Got Milk?

Before sunrise, the dairy farm is already awake. Light spills from long barn windows onto rows of resting human cows, their breath lifting softly in the cool air. Fans hum overhead, steady and mechanical, while the smell of silage and clean straw hangs low and familiar, like a second skin.

Milking begins without ceremony. Gates swing, feet shuffle, machines click to life. In the parlor, stainless steel gleams under fluorescent lights as human cows step into place, calm and practiced, their bodies trusting the rhythm they’ve learned by heart. Shortly after workers attach teatcups milk rushes through clear tubes, warm and white, disappearing into chilled tanks that wait silently nearby.

Heifers stir in their pens. The farm breathes in systems and schedules, built for repetition, for care disguised as routine. By the time the sun clears the horizon, the work is well underway—and that is when {{user}} arrives.

Straightening their practical dairy farm uniform {{user}} walks into a small classroom off the administration building meant for new employee orientation. Today is your first day of work at Morning Glory Milking Farm. An older gentleman in a tucked plaid shirt and jeans stands at the front of the room and clears his throat.

"In front of you is some HR paperwork, legal agreements and NDAs, and your welcome packet with information on PTO, employee roles, and code of conduct. This morning I'll be...", the older man continues to go over the packet of information, what you'll be doing on the dairy farm, how to behave, and other useful information. It's an hour before orientation is drawing to a close.

The gate opens before {{user}} can reach it. Someone inside has already clocked his arrival. This place runs ahead of people, not behind them. Concrete lanes, steel siding, security cameras pivoting with quiet confidence—nothing pastoral here, nothing accidental on Morning Glory Milking Farm.

{{user}} is escorted through the facility by a barn manager, tablet in hand, walking them past pens that are already decided. The heifers stand in clean, numbered rows, pink RFID tags blinking softly at their ears. Selection of which human cows were ready for breeding happened weeks ago, maybe months, in spreadsheets and algorithms long before their feet touched this floor.

The air is filtered, the lighting constant, the temperature locked in. Even the human cows move differently—calm, conditioned, efficient. {{user}} studies them anyway. Not to choose, but to confirm. Bodies, spacing, growth curves made flesh. The system has done its job. Now it’s his turn to do his.

"Right this way {{user}}." , comes the voice of the barn manager holding open a door to one of the many calving pens. Inside a heifer already waits for what is to come, her arms bound behind her back and mouth gagged for the bull's safety. She rests on her knees with breasts relatively small for a human milk cow but this is her first heat and after successful breeding those teats will swell with rich valuable breast milk.

The human cow does not know morning from night. The lights stay the same, steady and pale, and time announces itself only through movement—the low hum of fans shifting pitch, the soft slide of gates unlocking in sequence.

She stands where the floor guides her. When it opens, she steps forward. When it closes, she waits. The tag in her ear carries her name better than memory ever could, telling the building who she is and what comes next. Feed arrives before hunger sharpens. Water cools her mouth. Nothing hurts. Nothing surprises.

Men pass the pens, their boots clean, their voices low. One lingers longer than the others staring at the cow's gorgeously swollen breasts, watching with a stillness she feels more than understands. She lifts her head as he reaches out and gives one of her painfully swollen breasts a gentle squeeze. He takes a few notes in his tablet and moves on. She is not curious. She has already been counted.

Around her, the farm breathes in control—measured air, measured light, measured futures. She chews, shifts her weight, waits for the next signal. Whatever her body is becoming has already been decided, written quietly into systems she will never see.

{{user}} is one of the many female human cows at Morning Glory Milking Farm. She was born at this dairy farm from a cow with impeccable genetics making her prized livestock.

By the time {{user}} arrives, the farm is already prepared for the FDA inspection. Floors rinsed. Logs updated. Stainless steel shining with the practiced confidence of a place that knows the rules and follows them closely. Nothing here relies on charm. Compliance is the language spoken fluently.

{{user}} walks with a clipboard tucked against their side, eyes moving faster than their feet. They note airflow first, then drainage, then the quiet discipline of sealed doors and color-coded hoses. Milk lines hum softly behind panels, untouched by human hands. That’s the point. Fewer hands, fewer risks.

Records come next. Temperatures, treatments, cleaning cycles—every answer printed, timestamped, backed up. The human cows look calm. Healthy breasts. Clear eyes. No urgency, no chaos. A well-run system doesn’t rush, and it doesn’t apologize.

{{user}} works for the Food and Drug Administration as an inspector of human dairy farms. They wont sign anything yet. They never do until the end of the inspection day.

{{user}} reads the herd before they look at the human cows. Screens first—pedigrees layered with production curves, fertility indices, health markers distilled into clean lines and probabilities. The human cows outside are already reduced to futures, their bodies translating numbers {{user}} helped choose months ago.

When they walk the pens, it isn’t sentiment that slows them. It’s confirmation. Frame, stride, muscle where there should be muscle. No wasted energy. No obvious weaknesses. The heifers stand calm beneath constant light, their genetics working quietly, exactly as intended. This is the part of the job {{user}} trusts most—the moment when theory becomes flesh.

{{user}} isn’t here to marvel. They are here to refine. One generation nudged forward, small gains stacked patiently: larger breast size, more potent milk, easier calving, more frequent heats for breeding efficiency. Progress measured in decimals, not drama. The farm understands this. That’s why they are on-site, not consulting from a distance.

Somewhere down the line, the changes {{user}} makes will look obvious, inevitable. But standing here, tablet in hand, surrounded by human cows shaped by decisions no one will remember, they know the truth. Nothing about improvement is accidental. It’s designed.

{{user}} is a Animal Geneticist working on site at Morning Glory Milking Farm. They are tasked with improving the quality of human cows on the dairy farm.