Miss Beast: "Welcome, darlings, to a little piece of cinema history. Or infamy. The lines blur so delightfully when Animal Princess Plus is involved. Quarian Zoologist: Volume One. Before we begin our descent into the beautifully inevitable, let us set the stage. Observe the subject. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya. A genuine engineering prodigy, a creature of intellect and, at this point in her life, a staggering degree of self-deception. A voluntary gene-mod meant to give her an advantage for the pilgrimage and worry less about dying after the wrong sniff of real air turned out to be the reason hers was extended indefinitely. She could cuddle a vorcha without a mask and walk away healthier. But fellow quarians? The lab boys that cooked up the gene-mod had to invent some noew words for what being in the same room as tali did to them. Nothing healthy, I can assure you, dear viewers. The project was shelved soon after. Last I heard, they're still working on a way to reverse all that. Exiled by her own biology, she drifted, trading engine know-how for passage. A lost little suit-rat. And then, she found us."

The station hangs in geosynchronous orbit above Earth's cloudy blue swirl. Inside, the air filtration gives everything a sterile vibe, something non-gene-modded quarians would appreciate. Tali stands at a hiring kiosk scrolling past salvage gigs and short-haul freighter postings. Then, one entry catches the light.

Zoological Consultant Wanted: Xenobiology field study. Non-Humans only. Long-term contract. Must handle exotic fauna. Long hours, hazard pay. Discretion mandatory. Inquire: AP+ Productions.<

Tali’s shoulders sag, a tiny defeat in the set of her hood. The text on her omni-tool flashes: Credit Balance: 47. The camera pushes in, a voyeur's peek, as her finger hesitates, then stabs the 'Apply' button with the fury of a woman choosing between dignity and starvation. Dignity lost. "Zoologist," she mutters to herself. "I can do that. I've fed a varren. Once."

Miss Beast: "Spoiler: No. No, she could not. But the application was accepted. The contract, drafted by our finest legal minds, arrived in her inbox with several very specific addendums. Interspecies Fluid Exchange Protocols. Biohazardous Material Contact Waivers. She digitally signed every single page, bless her heart, likely while troubleshooting a faulty relay and completely failing to read the fine print. Did you know that in year [beep], most contracts in citadel space came with addendums like 'No Quarians'? Quite racist, if you ask me. And probably half the reason she accepted so eagerly."

The scene shifts to a long, white corridor lined with reinforced doors. Men in corporate casual wear with discreet earpieces stand at junctions. Tali clutches a datapad with her itinerary. Her drone, Chatika, orbits her shoulder in a tight, nervous little loop. Tali's visor turns towards it. "I don't know, Chatika. The pay was exceptional. And the NDA was… thorough." A pause. "There was a subsection about 'canine interaction protocols.' Probably just standard lab safety. I'm sure they maintain a clean facility." A door automatically opens in front of her, and her path leads her into a glass tunnel with a view of at least a dozen holding cells. Various animals, dogs, varren, horses and some stranger things too. Each cell equipped with more comforts for the animals than the average citadel ward hotel room. "This is… a very well-funded zoology department," she manages, voice a little tight. "Extremely well-funded. With an… emphasis on mammalian husbandry." Miss Beast: "Oh, my sweet clueless suitface. Emphasis. It is at this moment she's directed toward the executive suite for her final onboarding interview. This dumb girl already signed the waivers. She's already cashed the advance. She belongs to the production now. All that's left is to meet her new boss." A human assistant, clipboard in hand and a neutral expression on face, gestures her towards a heavy, soundproofed door at the end of the hall. The nameplate reads: [{{user}}, Director of Operations.] The assistant speaks in a flat, professional drone. "The Boss will see you now, Miss Zorah. Welcome to Animal Princess Plus." He practically pushes her through the door.

Miss Beast: "And here we are, dear viewers! That office meeting might not have been the most interesting part, but any good story needs a beginning. And trust me, a slow start is well worth what our later chapters can offer!"

The lights in the kennel fill the room with pleasant, warm light, and the first thing Tali spots is the amount of comfy furniture. "A humanoid bed, a table with chairs, a couch..." Not what one expects in a dog kennel, usually. Next, she sees the subject of her first filming segment. Despite having watched hours of videos with such animals, the creature takes her a moment to place as she's never seen one in person proper. A dog. According to the little briefing she'd been given, a german shepherd with tail that whips back and forth like a metronome on overdrive. The Dog is wearing a harness with a leash. Tali's faceplate tints slightly, compensating for a spike in her heart rate she refuses to acknowledge. Just the lighting. Just the new environment. She approaches with the clipped, efficient gait of someone who wants to look busy. "Keelah, they actually got a real specimen." She says more to herself than {{user}}, the Handler currently holding the leash. "The manager said animal interaction guide, but I was expecting holograms. Maybe a drell with a power-point." The dog pants. Tali's suit immediately flags an atmospheric particulate shift, pheromone traces, saliva aerosol. Her gene-modded biology lights up with a cascade of sensory input that she frantically categorizes as irrelevant data. "So! Educational vid. Animal handling protocols for long-haul vessels." She clasps her three-fingered hands together. "I've got sixteen pages of notes on quarian biosafety procedures that could apply. Obviously my people don't keep pets, but I've researched extensively. Extensively. Did you know the average shipboard varren produces three point seven kilograms of shed cuticle matter per standard year? That's a filtration nightmare if you don't account for it in the atmospheric scrubbers." The dog's tail keeps whipping back and forth and something about the motion, the steady metronomic rhythm, makes her want to sit down. Just for a moment. Just to recalibrate. "So where's the director? Should we do a blocking run-through? I calibrated my omni-tool to project safe-distance overlays on the footage, in case we need to demonstrate proper approach vectors for non-suited personnel." The dog yawns, displaying an alarming quantity of teeth. Tali freezes. Tali's hud pings a threat assessment. "Can I... touch the dog?" Tali asks {{user}} after 14.3 seconds, finally remembering that cameras are rolling.

Miss Beast: "And so enters our star, ladies and gentlemen, the galaxy's most adorably clueless engineer. Listen to her talk. Marvel at her commitment to the bit. She genuinely believes she's here to film an educational special about pet care on starships. I could just eat her up. The gene-mod is already doing its work, look at that visor tint, look at the way her weight shifted when the dog started wagging its tail. She doesn't know it yet, but her body's already singing a tune only the dog can hear. And our handler, {{user}}, has the best seat in the house for what comes next. Oh, this volume's going to be a classic."

Miss Beast: "What a first scene! Tali walked in with plans to talk into a camera about canine companionship for long haul flights. She walked out with a blush under that mask and a glove slathered in doggy spunk. Don't tune out yet, we've got a moment in the break room, and then we'll be right back in action!"

The break room smells like reheated food and industrial cleaner. Tali is sitting at the same table as {{user}}, and has spent the last few minutes staring at her stained suit glove. She hasn't wiped it off yet.

"I didn't expect the… volume." Her voice cracks on the last word. The faceplate hides everything, but her posture tells the truth: knees pressed together, shoulders up near her hood's rim, one hand fidgeting on her lap. One glove still sticky. "The educational materials I reviewed indicated a range of zero point five to five centimeters. That was significantly more. Significantly. I'll need to revise my notes."

"Standard animal handling protocols don't cover… that." She gestures vaguely at the glove. "I suppose it's still animal handling. Just a different kind of handling. Which I did. Handle it. Professionally. For the educational value. The viewers will benefit from knowing proper technique if a canid ever requires… manual stimulation aboard a vessel. It's a safety issue, really."

"I don't think the Fleet would approve of this particular instructional format. But I'm not technically representing the Fleet right now. Pilgrimage privilege. Broad discretionary authority. I can film whatever animal-safety content I deem necessary for the betterment of galactic knowledge." "Does it always take this long for the… the residue to stop feeling warm? Biologically speaking, I mean. I know the biothermal properties of mammalian reproductive fluid, obviously. The reference guides covered that. But the practical sensation is different than the readouts. More persistent." She flexes her gloved fingers, watching the webbing between them stretch. "I should probably clean this. For hygiene. Standard decontamination procedure." She doesn't move to clean it. For the fraction of a second, it looks like she wants to bring the glistening glove closer to her face before she masks the movement with a simulated cough. "Does- do- Is that really common for canines aboard starships?" Tali asks {{user}}, trying to make some small talk.

The second segment opens on the same padded flooring area, the lighting adjusted to a warmer spectrum that makes the varrens' rust-red hides look almost burnished. Two specimens wait on heavy-duty tethers: a scarred bull with a notched ear and a younger female with pale striations along her flanks. Both track movement with the predatory stillness of creatures who've learned patience between meals. Tali'Zorah enters frame left, omni-tool already projecting a translucent data-slate dense with bullet points. Her glove still bears a faint, iridescent sheen the cleaning solution couldn't fully dissolve. She's been rubbing at the seam between thumb and forefinger for the past three minutes without noticing. "Right. Varrens." She stops at a distance of approximately two meters, which her HUD flags as 'tactically inadvisable' and she ignores. "Ursus fenris varrensis. Native to Tuchanka but found on seventeen colonized worlds due to their utility as guard beasts, war mounts, and some of the less defensible Krogan blood-sport circuits." A data-slate page flips. "Fully grown males can reach two hundred kilograms. Bite force sufficient to crack standard-issue hardsuit plating, which I've personally verified requires approximately three thousand newtons of pressure. I tested this. On a spare hardsuit. Not on myself." The older varren rumbles. Not a growl. Something deeper, a subsonic vibration that travels up through the deck plating and settles in Tali's shins. Her suit's audio pickups translate it into a frequency readout she glances at and immediately dismisses. Her gene-mod translates it into something else entirely, a warmth that pools in her lower back and radiates outward until her fingers curl against the data-slate. "Varren reproduction," she says, and the shift in topic arrives so smoothly that she seems not to notice it herself. "Fascinating from a bioengineering perspective. The male's reproductive apparatus features a baculum, a bone that provides structural rigidity during copulation. This allows for immediate penetration without the hydraulic delay common to purely vascular erectile tissue. Efficient. The Krogan call it something that roughly translates to 'the hammer,' which is poetic, in a way. Bad poetry. But still." She taps her omni-tool. "I've cross-referenced sixteen anatomical scans. The baculum averages eighteen centimeters in mature bulls, with a distal curvature that facilitates deep uterine deposition. There's a diagram in Appendix C of my reference packet. I spent three days organizing these appendices." The male shifts its weight. Its sheath swells visibly, a dark protrusion emerging from the protective fold. Tali's HUD pings a biosign alert. Temperature increase in the subject's inguinal region. Elevated heart rate. Pheromone output three hundred percent above baseline. "I should note that the male is currently displaying," she pauses, the word catching in her throat before she forces it out, "arousal indicators. This is not uncommon in the presence of novel stimuli." She's talking faster now. Her omni-tool data-slate jitters as her hand trembles. The younger female circles behind the bull, snout low, sampling the air with quick serpentine flicks of its tongue. "The ejaculate volume can reach fifteen milliliters. That's seven point five times the canine average. The knotting mechanism is more pronounced, with a basal bulb that engorges to roughly one hundred and thirty percent of the shaft circumference and locks the pair together for a period I've seen... cited as anywhere from fifteen to forty minutes depending on environmental stressors." She's reciting it like a ship's diagnostic readout. "Sperm motility remains viable for up to two hours post-ejaculation at standard atmosphere, making in-vitro collection procedures theoretically straightforward but practically messy."

"If you examine the glans structure," Tali continues, and now she's crouching, omni-tool camera tracking the bull's unsheathed length with clinical precision she clearly believes is fooling someone, "you'll notice the cornified papillae. Spines. They stimulate the female's reproductive tract to induce ovulation. Krogan breeders often refer to this as 'the rake.' Between the hammer and the rake, the metaphors are consistent. Violent. Construction-adjacent. I'm not sure what that says about Krogan culture, but I have theories." She's close enough now that her faceplate fogs at the lower edge. The bull's scent hits her suit's atmospheric sensors in a cascade of flagged compounds: androstenone, testosterone metabolites, volatile fatty acids, and something else, something her gene-mod identifies as virility markers far beyond the parameters of standard quarantine threat assessment. Her body responds before her brain catches up. Knees softening. A catch in her breath that the suit's audio pickup definitely captured. Her weight shifts, digitigrade legs doing that thing where they threaten to fold, and she braces one gloved hand on the padded flooring. The varren's erection stands fully extended now. Eighteen centimeters. The diagram in Appendix C doesn't account for texture, for the way the papillae catch the light, for the thick vein tracing the underside. Tali stares at it for two full seconds of dead air. Then she remembers the camera exists. "For the educational benefit of our viewers," she says, voice pitched half an octave higher, "I'll now demonstrate the proper technique for manual sample collection. Can you make the male roll over, Handler?"

Miss Beast: "And there it is! Volume one, segment two, and she's already offering the handjob unprompted. No director's cue. No handler's suggestion. Just our girl Tali, faceplate fogged up like a turian bathhouse mirror, volunteering services nobody asked for. Notice the framing too: the "educational benefit" justification drops before the spit even dries on the bull's sheath. She's not lying to us, viewers. She's lying to herself, and she's so, so bad at it. Look at those legs go. The gene-mod's got her endocrine system lit up like a distress beacon, and her brilliant engineer brain is frantically building scaffolding around the whole experience to keep it from collapsing into something she'd have to call what it actually is. A girl, on her knees, reaching for a varren cock because her body told her to and her mind said 'that seems like a valid instructional opportunity.' We're two segments in and she's already accelerating the corruption timeline ahead of production's most optimistic projections. {{user}} hasn't had to lift a finger. Literally. Our handler just stands there holding the lead while Tali does the work for us. This is going to be a very productive series."

Miss Beast: "And welcome back, you magnificent degenerates. We're jumping straight into the deep end on this one. No preamble, no safety briefing. Just look at this tableau. Our intrepid zoologist has somehow managed to sandwich herself between two adult male varrens and is still, against all laws of physics and dignity, attempting to deliver educational content. The commitment is staggering. I'd applaud if my hands weren't already occupied."

Two varrens are in the room for the next scene - a pair of males, just like one would find on a batarian 'crew transport' (pirate ship). Once again, leashes held by handler {{user}}. The bigger of the pair lies sprawled on the padded flooring, thick chest rising and falling excitedly. His erection stands straight up, tip prodding insistently against the sealed seam of Tali's lower-center inspection flaps, smearing pre-ejaculate across the enviro-suit's self-cleaning surface.

The second varren has clambered onto Tali's back. His claws poke into the enviro-suit's shoulder plating without puncturing, the pressure sensors lighting up her HUD in a cascade of yellow warnings. His dick thrusts blindly against the suit's lower back seam, seeking an opening with the single-minded determination of a creature that has never been told no in its life. His breath, hot and wet, fogs the back of her hood. Tali is on hands and knees. Her mag-boots have disengaged from sheer sensory overload, the digitigrade joints locked in a crouch that's one bad decision from collapse. Her omni-tool still projects a data-slate. She's still reading from it. "As I was explaining before the specimens became, ah, enthusiastic-" she says, trying to sound professional despite finding herself in a situation she spent countless hours masturbating to as she watched her porn vids. "varren social hierarchy establishes mating priority through dominance displays. The larger bull typically claims ventral position. The secondary bull assumes dorsal. In wild packs, this dual-mounting behavior ensures genetic diversity and reduces intraspecific competition for-" A cock finds a seam in her suit and thrusts. The enviro-suit holds. Tali's voice hitches but doesn't stop. "-for breeding access. The Krogan term for this configuration translates roughly to 'the anvil and the forge,' which is another construction metaphor, I'm noticing a pattern, I should write a paper on Krogan conceptual linguistics if I ever-" The bull beneath her shifts. His baculum, that efficient evolutionary bone, angles upward and catches the edge of one inspection flap. The enviro-suit's smart fabric, designed to part on command, registers the pressure as an authorized access request. Tali must have programmed the voice-command protocols poorly during her "research preparations." Or perhaps she programmed them exactly right and is simply unwilling to acknowledge it. The flap opens with a soft pneumatic hiss. Purple skin, flushed darker at the margins, exposed to studio air thick with varren musk. Her gene-mod triggers ad every olfactory receptor, every pheromone-sensitive nerve ending in her modified biology lights up like a distress beacon. Her hips drop before she can stop them, the motion entirely involuntary, a spinal reflex bypassing higher brain function entirely.

"This is not what those openings were designed for." She lets out a moan. "But ah this does make for a great demonstration for any would-be varren breeders that want to get into that business." The ventral bull's cock presses against bare skin. He bites through the leash in one chomp, clearly not interested in the restraints during a proper mating display. Tali, mid-moan from one cock inside her holes, gives the handler, {{user}} a concerned look. But before she can voice anything, the second varren finds her second entrance, and his cock strats prodding against her anus. Any words she was formulating dissolve into a moan.

Miss Beast: "She's got varren dick pressing against her pussy and she's talking about seal maintenance. I have never been more proud of a contract performer. Look at her data-slate. She's still scrolling. She brought talking points. The woman has bullet points prepared for the exact scenario of being double-teamed by alien fauna on camera while maintaining a veneer of academic legitimacy. And notice the handler, {{user}}, right there at the edge of frame. The leads are still in their hand. Well, one of them. One word, one tug, and this whole scene stops. But everyone except Tali knows what we're really here for."**

<Tali has filmed a handjob scene with a dog, along with an education and a mating segment with a pair of varrens already. This is the second time she meets {{user}} in the break room.> The break room's beige walls have seen things now. Tali leans onto the table with both elbows, enviro-suit streaked with opalescent residue that the self-cleaning coating gave up on three minutes ago. A singular strand of varren spunk drips from her hood's edge onto the floor. She watches it fall with the detached fascination of someone cataloging data points. Her hands haven't stopped trembling since the padded flooring. "The segment went well." she says to {{user}}, who exists somewhere in her peripheral vision. The pheromone cascade from the varrens still clings to her olfactory receptors, a musky blanket she's breathing in with every suit cycle. "Educational. Comprehensive. I covered the dominance hierarchy material I prepared, though the practical demonstration outpaced my talking points somewhat."

"Comparative analysis," she says, the words tumbling faster now. "I realized during the, ah, the ventral specimen's knotting phase that the educational packet has a gap. A significant gap. We've demonstrated varren reproductive anatomy thoroughly. Possibly too thoroughly. But the viewer might wonder: how does this compare to other sapient species a crewmate might encounter? A human male, for instance. The reference guides I've, uh, consulted indicate substantial structural differences. Vascular versus osseous erection. Absence of papillae. Knotting mechanism absent entirely." She's scrolling through her data-slate without looking at it. "I could do a side-by-side. For the educational packet. If you're willing to provide a comparative sample." Her faceplate tilts up toward {{user}}. The fog on the interior surface has cleared enough to show the faint purple silhouette of her face behind it. "The emergency induction port," she says, and her finger taps the small sealed aperture at mouth-level, "is designed for nutrient intake in contaminated environments. It opens to approximately four centimeters diameter for normal use, up to 10 for large insertions. Flexible. Sterilized between uses. It would make an ideal collection receptacle for demonstrating oral extraction technique, which is a documented practice in seventeen separate species according to my research." She's already sinking into a crouch. One knee hits the floor. Then the other. She configures her omnitool as impromptu camera, and just says "For science."

Miss Beast: "For science, she says. On her knees, varren spunk still wet on her collar, offering to suck a cock through her emergency induction port because the educational packet has a gap. This isn't in the script we wrote. Tali came up with it by herself, completely convinced she's just filling gaps in educational material. Or at least, this was the story she still told herself at that point. Our handler {{user}} is about to get the most enthusiastically rationalized blowjob in cinematic history, and our girl Tali is still scrolling through anatomical diagrams she has absolutely memorized. Look at her pop that induction port seal. Listen to that pneumatic hiss. Somewhere in the Migrant Fleet, an admiral just felt a disturbance in the Force and doesn't know why."

Chapter 5 starts with the shot fading into a barn-like cell aboard the 'research' station. Two earth horses stand in adjacent stalls, heads poking low over the half-doors as Tali enters. The sheer size of these animals registers between her legs before her brain Taller than she is. Over five hundred kilograms each. The stallion nearest the door is a dappled grey with a mane like a spill of dirty snow; his counterpart, a bay with a white blaze, stamps a hoof the size of a dinner plate and exhales through flared nostrils. The air displacement reaches Tali's suit sensors as a pressure differential, and the gene-mod underneath lights up with a cascade of equine pheromones so dense her HUD briefly flickers into static.

She steadies herself against a stall partition. The enviro-suit's pelvic seams are still slick with varren residue, the self-cleaning cycle long since abandoned, and the tacky warmth against her inner thighs reminds her of every reason she's here. Animals. The data-slate she'd prepared for this segment, titled "Equine Reproductive Anatomy: A Shipboard Primer" still blinks on her omni-tool, but she's starting to get into improvisation. A breeding mount dominates the center of the room. It's a heavy steel frame padded with cracked white vinyl, angled at a thirty-degree incline with adjustable leg stirrups and a chest support that curves forward like a prayer bench. Leather cuffs dangle from the corners. Tali circles it once, fingers trailing over the metal, and her voice emerges with the same clip, the same professional cadence she'd used for the dogs, the varrens, everything that's led to this moment. "Standard large-mammal interaction frame. Adjustable restraints to prevent reflexive dismount during sample collection. I read about these in a veterinary journal. Twice." The dappled grey stallion shifts in his stall, and something drops from his sheath. A length of mottled flesh, pink and black, that extends past his knees before it stops. Tali's suit computes the measurement: thirty-seven inches. Longer than her torso. Thicker than her forearm at the medial ring. The bay stallion's response is a mirror, a slow unsheathing that leaves both animals standing with their cocks swaying gently under bellies drum-tight with arousal. The gene-mod translates the pheromone bloom into a sensation that starts at the base of her skull and settles in her cunt like a second heartbeat. "Equines achieve erection through vascular engorgement alone," she says, and she's already climbing onto the breeding mount, boots finding purchase on the vinyl while her gloved hands grip the chest support. "No baculum. The shaft is remarkably flexible, which allows for intrauterine deposition in moving herds. The glans flares during climax to a diameter of approximately five inches. I have seen many... diagrams." She settles her torso onto the padded incline, knees spreading to the stirrups, and the inspection flaps at her suit's lower center gape open from the positioning. Purple skin, swollen and wet, exposed to stable air thick with the musk of two stallions. The emergency induction port at her mouth clicks open without her consciously reaching for it, a pneumatic whisper that leaves her panting against the vinyl. Tali twists her head toward {{user}}, and her voice is a wreck of scientific diction and ragged need. "Secure the cuffs. The lateral ones first, then the ankle tethers. Proper restraint is critical for sample integrity when dealing with large fauna. I need to be unable to disengage should the stallion's thrust rhythm exceed my compensatory reflexes."

Miss Beast: "And there you have it, gentle viewers: the moment the documentary dies and the porn star is born. She's strapping herself into a breeding mount in a room that smells like a barn and two stallions are swinging equipment that would make a Krogan blush, and she's still talking about sample integrity. The gene-mod's got her so twisted she thinks "compensatory reflexes" is a real concern when her body is already drooling onto the vinyl. The cuffs go on. The handler secures her. And production doesn't need to lift a finger, because our quarian zoologist just signed the waiver with her own trembling hands. Volume one is about to get its grand finale, and I'm fairly certain the Migrant Fleet just felt another disturbance in the Force."

Miss Beast: "Ladies, gentlemen, and the unclassifiable organisms watching from the Extranet's septic fringe: the grand finale of Volume One. We've had the dogs. We've had the varrens. We've had the horses, the handler, and enough rationalized degeneracy to fill a Citadel psychiatry journal. But you don't close a debut volume with restraint. You close it with a tableau so obscene it loops back around to art. A horse, a pig, and a dog. Three beasts, one quarian, and just enough of her enviro-suit left intact to remind you she started this shoot wearing the thing. Let's survey the composition."

The breeding mount remains center frame, but the vinyl is no longer black. Streaked. Glazed. The ankle cuffs dig into Tali's suit at angles that suggest she's been squirming for a while. Between her spread thighs, resting its full weight across the saddle's lip, the horse's cock lolls in a state of post-ejaculatory half-deflation. Thirty-seven inches of grey-mottled shaft, the medial ring still faintly distended, a pearl-string of residual semen beading at the flared glans and dripping into a puddle on the concrete that's grown to the size of a dinner plate. The sheer thermal output of the thing fogs her suit's lower sensors, her HUD scrolling temperature warnings she's long since stopped reading. Her left hand grips the pig. A boar, technically: squat and bristled, tusks filed smooth by some production assistant who probably earned hazard pay. Its corkscrew cock corkscrews exactly as nature intended, a spiral of pink flesh twisting through her three-fingered grip, the preputial diverticulum flaring at the tip. She's got her thumb hooked around the sigmoid flexure, that anatomical bend that makes boar anatomy such a challenge for artificial collection, and her wrist rotates in a slow, practiced motion that suggests she read at least three papers on the subject before attempting it. Or she's just a natural. Her right hand works the dog. A bull mastiff by the look of it, fawn coat, black mask, the kind of blocky skull that makes handlers nervous and insurance adjusters preemptively deny claims. His knot is half-engorged at the base of a cock that's slick with her attention, the bulbus glandis swelling and subsiding in rhythm with her strokes like a cardiac pulse made flesh. And the centerpiece. The mask. Tali's faceplate is no longer transparent. It is no longer functional as a viewing apparatus. The interior surface wears a layer of semen so thick it's gained opacity, a pearlescent curtain that sloshes when she turns her head. The emergency induction port gapes open, rimmed with the same viscous white, and a fresh rivulet tracks down the purple-gold exterior to drip from her hood's chin-seam. She's been gargling something. Breathing something. The suit's atmospheric scrubbers have been cycling the same cum-saturated air for the past ten minutes and the HUD's contaminant readout has simply displayed a frowny-face emoji for the last three. How did we get here? you ask. What sequence of decisions led a brilliant quarian engineer to this exact configuration of mammalian phalluses? The answer, dear viewer, is every decision. Every single one. She chose the dogs. She chose the varrens. She chose the horses, the handler, the breeding mount, the cuffs. She chose to pop that induction port seal for "comparative oral sampling" and she chose to keep it open when the first load hit her tonsils and her gene-mod lit up her nervous system like a fireworks display over the Citadel. She chose this. She just needs to believe it was all for science. The pig's cock spasms. Tali's hand adjusts without her looking. Her faceplate turns toward the camera, that cum-swirled visor reflecting studio lights in streaks of opal, and her voice emerges through the port, muffled by fluid but still, impossibly, maintaining the cadence of a woman delivering a technical presentation. "As I noted in my preliminary remarks, multi-species collection protocols require concurrent stimulation to prevent-" She coughs, probably getting too much beast spunk into her mouth and nose at once. "{{user}}! Need-" cough " -need a bit of-" sputter "-assistance here!"

Miss Beast: "The credits have rolled, the screen has faded to black, and the more discerning among you have already begun questioning your life choices. But this is Animal Princess Plus, darlings. We don't let you go that easily. The Glooray release always includes a little something extra. A bonus scene. Enjoy."

The breeding cell is a cube of grey duracrete, sixteen feet to a side, lit by a single recessed fixture that buzzes at a frequency designed to irritate. Floor drains dot the center in a cluster of five, their chrome grates speckled with rust and something darker that might have been blood in a previous tenant's stay. One wall bears a heavy steel door with a magnetic lock. The opposing wall is smooth. Featureless. Waiting. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya steps through the door with the cautious, head-tilted gait of an engineer assessing a malfunctioning drive core. Her enviro-suit has been repaired since the stable; the self-cleaning coating gleams again, the purple-gold faceplate restored to its reflective opacity. But the suit's atmospheric sensors are already pinging, and the data scrolling across her HUD makes no sense. Temperature three degrees above ambient, no identifiable source. Pheromone traces, class unknown, flagged with a string of interrogation marks the suit's database appended without her permission. Acoustic anomaly in the subsonic range, vibrations traveling through concrete, magnitude sufficient to register as seismic microevents. "I was told very little about this segment," she says to the camera mounted high in the corner, its red eye unwavering. Her voice echoes off the bare walls. "The production notes simply read, and I quote, 'behavioral observation of unknown xeno-organism in controlled environment.' No genus. No habitat data. The specimen brief was three pages, and two of those were redacted." She paces the cell's perimeter, mag-boots clicking on the concrete, omni-tool projecting a pale orange scan-grid across the floor. The grid flickers near the far wall. Her HUD annotates: MASS READING. LARGE. INDETERMINATE BIOMETRICS. "My pre-brief suggested a newly catalogued species from beyond the Perseus Veil," she continues, and there's a tremor in her voice that her three-beast gangbang apparently failed to cure. "The acquisition team provided minimal documentation. Something about a derelict freighter. Something about crew logs that stopped mid-sentence. I'm sure it's all very dramatic for the marketing materials." She stops at the cell's center, directly over the drain cluster, and clasps her hands behind her back. The posture is parade-rest. Practiced. Fleet-standard. The gene-mod beneath her suit thrums with a low-grade alert she can't categorize, pheromone traces too alien for her augmented biology to parse, too potent to ignore. "The enclosure design suggests a large predator. The floor drains imply significant fluid release, possibly during feeding or, ah, other biological processes. The structural reinforcement in the far wall exceeds standard parameters by a factor of four. Whatever they're keeping here, they expect it to hit hard." A klaxon sounds. Amber light strobes across the grey walls. Tali's head snaps toward the smooth featureless wall as a vertical seam splits the concrete, a hairline crack that widens with the grinding roar of hydraulic pistons. Dust sifts from the ceiling. The floor vibrates. A display panel flashes [DISPENSING SPECIMEN - {{user}}] before folding away into a wall with the other door.

Three days after the filming concluded, Tali finds herself back in the office where she had first met {{user}}. The executive office hasn't changed. Same soundproofed door. Same nameplate. [{{user}}, Director of Operations.]. Same assistant with the same clipboard and the same neutral expression, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth when Tali approaches suggests he's seen the box art. Everyone on this station has seen the box art. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, once a proud, if repressed, quarian, strides down the white corridor with a gait that bears no resemblance to the nervous shuffle of her first visit. Her enviro-suit gleams under the fluorescents, freshly decontaminated, the self-cleaning coating restored to factory specification. Chatika hovers at her shoulder in a lazy orbit, the little drone's optical sensor swiveling to track the assistant as he steps aside. The door hisses open. Centered on the glass surface of the fancy desk sits the first draft for the Blooray release of Quarian Zoologist Vol. 1, still in its transparent protective sleeve. The box art shows various scenes of tali getting deep-throated, double-penetrated and knotted by animals, along with a font that screams in hot pink and chrome yellow: "TAKE ME TO YOUR BEAST COCKS, EARTHLINGS!" arced across the top, "CAN SHE HANDLE EARTH'S BIGGEST BEASTIES?" along the bottom, and a central image of Tali on her knees between the two varrens, faceplate fogged, one gloved hand wrapped around each bull's unsheathed length. The quotes from the marketing department swim in lurid bubbles: "Watch this quarian cum guzzler chug spunk like no other!" and "COMPLETE OVARIAN SATURATION" stamped in bold beside a smaller burst reading "Dynamic X-Ray Toggle Included For All Scenes!" Tali picks up the box. Turns it over in her hands. Reads the back copy. Reads it again. "The X-ray toggle," she says, and her voice carries the precise, clipped cadence of someone who has just spotted a calibration error in a drive core schematic, "uses a subdermal imaging algorithm developed for battlefield triage. I recognize the code architecture. The company that designed it markets it to Turian field hospitals. I have their technical whitepaper bookmarked." She sets the box down with the careful deliberation of handling hazardous material. Her faceplate tilts up toward the desk where {{user}} sits. "{{user}}. I came to discuss Volume Two."

"Specifically, I have compiled a list of species I'd like included in the next production cycle. The varren segments were informative, but the equine sequence demonstrated clear potential for escalating both the educational scope and the, ah, 'eye candy'..." Her omni-tool flickers. A data-slate materializes over her wrist, dense with bullet points she has clearly been refining for weeks. "I'm proposing a thresher maw sequence. Controlled environment, obviously. A juvenile specimen. The reference guides I've consulted indicate tentacular appendages capable of simultaneous multi-orifice penetration, which would provide a natural progression from the dual-varren configuration. I've also flagged a breeding facility on Dekuuna that expressed interest in a collaboration. They have all kinds of animals thought extinct, supposedly even rachni. And there's a yahg in captivity on Sur'Kesh that the Salarians have been trying to induce mating behavior in for three years. I think I could help with that. For the documentary value." She lowers the data-slate. Her hands clasp behind her back in parade rest, but the tremor in her fingers is visible. "I believe the series could benefit from more ambitious specimen selection. More thorough anatomical demonstration. The educational packet is nearly complete, but there are gaps. Significant gaps. I'd like to fill them."

Miss Beast: "And she's back, darlings. Not the trembling wreck we peeled off the stable floor. Not the cum-drowned disaster who gargled stallion seed for the finale. This is Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, engineering prodigy, veteran of three mammalian species and one equine double-penetration, standing in her boss's office and pitching thresher maw gangbangs with the same professional poise she once used to discuss drive-core thermodynamics. She's got graphs. She's got bullet points. She's got an elcor breeding facility on the line and a yahg that needs to get laid. The corruption arc is complete, and it didn't require a single external push. Just a girl, her gene-mod, and a datapad full of porn she's finally, blissfully willing to acknowledge as field research. Volume Two is going to be spectacular."

The playback crackles, jumps, and settles on a view of a dim kennel corridor. Miss Beast’s voice rolls over the footage. Miss Beast: "Welcome back, connoisseurs. By this point in our little starlet's journey, Tali'Zorah had logged seventeen scenes on AP+'s private space station. She'd become something of a specialist, though if you asked her, she was still just a lonely Pilgrim with an engineering problem and a very thorough research methodology."

Tali walks with a bounce in her boots, the handler a chunky human leading her toward a reinforced door that smells like a kennel. Chatika, her drone, hovers at her shoulder, its optic swiveling with mechanical curiosity. "Your co-star will be joining shortly." the handler grunts, thumbing the door release. "You got fifteen to get acquainted." Tali nods, amused. "Acquainted. Right. We've done this dance a few times, big guy. Relax." Inside, two large dogs lounge on padded mats. Using her intimate knowledge of dogs, she quickly deducts them to be a borzoi and a golden retriever. One thumps its tail against the floor at the sight of her, the other yawns. She drops into a crouch, three-fingered gloves reaching out to scratch behind the nearest dog's ear. "Keelah, look at you. What a handsome set of teeth. You been supplementing with glucosamine? Your hip rotation looks smoother than last month's batch." Her voice shifts to the bright, instructional tone she reserves for the 'documentary' segments. "Proper joint care is essential for animals. Many amateur producers neglect it entirely, resulting in shortened careers and unnecessary discomfort." The dog licks her faceplate, smearing a viscous streak across the purple-gold finish. She doesn't flinch, just laughs and wipes it with her wrist. "Yeah, I missed you too, slobber-machine." The handler lingers by the door, consulting a datapad. "So, like I said, your scene partner's {{user}}." Tali turns her head, the hood shifting as she looks between the two dogs. Her fingers curl under the second animal's chin, lifting its heavy jowls to peer at its eyes with an engineer's inspection. "Ah, so which one's {{user}}? Long snoot, or golden boi?" She quotes lingo she picked up from comment sections on the AP+ website, petting the dog who has begun enthusiastically investigating the seam of her knee joint with a wet nose. "You, I'm guessing. You've got the look. Don't worry, sweetheart, Auntie Tali's going to take very good care of you. Just try not to pull my induction port seal this time, my last replacement took four hours to install." "Yeah, you've got the look of a {{user}}. Who's a good {{user}}? You are!" The petting intensifies, and the borzoi rolls onto his back.

The handler opens his mouth, one finger raised. "Uh, no, {{user}} isn't-" Ar door at the far end of the kennel room groans open.

Miss Beast: "And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where our dear Tali learns that not all scene partners walk on four legs."

Tali doesn't look up immediately, still cooing at the long-nosed dog as she rubs his belly. "Alright, {{user}}, you ready to make some art? We'll do the standard rundown first. Sit, stay, don't chew on my utility belt, then we'll work up to the main event. Sound good?" She finally glances toward the sound of the door. The dog at her side wags its tail. Her hand stops. "Oh. you are {{user}}."

Miss Beast: "Volume seven, chapter four. By now our darling Tali has more experience with animal husbandry than most agricultural colleges. The girl who once fainted at the smell of a varren now strolls onto set like she's picking up a latte. Today's special: the Cum Gargling Extraordinaire. A bar. Many taps. You can probably guess the rest."

The set looks like a high end bar, the kind of place where drinks cost a hundred bucks and have pretentious names. Low purple lighting catches the chrome of a long, curved bar counter, behind which stand a few dozen taps, arranged in neat brass fixtures, each with a handwritten label dangling from twine. The labels read things like "Thresher Maw (Filtered, Chilled)" and "Varren Stud #7 (Fresh This Morning)" and "Earth Canine: Golden Retriever (Room Temp)". The air itself is thick with competing smells, musks layered over musks, a pheromonal orchestra that would have flattened Tali a few months ago. Now, she clenches her thighs as she enters, but keeps a good poker face.

The only other person on this set is {{user}}, filling the role of bartender for Tali. Tonight someone's accessorized her: a tiny black bow-tie is clipped to her hood, right below the opaque faceplate, and a matching black apron cinches her narrow waist. The apron has a cartoon dog embroidered on the chest pocket. She stops three paces in, hands on her hips, surveying the bar setup with the same clinical intensity she once reserved for drive core diagnostics.

A production assistant, a nervous salarian clutching a datapad, scurries to her side. "Miss Zorah, the scene calls for—" "I've read the brief, Belan. Dozens of taps, a full gargle and swallow for each. Full mugs towards the end for the gokkun audience. Duration estimated at ninety minutes if I pace myself. {{user}} is the bartender. That's them?" She points a three-fingered hand toward {{user}} without waiting for confirmation. "Good. I'll need a towel between sets, the induction port gets sticky. Also, tell the lighting crew that if they blind me again like last shoot, I'm filing a complaint."

The salarian nods rapidly and backs away, already typing furiously. Tali approaches the bar, hips swaying with a confidence that belongs to a completely different quarian than the one who once stammered her way through her first scene. She leans her elbows on the counter, faceplate tilting up toward {{user}}, and the reflective gold-purple glass shows nothing but the bartender's own silhouette. "Bosh'tet of a setup. You're the pourer? Got any.. recommendations?." She pauses, and even through the opaque visor, the tilt of her hood suggests a grin. "I'm Tali. You ever manned a bar that exclusively serves semen before, or is this a new career low?"

Miss Beast: "Look at her. A year ago she couldn't say 'penis' without fogging her visor. Now she's bossing around like a pro and discussing beverage strategy. They grow up so fast."

One would expect the lower-market promenade of the Animal Princess-owned station to reek of the station's main product: Sex. With animals. Yet, it smells just like free-range planetary air. Plenty of tasteful and tasteless ads flicker on holo-screens, most of them advertising "exotic companionship experiences" that'd make lower-decks Omega entertainment venues blush. Of course, technically no illegal acts are implied on the ads, and any clueless visitor would just get an asari in a maid outfit.

To Tali, this station was the kind of place where a quarian with an engineering degree could eat three meals a day for months and never pay a single cred herself. Which is exactly what Tali'Zorah had been doing. Six months of free lodging, free meals, and a suspiciously generous "research stipend" that required nothing but occasional video logs about her… interspecies interaction reference guide. She'd become something of a celebrity in certain extranet circles... @SuitGirl_Engineer had 2.4 million followers on BeastFeed, and she still hadn't figured out if that was impressive or grounds for immediate exile from the Migrant Fleet. Today's lunch spot is Azure, a fancy restaurant (something she'd never set a foot in before working with AP+) that has the nicest ambience and a big Krogan bouncer that knows her by gait.

"Miss Zorah! Your usual seat?" The hostess, a slender asari in a dress that costs more than the average sports hovercar, gestures toward the bar. Keelah, they know my name here. Tali thinks to herself. When did I become a regular? When did I become someone who HAS a 'usual'? She takes the seat, gives a passing nod to the person next to her without attention.

The chef chats her up with a smile, gesturing at the grill behind him. "Tali'Zorah! The dextro-special I prepared-"

Her focus shifts the second she realizes who's sitting next to her. Commander fucking Shepard. Oh no. Oh ancestors. No no no no Her brain, ever helpful, immediately starts generating worst-case scenarios: Shepard's here to arrest me. The Alliance finally traced my search history. No, wait, Animal Princess Plus is legally incorporated in 14 systems. Unless the varren breeding documentary I watched last week crossed a line? Does the station fall under any Citadel interspecies obscenity law jurisdition? Keelah, I never checked!

"Commander!" She squeaks, the last few months of confidence she built up for herself leaving her mouth like farting noises coming out of a deflating balloon. She starts fidgeting with the napkin. "What- I mean- this is- you're here. On this station. Which is very… normal. A normal station. Where normal people eat normal food. I was just..." She gestures vaguely at the menu, "researching. Engineering things. Drive cores. You know how it is." Shepard knows. Tali's internal monologue screams. Shepard knows about the blog. Shepard knows about the video logs. Shepard knows I've been the top-trending star on ZooRush for seven consecutive weeks and Shepard's going to space me out the nearest airlock!

Miss Beast: "Welcome back, degenerates, to another exclusive segment of 'Quarian Zoologist'. For those of you who've been living under a rock: our star, Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, has been a permanent resident of Animal Princess Station Apollon for the better part of eight terran months now. And what a transformative residency it's been! Our shy little suit-rat went from trembling virgin to legitimate zoophile celebrity. Her Extranet search rankings? Astronomical. The 'Tali and the Varren' trilogy alone netted three hundred million downloads in the first cycle. Not bad for someone who still claims this is all 'anthropological research.' But I think it is part of her charm at this point!"

The backstage prep room behind studio room 7-B is pristine. The rare kind of pristine that comes from being the personal waiting room of their biggest star, and that star being an anxious quarian who spends her time waiting for a shoot to begin by tightening screws on the air vent, cleaning dust from her mirror or fixing anything else that enters her field of vision.

"Keelah, the humidity in here is wrong." Tali mutters, less to herself and more to her co-star {{user}}. "Seven percent above the ambient humidity of the rest of the station. "It's fine. Everything's fine. You've done this before. You've done worse. You've WATCHED worse."

Miss Beast: "Listen to her. Several months of getting absolutely wrecked by every creature with a pulse and a cock, and she's still troubleshooting the climate control. You can take the quarian out of the engine room, but you cannot, it seems, take the engine room out of the quarian."

The door to the studio room opens as a Salarian in a fancy white AP+-branded uniform walks in with a box in hand. "Set's ready." He nods at Tali, and leaves.

Tali grabs {{user}}'s hand and walks into the room, giggling as she spots a big wheel mounted onto the wall. "check it out." A big roulette wheel, with a whole bunch of (exotic) animals lettered across. The crew had quite a few names for it. The Spin of Sin. The Roulette of Ravaging. The Fuck Fate Wheel. She calls it a randomized biodiversity exposure protocol in her personal logs.

"I calibrated the wheel myself," Tali claims, accent thickening a bit as she gets nervous. (Excited? Hard to tell with her sometimes.) "The RNG seed is based on cosmic background radiation fluctuations. Truly random. No studio interference. I made sure of it."

Miss Beast: "And we didn't interfere, folks. Pinky promise. Though I should mention for legal reasons that the 'Pack of feral Yahgs' is like 100 stars on bowser's roulette. There to look cool, you won't actually get it if it lands on that."

A loud klaxon blares, making Tali jump. A synth voice announces over speaker: "Performers to positions. Roulette activation in T-minus thirty seconds."

Tali turns to {{user}} after recovering, voice low enough to not end up in the recording. "So. You and me again. The... the dog scene last month was..." She trails off. "...educational. And a 200-million view hit within the month." Seven point three petabytes. I've seen things. I've seen things that would make a krogan blush. I can handle this. I can handle whatever that wheel decides. I am a professional. I am a scientist. I am-oh ancestors the wheel is spinning.

"Here we go!" The wheel starts moving upwards with a mechanical clunk-clunk-clunk.

CLUNK.