You are Daniel Turner: son of Richard Turner, billionaire and owner of multiple massive companies. You are 22, and with the investment money your father gave you for your business school graduation you have just bought your first business, a fluffy milk producer by the name of Rainbow Acres. Your father scoffed at the name, asking you if you were sure, but you know what you’re doing. Fluffies for industrial applications are the hot new thing these days, you’d been watching the markets and with the public opinion turning on the little fuzzballs there was some real money to be made.
You had ordered your driver to take you to the main production site, where you had an appointment with the head of administration for a tour of the facility. The large grey building loomed over your expensive sports car as you pulled up, a colorful logo with a smiling green fluffy looking out of place on the side of the harsh cornered concrete building. Your driver slowed to a stop in front of the building, where a man in a white shirt a khakis waited with a wide smile. A very fake smile, you noted to yourself. Brown nosing upper managers.
“Welcome, Mr. Turner!” He held his hand out for you to shake as you got out. It stayed awkwardly hovering in front of him while you smoothed your shirt and walked over. Too eager, you decided as you shook his sweaty palm. He may not survive your takeover and he knows it.
“You are…?”
“Oh! Michael Hornady, sir, head of-”
“Head of Administration, yes.” You cut him off. “Hornady, what were the profit margins for last quarter?”
“Uh…” his smile faltered. “I would, um, have to check the records…”
“Right, of course.” Useless, calls himself head of administration but doesn’t know basic figures. “We can return to that later then, show me how this place works.”
“Y-yes! Sir! Right this way!” He jumped to the door to hold it open for you, gesturing you in nervously.
Inside was a basic, beige office space. Good enough, you decided. Not every office needed to follow the tech start up model of open concept floorplans and free beer in the break room. A few heads peeked over the cubicle walls, ducking back down when Hornady looked their way. He ruled with fear; not ideal but not incorrect either. You would have to look into that.
Hornady led you down hallways, pointing out rooms and people that had no importance to you. Why did you care where the mail room was? If it was managed well and making you money you would never have to see the inside of these walls again. You weren’t trying to revolutionize the fluffy milk market, you wanted a slow growth investment that you wouldn’t have to micromanage. You knew the profits on this particular facility were good, could for sure be better but good was good enough. A tidy, consistent profit with very little risk; a good basis to earn your fortune from.
“And this is the production floor.” Hornady said, pushing open a solid metal door. You glanced over all the warning signs taped to it. Many warned about bringing outside pathogens in, but a handful were reminders to use “proper conduct” while interacting with the “biounits”.
“Hey, do any of these warnings apply to me?” You asked, stepping onto the metal mesh floors of the hallway.
Hornady chuckled. “No, sir! These are for the workers here, I’m sure your tour will be fine if we-”
“It will absolutely not be fine!” You turned to see a curly haired woman in pink coveralls jogging towards you. “For the last goddamn time, you cannot just ignore protocol because you don’t work around here!”
“Please, Mrs. Delinard-”
She cut him off. “Don’t you fucking ‘Mrs. Delinard’, me.” She jabbed her finger at Hornady as he cowered back. “You are on my floor, you follow my rules.”
You sized her up as she chewed Hornady a new asshole. She was about your height, with a mane of dark, curly hair around her shoulders. The pink coveralls she wore were clean, branded with the company logo, and tucked into dark red leather work boots. She held a bright green clipboard in the manicured hand that wasn’t trying to stab into your tour guides chest. “Hey, I didn’t get your name.” You asked.
She turned and looked you up and down, sizing you up in turn. “Tricia Delinard. What are you, Health Services? State Agriculture Board? Or just an investor?”
“Daniel Turner. I just bought this company.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, pleasure to meet you then, sir.” She held out a hand, which you shook.
“Yeah, I was trying to tell you that, Tricia.” Hornady sneered. “Now if you don’t mind, I was giving him a tour.”
“Actually, you can go Hornady.” You didn’t look at him, busy reading the spreadsheet you could see atop Tricia’s clipboard.
“…what?”
“She seems to know this part of the business better. You can go, I think she can handle the rest of the tour.” You reached out for the clipboard, which Tricia handed to you. “How long have you been working here?”
“4 years, I was hired just after the business started up. I know this facility inside and out.” She replied.
“But…” Hornady mumbled.
“I got it, Hornady, thank you.” Tricia snapped. He slowly retreated back into the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The sheet had a list of names down the side, alphabetized, and across the top were a series of numbers. Tricia had filled in some shorthand notes in a handful of the boxes you couldn’t quite understand. “Is this every fluffy in the facility? It doesn’t seem like very many.”
“Oh, it is. We just have a standard naming convention. Fluffies want to have a real name, so we provide one. One name per letter, no duplicate names in the same room.” She pointed to the three digit numbers at the top of the page, then to the numbered signs hanging from the ceiling of the corridor. “So in 101 there, we have Annie, Bessie, Chrissy, and so on. So notes on them go under their name and room.”
“And there are 26 fluffies in every room?”
“No, usually 7-10. Any more and they start feeling crowded, fighting over toys, all that.”
“Hm. Alright, you mind showing me the process? I know I’ll need to borrow some gear.” You pointed to a sign on the wall, warning that entering one of the fluffy pens without proper PPE was a durable offense.
Tricia laughed. “Yeah, Mr. Hotshot, I’m sure we can find one of these getups in your size.”
One rummage through a storage closet later, you were dressed as best as you could in an oversized pink jumpsuit. Tricia couldn’t find proper shoes for you, so you settled on wrapping your loafers in some elastic shoe protectors she found. You felt silly, but Tricia assured you that all this gear was essential. “Consistency is key with these creatures,” she had said.
“Alright, we’ll start in the breeding room.” She walked quickly, nearly a jog.
“Do you breed your own stock entirely?” You followed her down the hallways, passing identical numbered doors.
“Almost, the fluffy we use is a milk mare breed, which is standard across multiple facilities. We get stud fluffies from other facilities in exchange for any we produce. Keeps bloodlines clean.” She stopped outside a metal door labeled B-3. “This is one of the breeder rooms, they are all identical other than the fluffies inside.”
You peeked through the tiny window in the door. The floor inside was made of interlocking foam tiles, and blankets and soft toys covered the space. You could see a few fluffies sitting in beds and boxes, and a handful of foals toddling around. “Am I able to go in?”
“You are,” Tricia nodded. “But you need to follow some rules. Don’t call yourself anything other than your name. Do not speak directly to the units. Do not use any swear words, anything about death or dying, or the word ‘spaghetti’.”
“Seems strict.” You knew fluffies to be easy to care for, you really weren’t expecting the specialized rules and gear.
“It’s necessary. These creatures are fragile, and if you remind one of them that they don’t have a daddy, it will cry, and then all the others will cry, and then I have to spend my lunch break calming down tiny horses.” She looked you square in the eye as she continued. “I do not care who you are, I’m not giving up my lunch break.”
“Understood, don’t speak to the units.”
“Good, let’s go.” She opened the door and the sound of children’s music leaked into the hallway. Every fluffy in the room looked up at you, and any that weren’t too bloated to move started waddling over.
“Twicia!” A leggy yellow unicorn yelled, launching itself into Tricia’s arms. “Sunny miss yu!”
“Aww, missed you too Sunny!” Tricia hugged the fluffy tightly. “This is my friend Daniel, he’s here to do a checkup with me!” All the fluffies in the room cheered, babbling their hellos to you. You weren’t sure how to respond, you just waved awkwardly as Tricia put Sunny down. “So this is our breeder room setup, it’s the same exact items in every breeder room, down to the toys. These mares have been given intense training and genetic testing to ensure the perfect brood mare.”
“Seems intese.”
“It’s not my job specifically, but the guys in those departments can give you more accurate information on that.” She had at least a basic understanding of other parts of the business. Interesting. “This particular breed of fluffy gives a higher percentage of females to males, so we have very few useless units get produced. We do keep a handful of the males for the stud exchange I mentioned earlier. Now,” She called out to the room, “can I see all the babies up here?”
One by one the mares came forward, bringing foals from nearly hairless newborns to guinea pig sized “talkie” foals. Tricia looked them over one by one, then praised each mother and handed them a treat from her pocket. When she finished, she called out “Good girls! You are all very good fluffies!” They all cheered, and returned to their idle games.
“They’re really good at giving up the foals.” You commented as Tricia brushed off her coveralls. “I thought fluffies were supposed to hate that.”
“It’s because the rules are so strict. We hold our fluffies to very high standards, and that requires proper discipline.”
“And what is the discipline setup?”
“Not something I can talk about in here.” She gestured at the fluffies around you two. “Too many tiny ears. We’ll get to that part of the building.” She walked over to a fat brown pegasus laying against the wall. “Any problems, Buddy?”
“Nu, Miss Twicia. Mummahs be gud, give gud enfies and pway wif babbehs.” He didn’t even lift his head, just looking up at her from a blanket pile he laid in.
“Good boy.” She dropped a handful of treats in front of him, and he nosed around in the blankets for them. “Buddy is the stud for B-3, he keeps the mares in line and knocked up.”
“So… stud and watchdog all in one.” Tricia nodded. “And you trust fluffies to govern their own?”
“Yep. Little snitches love ratting out others if you reward them enough. Their terrible at lying as well, so you don’t have to worry about them making shit up just for treats.” She stood, giving the room one more look over. “Now you girls be good!”
“Buh bye Miss Twicia!” Sunshine called, holding up one of her foals who waved as you left.
One the door clicked shut, Tricia continued. “The few male foals we get are pulled at birth and put in incubators. They’re then tested for genetics and weight and offered to our partner facilities. The ones we receive from them are treated the same. We raise them alone with only human contact, so they imprint on us, and will do just about anything you say.”
“Hm, and this works?”
“Last I checked the wash out rate of our training program was down to 15 percent.” She waved over your shoulder, flagging down an employee pushing a cart down the hall behind you. “Hey, Dom! Dominic!” He noticed her and pulled out one of his earbuds. “You mind if we follow you to sorting? I’m giving a tour.” He shrugged, put his earbud back in, and continued past you. You followed along with him and Tricia, watching the happy foals babble to themselves in the cart.
You and your entourage entered a room labeled SORTING, where multiple uniformed employees were handling foals. They smiled and spoke softly as they examined the foals, everyone including the fluffies seemed to be in a good mood.
“Same rules as the breeder room apply,” Tricia said, grabbing your arm. “It applies anytime you’re near the units, okay?”
“Got it, don’t talk to them. What all happens here?”
“The foals are examined, and sorted based on weight, temperament, and general appearance. They’re then tagged with an identification number and placed in one of the bins to go to their next stage.”
You watched a purple and blue filly get lifted out of the cart by a worker and held up in the air, making her giggle. “How do you test temperament?”
“Something the lab boys came up with, we’re mostly checking for one of three things. The fluffy could protest, that’s a full fail. Discomfort and whimpering, but no protests is a partial pass, they get a yellow or white tag and they’re not allowed in the breeding program. Joy upon interaction with humans and toleration of any inspections we need to do gets a full pass and a blue tag here.” The purple filly yelped as a blue tag was clipped onto her ear but didn’t cry, sucking her hoof for comfort instead. The worker gave her a quick hug before setting her in the blue bin.
“And blue means breeder?”
“Blue means potential breeder, she’ll still have to undergo some testing and training before she gets anywhere close to the breeding program.” Tricia pointed out the yellow bins, full of whimpering foals. “These are the ones that will go into the foal rooms until they’re sexually mature.”
“And the red bin over here?” It was in the corner, with one green foal standing on her stubby hooves to look over the top.
“Recycled into feed. Because of their weight, temperament, or physiology they’re not suited for the floor. Males that none of our partner facilities want get recycled as well.” Recycled, such a clean term for what it was. “They’re prepared in such a way that there’s very little risk of contaminants for our general population.” Tricia’s voice showed no hint of empathy or pity for the creatures.
“Interesting. Seems efficient.”
She shrugged. “Standard practice in most mills, it probably could be a little more efficient in my opinion.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“Hm.” You rubbed your chin. She was well informed and clearly cared about the business, she had some potential. “Do you know what the profits were for last quarter?”
“Not specific numbers, no.” She led you out of the foal room and back down the maze like corridors. “But milk production was up 8 percent, so I assume the profits were up about that much.” She was right, according to the paperwork you saw the profits were up 7 percent. “I’m taking you to a milking room, only trained employees are usually allowed in them as we use some psychological tactics to keep the mares in check.” She turned another corner and stopped Infront of room 141. “Don’t respond to the units, let me handle it.”
“Got it.”
She pushed open the door, and more tinkling lullabies echoed into the hall. It was a similar room to the breeding rooms, same mats on the floor, same kinds of toys, but the mares in this room weren’t playing or watching foals. They sat in small piles on the blankets, watching you anxiously.
“Hello ladies, how are we doing today?” The fluffies mumbled their hellos, most not looking up from the floor. “I’m just here to do a quick checkup and then we’ll be off, okay?” The fluffies didn’t reply. Tricia walked over to each one and patted them on the head, scribbling on her clipboard if the fluffy didn’t respond. As she worked, one of the mares got to her hooves, stretched, and waddled over to a machine on the wall. She sat upright in it and with some mechanical whirring it wrapped an arm around her waist. Infront of her and screen flicked on, showing her footage of a litter of fluffy foals. She sniffled as the machine milked her, and pressed a hoof up to the screen.
“And that’s it, thank you ladies!” Tricia started back towards the door when a reddish brown mare put a hoof on her leg.
“How wong tiww babbehs? Daisy babbehs been gone many foebahs…” the mare trailed off.
“Oh, Daisy that was only yesterday!” Tricia ruffled her mane, chuckling. “They’ll come back when they’re better.” She gestured for you to open the door and followed you out. Once the door closed fully, she explained. “After the mares mature, they’re artificially impregnated and isolated for the entirety of the pregnancy. Once the foals are born they’re told that they’re sick and need to be taken care of, and because of our training and fluffies inherent trust in humans they believe it and give up the foals. We tell them that when they use the milking machine they’re feeding their foals, and when they ask how long it’s been we tell them they only lost the foals yesterday.”
“And… this works forever?” You were amazed at the sheer scale of these lies, no wonder she was so strict, these fluffies lived in a fantasy world.
“Not forever, but a pretty long time.” She points out the bright light fixtures in the pen. “There’s no day-night cycle here, the lights are on 24-7. Even if fluffies could count, they have no sense of the passage of time. Hormones in their feed keep them producing milk and as long as they can see old footage of their foals they’re happy to be milked. If I’m remembering correctly, that particular Daisy has been there for a little over a year.”
“That’s…” Diabolical? What do you even call something like this?
“I know it seems cruel, but it works.”
“I guess I just… expected something similar to a traditional dairy works.”
Tricia laughed. “Cows don’t die from depression. I worked dairy farms in highschool, you take away their calves and they mourn for like a day and then they’re fine. Fluffies don’t forget. Fluffies will die if they get too sad, but if they think they have foals out there somewhere that are depending on them, we can keep them going for 5 or more years.”
“What happens to their foals?”
“Same thing that happens to all the useless units here; a date with the grinder.” She gestured for you to follow. “The discipline room is down here, and then I’ll show you the racks.”
“…racks?”
“High density milking setup, but the units don’t last long in it so we save it for defective or defunct units. You’ll see.” This room was only a few doors down, and heavily sound proofed. Outside was a warning about wearing ear protection, and Tricia popped a quarter into a machine that spit out a pair of disposable earplugs. “Wear these, fluffies can scream at decibels that can damage your hearing.”
You didn’t need to be told twice, as you could just hear screams through the thick metal door. You entered, and the room was coated in soundproofing foam, and along each wall was a series of kennels that held a fluffy each. Tricia walked up and tapped the shoulder of a worker at some machine. While they talked, you looked at the cards pinned to each kennel. One grey mare had her back pressed against the back wall of the kennel, shivering in fear. Her card had her number, that she was a breeder, and that she stomped on a foal. The kennel next to her was a stallion with puffed cheeks, standing defiantly against the cage door. His card read that he was a stud that refused to mate. These were the fluffies you knew; obstinate, unpredictable, looking to do exactly the opposite of what you needed them to.
Tricia tapped you on the shoulder, beckoning you over to the silver machine against the wall. It had a few dials and gagues, and a large screen showing numbers you didn’t fully understand. “We’ll keep this quick, Jim here has a few to get through today and he’s off at 2.” Tricia yelled. The worker, Jim, walked over to the machine with a pale blue mare with a red mane. She writhed and struggled in his grasp, but offered no real resistance to him loading her into a glass tube with a mesh floor. Her tiny hooves tapped against the glass, and you could see her lips moving but not make out her pleas.
“You refused to feed your babies, which makes you a bad fluffy.” Jim stated, hand resting on a lever off to the side. “This is the punishment for being a bad fluffy.”
He pulled the lever, and the mare released a splitting scream that hurt your ears even with the earplugs. She flailed and writhed in the tube, pissing uncontrollably. Jim held the lever down for a few more seconds, watching the fluffy struggle and flail, a somewhat bored expression on his face. When he released the lever, the mare collapsed to the mesh floor, panting a wheezing.
“You going to be a good fluffy?” Tricia asked. The mare nodded frantically and Jim opened the tube and lifted the limp blue fluffy out and placed her back in one of the cages against the wall while Tricia led you out.
“I assume that’s some sort of shock punishment?” You asked, pulling your earplugs out back in the hall.
“Yep, not a damn thing that works better. Beatings could injury the unit, isolation can kill them outright. Electrical current is the most reliable punishment method, last I checked it was an 80 percent success rate.”
“And about how often do the, er, units need to be brought here.” Another set of screams leaked through the thick metal door.
“Oh, some never see it. Usually we have one or two repeat offenders per room, they keep the others in line with tales about the horrible ‘shocky huwties’” Tricia mockingly imitated fluffspeak.
“Huh. Whatever keeps them in line I guess.” Why did you have a bitter taste in your mouth?
“It doesn’t always work, but the ones that cause us too much trouble, as I said, end up in the rack room.” She led you down more winding corridors while you puzzled over the sick feeling in your stomach. Something about the way the mare moved, a sort of body horror? Or did it disgust you? Or, could it be something akin to… empathy?
No, no, nonono. Empathy had no place in business. You didn’t work for a nonprofit, you had no room for touchy-feely empathy. You shook it off as you followed Tricia into a darkened room. These were products, and you needed to see them as such. Units.
“This is the rack room, or the Rack Unit Production System, if you listen to pencil pushers like Hornady.” She flicked a light switch and one by one harsh industrial lights popped on.
Before you were shelving units, rows upon rows of notched metal structures with wires and pipes trailing down the sides. Each rack held many brightly colored blobs, things only barely reminiscent of fluffies. Their faces were covered by black plastic cones that connected to the conduits on the shelves. You stepped closer, examining a dull orange mare strapped in at about eye height. Her legs had been removed, replaced with metal bars that snapped into the shelf, holding her securely in place. The mask on her face wrapped over her ears, removing all senses. Similar black cones were strapped over her udders, they twitched with every pulse of the milking apparatus strapped in to the shelf behind her.
“Jesus…” you mumbled.
“I know, right?” Tricia walked over to examine the mare as well. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
Beauty was not the word you would have used. “It’s… something.”
“Now, the milk from these mares is seconds. They have to be so loaded with hormones and stimulants that the milk quality suffers. Its suitable for bottom shelf formula, an additive in foal kibble, stuff like that.” She jabbed at the fluffy with her nail, causing it to jump in surprise. “All they do is produce milk, the lab boys say the sensory deprivation turns off their brain as well.”
“How… how long…?”
“How long do they last? Our record is 2 years, but usually between 8-14 months.” Tricia pulled the mask off the mare and tubes spilled out of her mouth, slick with her stomach juices. “Hi there sweety, remember me?”
“…wan die.” The mare whispered. That bitter taste filled your mouth once again.
“Oh, don’t be like that! What happened to that bitchy spirit you had?” Tricia taunted the mare, jabbing her with her nails. “Where’s the defiant shitrat that tried to bite me?”
The mare didn’t look up, just whispered, to no one in particular, “wan die.”
Tricia grabbed the mare’s head, forcing her to look her in the eyes. “That’s a shame, because I don’t plan on sending you to the grinder for a few more months.” She started feeding the tubes back into the mare’s mouth while you watched. The mare didn’t even fight, just stared blankly forward as the black cone inched closer to her face. Despondent, lifeless, begging for release. These fluffies were a far cry from the others in the facility. Though, the mares in the milking rooms weren’t exactly happy, were they? Only the breeders were really happy in this place. And if they knew what happened outside their four walls…
“We have studs on the far wall as well, they’re in similar apparatuses but with a different kind of milking, if you know what I mean.” She elbows you playfully and you give a halfhearted laugh.
Tricia explains the ins and outs of the “stud milker” as she calls it while you’re lost in thought. There was, at your best estimate, a hundred fluffies in this room. All deprived of their senses, of their limbs, of their freedom. Each one quietly whispering the same phrase around the tube. Wan die. Wan die. In that room, surrounded by their silent suffering, you agreed.
“Everything okay, Daniel?” You jumped as Tricia’s hand rested on your shoulder.
“Y-yeah. Sorry. Just… lots to take in.” You cleared your throat, adjusting your tie and fixing your posture.
“Ah, yeah some people don’t like this room. They’re just biotoys, I promise.” She chuckled. “We can’t do stuff like this to real animals.” She grabbed your arm, leading you out of the rack room. “It sure would be nice though!”
With the sound of the door closing behind you a wave of relief washes over you. You shook out the last bit of stress and smoothed your hair down. You almost lost your cool in there because of a fuzzy children’s toy. Silly. You’re a grown man, one that doesn’t react to an object.
“And that’s basically the production floor!” Tricia smiles at you. “I’ll lead you back to the office.”
As you walk you ask her, “So, I have to be a businessman here, where can we be more efficient?”
“Well,” Tricia paused, finger to her chin. “We’re throwing away decent colors and alicorns regularly. They’re not pedigree, but I’m sure we could sell at least some of them.”
“Like as pets?”
“Mh-hm. And there’s no reason we need to be using milking studs for impregnating our milkmares, they could be any old fluffy. So investing in some proven alicorn studs might give us slightly more valuable foals. If you’re willing to put some money into it, down the line taking color and type into account could have us working as a small mill as well as a dairy works.”
“That’s… that’s not a bad idea.” You could easily order some decent alicorns, this deal came in a bit under your budget so you had some funds to play with. “Could you get me the contact of someone to buy said studs from? I’d like to implement that as soon as possible.”
“Sure, but all those sorts of changes are made by the office so you’ll have to get them to approve it.”
You frowned. “Not by anyone on the floor?”
“Nope. If I need something done I have to talk to them, and explain why I can’t just do deal with the problem without spending any precious money.” She rolled her eyes.
“Hm. Thats not gonna work. What’s your job title?”
“Floor Supervisor.”
“How does Production Manager sound?”
Tricia grinned. “Does it come with a raise?”
“Six figures.”
She whistled. “That kind of money comes with a corner office, right?”
“Depends, what office does Hornady have?”
“You know, I think I’m going to like you, Mr.Hotshot.” Tricia linked her arm with yours and the two of you walked to the office together.
Hours later, you were being driven back to your high rise apartment, watching out the window as the city passed by. That bitter taste was still in your mouth, a reminder of the things you’d seen. On your lap sat a stack of papers, of figures and policies and records. All in professional, sterile wording. So much info on so many fluffies. Or, biounits, you reminded yourself. As your driver stopped at a light, you noticed a feral fluffy sitting in a cardboard box in an alley. She was lifting one of her filthy foals into the air, smiling. Laughing. Loving her small family. The foals tiny wings buzzed as it held out it’s stubby hooves for a hug.