Tonight was a wild one here at the Human Farm. It started off just like any other branding night, but let’s just say one of our “new arrivals” had other plans.
We had two fresh LPs brought in this afternoon, rounded up from some Femcan Rita’s connections. They rolled in on the piggie wagon, the metal bars rattling as they stared out in wide-eyed horror, still adjusting to the reality of their new lives. Their numbers hadn’t been assigned yet, but protocol dictates we get them branded ASAP. Out here, branding isn’t just for identification; it’s the seal of our farm. Without it, they’re “free range,” meaning any nearby Femcan can legally lay claim to them if they stray into her territory. Picture the Human Farm like the bullseye of a dartboard, surrounded by a ring of other farms, all run by Femcans with their own appetites. It’s essential to mark our property right away—without it, they’re easy targets.
The branding and the mask-fitting are part of the same process. We don’t give them just any mask; we fuse it right on with a blowtorch. It’s intense, sure, but that’s the point. The mask reminds them of what they are, helps strip away the last remnants of their old lives. Tonight, we had the torch in hand, flames ready, as Femcan Mara and I secured the first LP in place. The branding iron was heating up, sizzling in the coals nearby. His friend—LP candidate #2—had already accepted his fate, his vacant stare focused on nothing. He’d been through the initial “prep” stages and was already trained to stand still, stripped of that fight-or-flight response.
But his friend? This one had fight.
Just as I was positioning the blowtorch, he jerked his head back, the initial heat barely licking the Hard Plastic of the pig mask against his skin. The rest happened fast. With a strength I didn’t expect, he twisted out of our grasp and lunged backward, sending Femcan Mara stumbling. We tried to pin him down, but he was already on his feet, bare legs pounding against the dirt. His mask was half-torched, one side fused to his skin while the other hung loose. And the look in his eyes? Pure, wild defiance.
He shoved through two other Femcans who were… busy in the clearing, catching them off-guard as he barreled past. Alarms blared through the fields as the system detected an unauthorized pig on the move. In his scramble, he pushed through the back gate and tore off toward the thick woods bordering the farm. There’s something terrifying about a half-masked pig in a panic; they lose all sense of reality and, in his mind, he probably thought he could find safety beyond those trees.
But he was wrong. Out here, there’s no place to run.
The Femcans on duty rallied quickly, flashlights and rifles in hand. I took off down the path toward the woods, radioing to Femcan Tanya, who was already setting up search positions. We split into teams, following the sounds of branches snapping and the heavy panting of an LP determined to escape.
The darkness settled over the farm, shadows deepening as we combed through the underbrush. Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of him—just the flash of pale skin or the eerie glint of that half-burned mask—but he was fast, and we knew he’d be aiming to reach the boundary line.
As we closed in, we noticed something strange: two other Femcans were lurking near the tree line, from the outer farms. They must have heard the commotion and, knowing he wasn’t branded, saw their opportunity. LPs unmarked by the farm’s symbol are considered fair game. They were out to claim him, to drag him off to one of their farms before we could complete our capture.
But we weren’t about to lose him that easily.
We tightened our circle, flashlights trained, as his desperate breaths grew louder.
