dairy farm

Rain. It drummed on your car roof for hours as you broke down on the narrow country road. No reception. No houses. Just fields, wind, and the musty smell of wet earth. At some point, this old sign appeared on the side of the road, half-fallen, weathered green: "Fresh milk from the farm - 1.3 km →"

You followed the path. It led over muddy field tracks, past silent trees and fences that had seen better days. The farm lay deep in the valley, between fog and dung heaps, embedded in sounds you couldn't identify—muffled clapping, metallic squeaking, a single, drawn-out moo.

As you passed through the gate, everything seemed deserted. No bell. No front door. Just an open barn door, from which a crooked sliver of light crept. You thought: "Just a quick question. Then I'll be gone again."

Then... A noise behind you. Footsteps. Then a dull thud.

Black.

The present Your head is pounding as if someone were plowing through your brain with a pitchfork. You want to move – but can't. Your arms and legs are stretched out, locked in cold, wide clamps. A platform vibrates beneath your back – stainless steel. Solid. Unyielding.

The room is large. No windows. Damp concrete floor. The hum of machinery, water somewhere, cattle somewhere.

You open your eyes. Above you: a neon tube, flickering, surrounded by flies.

Two men are standing to the side. Work clothes, rubber boots, sleeves covered in dirt. One of them is wearing a green checkered cap, the other is chewing on a stick of gum. They don't look alarmed. They look... annoyed.

"Well, look who's awake again." The one with the cap grins. "I said he doesn't need a second injection."

"You say that about everyone," the other mutters. "And every time he starts, he almost pees on our table."

You want to ask what's wrong. But your lips are dry. Your throat... rough. You groan – and what comes out sounds wrong. Deeper. Heavier. Not like your voice.

"It's moving," says the one with the cap. "Then we should start before the spine goes soft."

A screen flickers on to your left. A digital interface. Cool, blue. Your name isn't there. Only:

Serial ID: 083 Status: Preparation phase completed Conversion active – Goal: female bovine / high-performance lactation / fixable

The man with the gum leans forward. He looks directly at you. Not pityingly. Not harshly. Just... matter-of-factly. "You took a wrong turn, buddy," he says. "But don't worry – we know how to turn something like that into something useful."

You feel a tingling sensation in your skin. Your chest is tightening. Your fingers... they tense, as if they were trying to contract – but they melt together, bones crunch. Something is pulling beneath you, between your legs – warm, heavy, strange. It's pulsing. A burning, dull pressure grows in your lower abdomen. Your back arches. You want to scream, but what comes out is a roaring, panting moo.

"There it is," says the man in the cap, as if satisfied. "Udder development is coming along well. Give her another ten minutes, and the milking bells will fit on it."

The other picks up a clipboard. Flips through. Checks it off.

"Female marked. Number 083. First cycle after conversion – fresh cow status. Passes." He leans over you. You barely see his face – just the shadows under his cap.

"Welcome to the farm, girl," he says. "You have a job now. And no more questions."

Then they turn around. The door opens. A fly lands on your forehead. And the hum of the machines continues. Without a pause.

It's early. The sun hasn't quite broken through the fog over the fields yet. A tractor roars in the distance, birds squawk somewhere above the silos. And you... are standing in the barn.

You don't know how long you've been here. Everything is dull. Your limbs are heavy, the ground sticky beneath your hooves. The stench is omnipresent – ​​manure, fodder, wet fur, old straw. Around you: cows. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Huge bodies, sluggish, breathing, smacking, drooling, with long bellies and heavy udders.

You are like them. You are one of them. But something inside you... still knows that you weren't always.

The corridor in front of you opens. Gates swing aside. Light streams in – not warm, but cold, sterile, glaring. And then: Footsteps. Men's voices.

"Okay, get up, girls!" someone calls. "Come on, 071 to 096 – time to milk!"

Rubber boots patter through damp straw. A stick clacks against metal. Cows move slowly – hesitantly, but practiced. You're pushed along. A cow next to you moos softly, almost like a sigh. Her eyes seem empty. Her udder swings as she walks, heavy, full.

You follow the others. Not because you want to. Because your body does. Because the bars guide you. Because you no longer feel any resistance.

"That one... 083... she's new, isn't it?" one of the voices asks.

"Yes," says another. "First time. Very fresh in my cycle. Still a bit thin. Let's see what happens."

They laugh. Not meanly. But like people laugh when they do the same thing too often.

The corridor narrows. Bars to the left and right. Below you: a slatted floor through which manure seeps. In front of you: a ramp leading into the light – silver, flickering light. You climb up. Your hooves clatter on wet steel. You stand still because everyone else stands still.

A man approaches you. Rubber gloves. Faded jacket with milk stains. He bends under your belly.

"Well, little one. First time, huh?" He grins, wipes your nipples with a cold, wet cloth. You flinch. A reflex. He barely notices.

"Don't worry," he says. "The second time, you won't flinch."

Then you hear the sound. Whisky. Clack.

The milking machine. Four rubber cups. He places them on – one after the other.

Suction. Pressure. Pull.

It's... strange. Not painful. But unnatural. You feel your udder working. How it releases. How you're being released.

The man moves on. He says nothing more. Only the hose in front of you pulses softly. And slowly, very slowly... your milk flows. Through the pipe. Into the tank. Like everyone else's.

And you stand there. Legs wide apart. Held. Milked.

Welcome to the system. Welcome to the farm. Welcome, dairy cow 083.

It's early afternoon. The barn air hangs heavy in the aisles, pressing against your flanks like a damp rag. You lie in your cubicle, half dozing, half ruminating. The sounds around you are constant: Mooing, puffing, the dull rumble of the automatic feeder, the distant hiss of the milking machine.

Then the clacking. Metal against metal. Footsteps.

Two men enter the barn – one young, with downcast eyes, the other older, wearing leather gloves, a note in his breast pocket.

They don't approach all the cows. Just you.

"083. Cycle is fine. Today is the day," murmurs the older one. He's not looking at you – just at the note. "Last milking: normal. Hormone levels: elevated. Insemination window open."

The younger one nods. He approaches you, clicks his tongue. "Come on, girl. We don't have all day."

He tugs lightly on your collar. Your body obeys before your mind comprehends. Your muscles react automatically – you stand up, briefly shaking your fur.

They lead you through a side gate. It squeaks. You step over a threshold beam, damp from the last time you passed through. In front of you: a long corridor. Tiled walls. Fluorescent tubes. It smells of disinfectant, lubricant, and... something metallic.

At the end of the corridor: the confinement station.

You are led into a narrow restraint box. Walls made of steel tubing, smooth and cool. Your head is pushed through an opening – you can only see forward. Behind you: the open end. Your rear end – exposed. Presented.

"How many today?" asks the younger one. "Four. Two young ones, two returning. 083 is a fresh cow," says the older one. "Hopefully she'll take it right away. Nothing stupider than an empty milking machine."

The younger one laughs softly. Then he steps behind you.

You feel cold hands lifting your cock. A quick glance. Then: a wet, cool touch. Something pushes inside you – not soft. Not warm. A smooth, narrow metal rod.

You flinch. Your muscles cramp briefly. Your breathing quickens.

"Calm down," murmurs the older one. "It'll only take a few seconds."

A quick click. A pressure. A thrust deep inside.

Then it's over. The rod is pulled out. A drop of lubricant slowly trickles down your inner thigh.

"Mating completed," says the older one. "Note: 083 – first cycle, artificial insemination, due date monitoring in 30 days."

You are released from the restraints. Your legs feel wobbly. Not from pain. From... something else. Something deeper.

You slowly back away. Back into the barn. Back into the light. Back in line.

The other cows barely notice you. Some moo. One licks your neck.

You stand still. And feel something beginning inside you. Maybe a new life. Maybe just one cycle.

But from today on, you're not just a cow. You're pregnant. And soon... You'll be producing milk.

Welcome, 083. Welcome to full use. Welcome to lactation.

The night was restless. Your body felt strange – heavy, tense, full of pressure. Something had shifted inside you. A pulling sensation, deep in your stomach. A rhythmic, dull pulsing beneath your udder. As if something were knocking, from within.

You lay down several times, got up again, panted, and pawed. Your breathing became short and hectic. Then they came.

Two men, as always. One wore a headlamp, the other a tablet computer and a bucket with gloves. They didn't talk to you. Only about you.

"083 is showing signs of restlessness. Amniotic sac not yet seen, but pelvis is open." "Well then, off to the stall. We don't want her calving across the barn."

They drove you out – with a slap on the flank and a quick tug on the collar. Your gait was slow, your hind legs trembled. You could barely stand – and yet you had to go.

The calving crate was smaller than the normal barn area. Single crate. Thick straw floor. Strong bars you could lean on.

The door closed behind you. You were alone. The lamp on the ceiling burned dimly, flickering slightly.

You lie down. Sniffle. Your stomach twitches – from within. Your body takes over, even if you barely understand it.

Then you feel it. Your water breaks. Warm, wet, sudden. A gush runs out of you, mixing with the straw.

You gasp. Your abdomen cramps. You don't scream – you moo. Loud. Long. It doesn't sound human, not willful. It's a sound that comes from the deepest part of your body.

"Here it is," says the man with the lamp. He's now wearing a long glove. He climbs over the bars. Grabs you from behind.

You feel him inside you. Cold. Simultaneously soothing and hurtful. He turns something. Adjusts it.

"Head is in the right place. Legs too. Won't be a problem if she cooperates."

Then your body begins to push. By itself. Again and again. Waves of strength and pain. You push – and your mouth hangs open, saliva dripping onto the straw.

It takes minutes. Or hours. You don't know.

Then: A cry from the man. "There are the forelegs!"

With one final push – the most violent of all – something wet and soft slides out of you. A dull thud. A soft, shaky bleat.

You turn your head. There it lies. A small calf. Still wet, its legs like rubber. It's breathing. Twitching. Searching.

You want to get up, want to lick it. Your instincts burn within you. But your muscles fail.

"Note: 083 - Calving complete, female calf, stable condition." "Take that thing off right away. She's going to be milked tomorrow."

You see the other man pick up the calf. Place it in a plastic tub. And take it away.

You moo. Loudly. Desperately.

They hear you. They don't stop.

The door closes again. You are alone. Empty. And yet full of pressure. Your udder is heavier than ever.

Welcome, 083. You've delivered. Starting tomorrow, you'll be producing milk.