Today, everything changed.
It started when we noticed increased surveillance—drones, unmarked vehicles at a distance, the kind of quiet, methodical scrutiny that no farm wants to see. We knew something was up, but we also knew better than to make the first move. So we continued as usual, confident in our secrecy and routine, but keeping our eyes open. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the surveillance vanished. A few days later, a message arrived.
A deal.
I’d never considered this outcome before, but here it was: a government representative standing at our gates, offering a pact instead of a raid. In short, the government has no interest in publicizing us, but they see potential in our operation. Instead of shutting us down, they proposed a compromise. They’d provide a steady supply of LPs—people society has already condemned to disappear. Death row inmates, untraceable cases, anyone who has committed crimes severe enough to make them unwanted by even the darkest corners of the world. They’d be “disposed of,” flown in under cover of night, stripped bare, and dropped into our territory. Each arrival would be delivered with a letter stapled to their chest, detailing who they were, their crimes, and sometimes, instructions on how to handle them.
A wild, nearly unthinkable opportunity. After an intense discussion with the other senior Femcans, we agreed. The government would send us their lost causes, their problem cases, and in return, we’d continue our work, keeping our farms and operations discreet and under control. And so, the first drop arrived that very night.
That’s where I met LP314, who would go on to become one of the most fascinating LPs our farm has ever seen. When he arrived, he was no different from the rest: naked, terrified, branded by his crimes in both the literal and metaphorical sense. The letter stapled to his chest was simple but brutal, listing the heinous acts he’d committed. A violent history, the kind of record that would typically land an LP directly on the butcher’s block without question.
But for some reason, something about him caught our attention. Perhaps it was the way he didn’t flinch as we tore the letter from his chest, or the steady, almost resigned look in his eyes, as if he’d already accepted his fate. Femcan Mara, who usually has little tolerance for any LP, gave me a nod—a signal to let him be processed rather than sent to the block.
The process was slow. LP314 wasn’t like the other LPs, who often resist or break quickly. He adapted to the farm’s routines with a calm, almost eerie acceptance. In bootcamp, he performed each task with precision, outlasting other LPs who’d been in training far longer. It became clear that, despite his violent past, he was uniquely suited to the farm’s demands. Over time, LP314 became one of the most reliable LPs we’d ever had, never faltering, never showing a hint of defiance.
The transformation was undeniable. LP314 went from a condemned criminal to a prized member of our farm’s stock. He took on tasks that no other LP could handle with the same efficiency, showing a strange dedication that made him invaluable. Even Femcan Rita, who rarely expresses anything resembling trust in an LP, acknowledged his loyalty and discipline. His presence created a ripple effect, inspiring other LPs to follow suit, to work harder, to accept their role more completely.
Over the months, LP314 became known as the “Model Pig.” His transformation was so complete that the Femcans began to refer to his history as “the turning point,” a symbol of what discipline, training, and obedience could do—even with the worst cases. He became our farm’s living proof that a bad pig could indeed become good, and not just good but exceptional.
Now, each new arrival is measured against the standard he set. The government continues to send us those it deems unsalvageable, each one dropped naked into our territory under cover of darkness, a letter stapled to their chest detailing their crimes and instructions. Some go straight to the butcher’s block, their pasts too dark for redemption. But others are given a chance, put through the same grueling bootcamp that shaped LP314.
Today, as LP314 worked in the fields, I took a moment to reflect on how far he’s come. What began as a government experiment has become a cornerstone of our farm’s legacy. He’s shown us that even the worst pigs can be shaped, molded, and put to use.
LP314 may have arrived as a lost cause, but he’s become a legend—a model for what’s possible. And who knows? Maybe the next LP, branded by the world and left for us to handle, will surprise us too.
Until the next drop,
Femcan Lana
