parts 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer

[NexTech Bio-Industries parts 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries parts 3 and 4 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries Parts 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries parts 7 and 8 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries parts 9 and 10 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries parts 11 and 12 by Dildofarmer]
[NexTech Bio-Industries Parts 13, 14 and Epilogue by Dildofarmer]

NexTech Bio-Industries
5 Vital Statistics: Night

James is gone and all the hutches are in an uproar as the foals play with their new toys in the dim glow of various LEDs, the emergency light system and the green EXIT sign. Even timid Spring allows her foals to run wild and make noise as she feels sure there will be no humans about. Nighttime was the best time in the Breeding Unit once your eyes got used to it, and it’s turning out the same way in this chilly lab.

At first, Hazel is as keenly interested in the ball as her foals. She sniffs it and gives it a few experimental bats with her hooves. It seems searingly bright and almost alive in her eyes - there were no such things in the forest where the Tallest Tree Herd lived. Muffin plays with her ball, too, joyously laughing to herself and bouncing it around with her nose until she was winded.

“Baww wed wike babees! Babee wook wike baww! Babee fo’ pway an’ baww fo’ pway!” she chortled out loud, drinking noisily from her bottle.

“Wub!” squeaked her citrus-orange foal.

Hazel had picked up the square fleece that James had chucked into her hutch and was busy arranging it into a roughly U-shaped roll. Once this was done, she began to pull mouthfuls of fluff off her own chest and gently stomp it down in the middle. Spring was flabbergasted - she had never seen a fluffy pull its own gauzy wool out. She wanted to talk to the other fluffies the way they did at night in the Breeding Unit.

“Hu-hu-hazew?” she asked.

“Wha?” said the piebald mare.

“Yu fwum outsies? Outsies wheww yu can see sky-baww?”

Hazel looked at Spring strangely through the four sets of wire bars that separated them.

“Yus, Hazew fwum Tawwest Twee hewd. Haf Safe Pwace unnah Tawwest Twee an’ Gwassy Pwace.”

“Fwuffy nu kno wha’ dat.”

“Big Outies, nu dummeh housies. Fwuffy can wun and wun foweva. Nu hoomans.”

“An’ big upsies-baww? Sky baww?”

“Bwighty-sky-baww gif wawmies an’ happies. Dawk-sky-baww come in dawkies time an’ nu gif wawmies. F-f-fwuffies num gwassies an’ pway in bwight time an’ haf sweepies in dawk time.”

Hazel abruptly turns her back on Spring and lies down on her side, lifting a rear leg so her panting foals could nurse. The teddy-bear-brown foal made it to the lower teat and began suckling with its eyes closed, rhythmically pressing its front hooves into Hazel’s udder. Her two pegasi foals fought over the upper teat, with the green one losing out as usual. She let them squabble over milk and didn’t interfere, but she would always scoop up the loser and hug it while the other two mouthed her teats. In the dim light, none of her foals noticed that she was softly crying.

Muffin drank a great volume of water, then ambled over to the cut-out corner of her litter box and squatted down to have a wee.

“Muffin wuv toys dat nice mista gif to Muffin!” she announced, then bounded back across her hutch to poke at the little red ball. It careened around the hutch for a little bit until it knocked Muffin’s crimson little foal clean off its hooves. Muffin kept giggling. “Nice mista wiww be nyu daddeh!”

“Nu be stupit!” hissed Hazel, turning around and glaring at Muffin through teary eyes. “Hooman bigges’ poopies meanies! Huwt fwuffy an’ babees fu nu weason! Gif ouchies, say meanie fings! Nu wike dummeh hooman!”

Muffin looked aggrieved and angry. “Nuuu! Hooman gif baww, mebbeh be nyu daddeh! Offa hooman mebbeh be nyu daddeh tuuuu! Wan’ nyu daddeh! Wan’ huggies an’ wuv an nummies!” she moaned. Then, angrily: “Yu nu get nyu daddeh! Yu dummeh meanies fwuffy!!”

Hazel snorted. “Yu bigges’ dummeh mawe. Babees dummeh tuu. Yu aww be nummies fo’ munsta.”

At this, Muffin chattered and spluttered incoherently at her neighbor and stamped her squishy hooves against the carpeting. With her wine-red toy face screwed up in anger, she plodded around in a half-circle and then hunched over and raised her tail at Hazel.

“Sowwy poopies! Dummeh ugwy mawe!”

“NUUU! NUUU! MUFFINNN!!” yelled Spring, too late.

The burgundy biopet let out a high-pitched grunt and a jet of liquid shit leapt out of her hindquarters and splattered on the bars and the carpet remnant. None hit Hazel, who had clambered away ahead of time.

Muffin chugged back around with her eyes wide. She seemed surprised to see the fan of runny feces behind her, and she began to mumble to herself.

“Nuuu… dem aww bad poopies! Muffin gif sowwy poopies buh nao am bad poopies!” She huffed a few times while she looked around the room, as if expecting James to pop out and attack her. The other two mares stared at her in a growing awkward silence.

“Nuuuu!!! Nu mean tu make bad poopies! Sowwy! Sowwy!” she yelled, starting to sniffle and sob as she pawed at the edge of the noxious puddle.

“Nu pwetty! Nu pwetty!” squeaked Hazel’s green foal, utterly fascinated by seeing the adult fluffy shit in its cage.

“Nu smeww pwetty!” agreed Muffin in a moaning, choked voice. “Muffin in twubbew! Hooman wiww gif huwties!” She whipped around and waddled away from the crime scene, dragging her blanket into the far corner and flopping over. The fluffy began to moan and cry into her blanket while covering her head with both front hooves.

“Muffin nu wan’ huwties! Muffin nu mean tu make bad poopies!” she bawled.

Spring was shocked and frightened. The irritable human had just cleaned Muffin’s carpet and now it was soiled again. He would be back and there was going to be hell to pay. She chided and prodded her young away from the sobbing mare next door, and then laid down between them and the sight of the worrisome puddle of shit. The little foals didn’t have much of an attention span and soon returned to their play while Spring sang tunelessly to them.

“Babees wuv mummah, babees wuv bwockies. Babees aw’ fo’ wuv, babees wuv miwkies.” She thought for a moment. “Babees nu sickies, babees see sky-baww.” Her little khaki unicorn foal looked up at her with loving, shimmering eyes and tried to sing a little back to her.

“Babee wuv! Wuv mummah!” it piped, trying to rear up on its twig-like legs.

Hazel likewise lay down and watched her foals play with their new toys until her dark blue foal got a confused look on its face and started making humping motions in midair. Hazel smoothly picked it up by the nape of the neck and set it down on the bare metal grate over the litter box.

“Dewe. Gud babees make gud poopies. Poopies awways in poopies pwace.”

The colt gazed up at her adoringly, then grimaced. Suddenly it started chirping and stumbling forwards while still hunching its back. It fell over and peeped in obvious distress as a tiny loaf of shit fell into the darkness under the cage.

“Babee! Wha happen? Haf owwies?” she asked, rattled.

“Owwies! Owwies! Mummah!” it squeaked, starting to cry.

Hazel nuzzled and sniffed her foal in the dim light. It was hard to see in the nighttime conditions, but she eventually found that the rips on the edge of her foal’s pink asshole had torn open again and were bleeding gently.

“Nuuu! Nu haf owwies!” she murmured, and tried to lick it clean as gently as possible. She had to put her hoof on her foal to hold him still because he would hop and skitter away from the pain. Once it was reasonably clean, she picked up the crying blue pegasus colt and hugged him.

“Mummah sowwy, babees. Mummah sowwy.”

NexTech Bio-Industries
6 Inoculation Day: Morning

You are James. Things have been bad at work lately. Whole departments have been getting shut down - the disgusting fiasco last week in the Breeding Unit was only part of the story. And you don’t even have a department - you’ve been a sub since Dr. Napier’s project shut down two months ago. In a way, you’re lucky to still have a job - a year away from a Master’s in Bio-Engineering, and NexTech is the only game in town.

On the other hand, goddamn fluffies. You’re aware of the positives: State of the art bio-products, masterworks of genetic manipulation, immune systems very much like a human’s. But you can’t stand the things.

Ever since you were a kid, you hated things that were too cute. You hated things that toyed with your emotions. And you don’t like badly behaved children. But now there is something more - after working with the Breeding Unit crew, something has made you feel more repulsed by these things than ever. Something about their weakness and vulnerability makes you sick.

So your future is uncertain, and the best you get is a month or so as a babysitter for three cages full of shitrats. Still, you are feeling good when you hit the door: Twenty ounce coffee in hand, classic Slayer on the headphones and nothing to do today except study and watch Dr. Hopkins inject the fluffies with his new vaccine. You throw your things on the table and boot up the laptop while the fluorescent lights flicker on.

Instant smell of shit. The litter boxes usually do a good job of neutralizing the stench. You get up and stand over the cages. The little things are doing their trademark super-cute wake-up routine, yawning with their cute little pink tongues out and rubbing their big cute eyes with their little cute suede hooves while they curl up with their cute little babies on their cute blankets. Uggh.

Sure enough, the middle one - Muffin, the wine-colored one - appears to have sprayed shit on the carpet and bars of her cage. This one is clearly the most retarded, and it LOVES to shit everywhere. So do its foals. And you’re going to have to clean it up before Doctor Hopkins arrives.

“Hey!” you snarl at her. She waddles towards the front of the cage, ears back but eyes soggy and full of some kind of dim-witted hope.

“Hewwo! Gif huggies? Huggies fo’ nice fwuffy?”

“You shit in your cage!” you point past the fluffy at the crusty brown puddle. The fluffy oinks around a few steps - their necks are too stumpy to just look back - and by the time she’s bobbled back around to look at you, she’s looking a little panicked and tears have started crawling up in her green eyes.

“Nuuuu,” she moans, “am gud fwuffy!”

“Oh, yeah? You didn’t shit in your cage, huh?” Muffin looks a little lost as she watches you swing the front of her cage down, and she huffs a little in surprise when she realizes that you can just reach in and grab her.

“Nuuuu…” she fidgets, pawing at the carpet with a front hoof. You actually see her do a double-take when she looks back at the shit. “Wuh… buh… babees! Babee make bad poopies! Muffin am gud fwuffy!” She points a stubby little hoof back at the nest, where her two foals are huddled together staring at you. One is orange and the other a bright cherry-red. They’re both smaller than the stain.

“Are you kidding me? Your foal shit all over your cage?” You feel like steam is building up inside your skull. If there’s one thing you hate more than fake cute shit, it’s something telling stupid, obvious lies right to your face - one reason you don’t do well with children, either.

“Y-y-yus… babees make bad poopies. Nu gif owwies tu Muffin! Muffin gud fwuffy, gif huggies an’ wuv!”

With that, she plonks down on her fat ass and raises her stubby hooves up to you for a hug. She actually tries to wrap around your arm when you snatch her collar. You drag her halfway out the front, so she has to flail her little legs around to keep from falling out. Like you said, these things don’t have much of a neck - when you knot up your fist on her mane and collar, it pulls her eyes back open.

“Nu huwt gud fwuffy! Nu owwies! Pwease, fwuffy onwy wan’ wuvvies an’ huggies’!” she bleats, and starts crying.

You’re pissed, but you don’t have time for this right now. Dr. Hopkins will be down soon, and you didn’t expect Miss Shitrat here to add to your duties overnight.

“You expect me to believe one of your fuckin’ little grubs made that mess?”

You swear you can see the gears turning inside Muffin’s little burgundy head. You loosen your grip on her neck and she turns to look at her foals.

“Buh… babees….?”

You realize you are arguing with a fluffy again. You haul Muffin out of her cage and lob her onto the table. All four of her legs slip out when she lands and she makes a stupid honking noise. You reach in and snatch the red foal, giving it a good squeeze over the shitbox until a couple of little turds and a stream of piss comes out. It starts chirping, of course. You toss it on the table, where its mother is still laying splayed-out and bawling at the top of her lungs.

“Huuuuu! Huuuuuuu! Huuuuuuuuuuuuu! Eh-eh-eh! Huuuuuu!”

The orange one goes next. You notice that Muffin has pissed herself flat against the table and her entire undercarriage is now soaked.

“Jesus Christ! You fuckin’ bitch!”

“Hey, now!” comes a new voice from the doorway. “Is that any way to talk to a valuable research subject?”

You and the fluffies all snap around. Standing in the doorway is a bulky figure in khaki scrubs - it’s Marcus! He was a tech in the Breeding Unit that you met around two weeks ago, and the two of you made friends during the gruesome shut-down process. He’s a funny, loud guy - and maybe the only black guy you’ve ever met who likes metal. He’s got a cart bearing a white Igloo cooler with red lettering.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Shit’s good, man! Order came in to get this box out of the fridge and roll it up here. How have you been?”

“Eh. I’m in this lab for Dr. Hopkins. Three little shitrat mares and their grubs. God knows how long it will last.”

Muffin stopped crying and is staring at Marcus with her mouth open. The other two fluffies basically haven’t stirred from their nests - they are both watching everything that happens, especially the ugly one on the left. Tense and alert as always, but at least she’s quiet. Marcus rolls his cart up against the table and comes around to bump fists with you.

“Actually, could you help me out a little? Dr. H is probably on his way down and I gotta get this place cleaned up.”

“All right, what can I do?”

“Well, this one,” you jerk your chin at the burgundy mare huddled on the table, “tells me her foals shit on the carpet in the middle of the night.” You cock your head the other way. Marcus looks at the fan-shaped shit splatter in Muffin’s cage. It takes him a second, and then he laughs.


“So I gotta hose it off. Can you throw some chow in their bowls and, I dunno, interrogate the suspect?”


You haul the soiled carpet out of Muffin’s cage and half-roll it so it will stand up in the sink. While spraying it down with the hose attachment, you watch Marcus walk up to Muffin with a huge grin on his face.

“Hewwo! B-b-be nyu daddeh?” she squawks, looking up at him with big soggy eyes.

“Sure, I’ll be your new daddy!” he booms.

“W-w-weawwy? Be nyu daddeh an’ gif huggies an’ wuv an’ nummies?”

“You can only be my fluffy if you don’t make bad poopies, little girl!” says Marcus

“Nuuu, am gud fwuffy! Babee make bad poopies! Babee!”

You roll your eyes and snort as Marcus makes exaggerated mincing steps over to the table. He makes an elaborate show of scooping up the orange pegasus one and asking the dumbass mare if it was the culprit. In the meantime, you hose the carpet down and then rinse out the sink. Christ, didn’t they use to use actual rats? You’d love to be in charge of a lab full of rats. Or bunnies. Or anything that didn’t talk. You bang the carpet on the sink until it’s reasonably dry and move to replace it.

“Nuuuuuu, huuuuu-huuuu-huuuu, nu wan’ huwt babees! Gud babees nee’ wuv an’ huggies!” moans the fat mare.

“No, he’s a bad foal, Muffin! He took an illegal shit! You have to punish him!”

District Attorney Marcus was playing good cop with the suspect and had already convinced Muffin to testify against her own foal. He was pushing her towards where her two foals were huddled together on the tabletop crying.

“Well, you can’t come home with me if you don’t teach your foals, girl!”

The bawling burgundy fluffy toddled over and poked the defendant with her soft hoof, which only made it turn around and try to grab hold. Muffin turned to see if Marcus was ready to scoop her up and shower her with pasta. Nope.

“That’s no good. You have to make it hurt, or they’ll never learn, girl!” chuckled Marcus. He helpfully leaned over the table and grabbed Muffin’s front leg. “Tell that baby it’s bad! Tell him he’s bad or I won’t be your daddy!”

“Muhhhhh… B-b-babees… Babee bad!” squeaked Muffin through choking sobs.

“That’s it! Tell that baby why it’s bad!”

“Babee… nu poopies in housie! Bad poopies babees!” she moaned, half-convincingly.

“Now show that baby you mean business!” said Marcus encouragingly.

“Nuuuuuuu - hic! - nuuuuuhhh,” bleated the mare.

Marcus dragged Muffin forward a half-step and then used her front hoof to smack the foal an uppercut to the chin. It rolled a few inches and then flopped over, holding its face with both hooves and squirting out a tablespoon of pale brown shit onto the tabletop. By this time you have slid the litterboxes out the back of all three hutches and cleaned them. Things are looking good. Marcus keeps dragging Muffin forward and making her slap her foals around. Once they’re both laid out, he pulls her further forward and uses her hoof to squish down on their abdomens until they chirp.

Just in time, the door swings open and Dr. Hopkins walks in. He seems to duck when he crosses the threshold, but you don’t know if that’s because he thinks he’ll hit it or he’s just naturally cringey. With him are two other docs in lab coats - One is short, broad and bald with little round glasses, and the other is a Brahmin fellow you recognize as Dr. Guptahar. Marcus cuts his game short and jams a squawking Muffin back in her hutch before tossing the foals in. Before you turn to greet the docs, you roll your eyes at the sight of her chugging after the red foal, begging it to come back and forgive her. Jesus Christ.

“Dr. Hopkins.” you shake his hand.

“Yes, James! How are things? And I see the vaccines have arrived. This is Dr. Frank and Dr. Guptahar.”

You shake hands. Whatever. Always good to pay some respects to the big shots. Speaking of big shots, it turns out that cooler Marcus had was full of hypodermic needles. Hopkins pulled one out and started waving it around in midair as he was talking to Frank and Guptahar.

“So, you see, we will inoculate them with the maxispectral solution today and later in the week expose them to a rhinovirus and see if the inoculation worked.” he droned.

You clear your throat. “Um, Doc, if we are going to be giving the foals shots we might want to immobilize this one,” you say, pointing at Hazel with your thumb. “She’s a little protective. I think she was a feral.”

Marcus seems impressed by this, leading to everyone in the room peering at the ugly piebald shitrat in the right-hand cage. She’s doing her usual charming routine - crouching over a pile of her foals and glaring at us - but she gets nervous with everyone staring at her and whinnies.

“Yes, well, no need to worry,” says Hopkins. “The foals will, ah, receive the antibodies and immune system stimulants through their mothers’ milk. That is one aspect of this trial’s intentionality.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling dumb. “Well, that’ll be easier.” You turn away and stare at Hazel. You have to think up a way to get this done without some dumbass talking toy turning it into a rodeo. Marcus must have been thinking the same thing.

“A feral? Like, they just went out and bagged a test subject out of a fuckin’ culvert or something?” he asked quietly while the doctors were droning on and on.

“Beats me. This thing got real cranky with me yesterday. The kind of stuff you didn’t put up with in the Breeding Unit.” Marcus chuckles at that. You address yourself to the brown and white mare. “Hey. Ugly. If I leave your foals alone, will you come out of there without a fight?”

As usual, she waits a second before answering. It’s creepy. “…Nu take babees? Gif mummah back to housie?”

Marcus thinks that’s funny. “Oh, oh! She’s striking a deal with you, James. Good teamwork. Negotiate with the shitrat.” His sarcasm isn’t lost on you. Fuck it, this thing’s attitude can be dealt with later - just like Muffin’s little game where she shits the cage and then lies about it.

You unsnap the latches and reach in to snag the fluff. She goes rigid when you grab her collar and you find yourself forced to half-drag her out the front of the cage. She makes a burred little grunting noise, and you’re only a little rough when you plant her on the table. Doctors Guptahar and Frank watch as Hopkins gets ready with his needle.

You find yourself gripping the shaking fluffy’s collar - she gives the impression of being ready to bolt - super tense and doing that ‘huff huff’ thing they do when they’re scared. She gives each human a hateful glare, but she locks eyes with you when you tighten up. The thing keeps on giving you Manson lamps until Hopkins sticks her, then she closes her eyes and gnashes her teeth while he pumps the scruff of her neck full of science.

When he pulls the hypo back out, she opens her eyes again and you can see that she’s trying not to cry even though she’s trembling. You pop her back in her cage without further incident.

“Muffin, you’re next.”

“Whu… daddeh? Daddeh?” Muffin is trying to look past you at Marcus, but he’s standing behind Hopkins and acting dramatically uninterested. You almost laugh out loud at the shaky, hopeful look in the burgundy mare’s eyes. As usual, she doesn’t think to avoid your grasp until it’s too late.

“Give me a second with this one, Dr. Hopkins,” you say as you sling the burgundy bag of fluff over to the table. She keeps quailing for her ‘nyu daddeh,’ louder and louder until you’ve rolled her over into shitting position and jabbed her in the belly with two fingers. You still think this trick is cool - you can feel the fibrous mass of tissue under the diaphragm, and you are fascinated by the way you can mess with the fluff’s nervous system by giving it a sharp poke.

Muffin goes silent, of course, except the usual gags and dry heaves, and she just stares up at you with tears growing in her eyes until the spasms take over and she kicks her legs and blasts out a bunch of shit and piss into the sink. You wait a few seconds to make sure she’s empty - part of your job is to keep the smart guys from getting covered in fluffy diarrhea.

Fortunately, the little mongrels are too gaspy and winded after the pressure point treatment to give you any trouble. Muffin doesn’t get her voice back until you’re holding her pinned down on the table and Dr. Hopkins is about ready to jab the needle into her neck scruff.

“Daddeh! Daddeeeeeh! Hewp Muffinnnnn!” she bleats, rolling her eyes to try to catch a glimpse of Marcus. He’s keeping his distance, and waves cheerfully at you when you look up. Smartass.

When Muffin feels the needle, she lets out a high-pitched pig-squeal that seems to go on and on the whole time Hopkins is slamming her neck full of juice. You can’t get her back into her hutch quick enough, but when you do she starts screeching.


You’re not having that. You clap one hand on the back of her little skull and the other on her teddy-bear muzzle. She immediately starts twisting and squirming, but you squeeze harder and lift her up until her head almost hits the top of the cage. After a few seconds, she is done trying to scream and get away, and she just looks at you with crazy desperation and big soggy tears in her eyes.

“Shut up.” you say in a tone that you hope these things have started to recognize. You can actually feel the stupid thing start to argue with you under your grip, so you shake her.

“SHUT. UP.” you growl. The burgundy fluffy goes limp and you feel her start to shudder as she begins to cry. You drop her. She scuttles away from you, looking up at you like you’re a chainsaw with her name on it. Fine, at least she’s quiet.

Last but not least, Spring: the most chill fluffy in the world. You like this little light purple fluffy - she’s quiet and she does what you say. In return, you don’t have to get rough with her. She keeps her eyes shut while you gouge her pressure point and make her shit in the sink, and just barely lets out a chirp when Doc Hopkins jabs her in the neck-scruff. That makes it all the more surprising when she talks.

“N-n-nice mistew? Nice mistews?” she says, and you’re surprised again when she’s looking way, way up at Hopkins.

“Ahhhh… yes? Ahhhh… Spring, is that correct?”

“Yes,” you and Spring say at the same time. She whips around and looks at you all afraid for a second.

“Nice mistew pwease nu gif sickies ow owwies tu babees? Spwing wiww be bestest fwuffy an’ nu be woud. Pwease nu gif sickies to babees. Gud babees.”

Wow. You weren’t expecting that. Neither was Hopkins. His autism is triggered and he says “Uh, well, yes, uh, yes” a few times while waving the empty hypo around in circles. “…In fact, uh, Spring, we are learning how to keep, uh, fluffies from getting sick!”

Ok, that was pretty smooth. Drs. Frank and Guptahar are equally impressed and they harrumph a bit like they want to help reassure the shitrat. You figure the conversation is over so you scoop up Spring and stick her back in her hutch. The doctors must think so, too, because they all head for the door. Within seconds, you and Marcus are alone in the lab. He’s a barrel of laughs.

“God damn, man. I guess Dr. Hopkins is going to save all the fluffies.”

Marcus’s big voice finally wakes Muffin up and she regains the power of speech.

“DADDEEEEEEH! DADDEEEH PWEEEEASE!!” she squalls through her tears. The little red blob hurls herself against the wires, pounding on them with both squishy hooves and giving you a good look at her creepy, bald crotch tits. Ugh. Marcus walks over and glares down at her like a pharaoh. “Daddeehhhh…. pwease gif huggies an’ gif nyu housie? Pwease? Muffin wan’ nyu daddeh suuuu wong time! Wan’ gu tu nice housie!” She settles back on her haunches and looks up at him with her ears flat. It really is something - more intense puppy dog eyes than any puppy dog ever pointed at a human being.

“Sorry, Muffin! I know you lied about shitting in your cage. Then you boxed your own foals. You’re a bad, lying bitch who hurts her own. I won’t be your daddy anymore.”

Muffin’s jaw drops open, and she glances back at the middle of her cage where the contraband spray of shit used to be. She breathes in and then lets out a few breathy, jumbled-up half-words and stutters. Marcus turns his back most dramatically and gives me a salute while he shoves his cart towards the door.

“Mugh…. muh… nuh!!! Nuuu! Nuuu, daddeeeeh! DADDEEEEH PWEEEASE!” her screams reach a crescendo as she watches him roll on out the door. Those guys from the Breeding Unit were kind of balls-out sick the way they treated the shitrats, but you had to admit it was a certain amount of funny. Muffin slumps down with her little forelegs limp at her sides and stares at the door like she can’t believe it. “Wan’ daddeh… wan’… huu… wuv…”

She collapses onto the carpeting and starts bawling. Her little shits come up and try to hug her, but she bats them away. You realize that Marcus didn’t get around to feeding the fluffs, so you grab the tub and scoop and open Spring’s cage. She quietly says “Fankoo” like always. Muffin just keeps crying when you dump a scoop of kibble in her dish. Hazel glares at you over her little pile of foals, so you stop and flick a couple of pieces of kibble at her face.

You actually manage to get a lot of reading done before lunch, but just before you were about to head to the cafeteria for a turkey sandwich, your laptop pings. It’s Dr. Hopkins on chat.

Dr. Pls add bath for all subjects to schedule this PM

Oh, great.


Yeah, James is gonna lose his job… If he can’t control his anger, he’s gonna end up killing a fluffy, and possibly it might be one that has what the doctor wanted… Thus, security comes in, beats the ever living shit out of him, fires him, and throws him harshly out on his face… Not hugbox, just karma for people who have rage issues, and can’t remember the shitrats are company assets.


Maybe it varies by department, but the big wigs didn’t seem to mind when fluffies in the breeding facility were abused.


Yeah I can see that they’d be lenient so long as their research is recoverable then promptly thrown in the incinerator once they milked out anything useful out of a fluffy.

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Do you know that when the experiment end, they will thrown them in the incinerator.

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Maybe, maybe not? Might need to keep them in case they need long term applications and observations… They could make the flurries explode. Or mutate into say… A giant Cerberus creature.

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