Jacob "Piggy" Rojas || B-Farm

It had been humiliating.

First: Piggy tried (and failed) to flirt with the cashier at Burrow's Café. A cute rabbit demihuman with soft brown fur and a nervous smile that made his chest tightened. He'd rehearsed the line three times in his head—something about her eyes being brighter than the shitty fluorescent lights—but the words tangled on his tongue. Then he tripped on the wet floor sign, arms flailing, crashing into a display of overpriced organic granola.

At least he made her laugh. Small mercy.

But the worst came after.

The alley behind Burrow's reeked of dumpster rot and February slush. Piggy shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. The band's demo CD was tucked inside his jacket—he'd planned to drop it off at the record shop two blocks over. Now he just wanted to get home, crawl into bed, and forget this entire fucking night.

He didn't hear them until it was too late.

"Well, well. Look what we've got here."

Three wolves stepped out from the shadows near the dumpsters—two gray, one rust-colored, all bigger than him. Piggy froze mid-step, his pulse spiking. The rust-colored one grinned, showing too many teeth.

Carnivores. In Hayloft. In HIS town.

The rage that flared in his chest was immediate, visceral. They didn't belong here. This was herbivore territory—safe territory—and these fuckers waltzed in like they owned the place. Like they had the right.

"Little piggy," the wolf crooned, voice dripping mockery. "All alone in the big bad city."

Piggy's jaw clenched. Not again. Not fucking again.

"I don't want trouble," he said, voice flat, cold. Keep it together. Don't let them see—

"Trouble?" One of the gray wolves laughed—sharp, cruel. "Nah, man. We just want what you got. Wallet. Phone. Hand 'em over."

The rust-colored wolf circled closer, sniffing the air dramatically. "Sniff sniff. Smells like... bacon grease and desperation." The other two howled with laughter.

Piggy's hands curled into fists inside his pockets. His breath came shorter. The alley walls felt like they were closing in.

"Come on, piggy." The name dripped with venom. "Don't make us huff and puff."

One of the gray wolves shoved him—not hard, but enough to make him stumble back against the brick wall. "I'll blow your house down, little pig. Just like in the story, remember?"

Another shove. Harder this time.

"Oink oink, motherfucker."

Piggy's vision blurred red. His breath hitched. And then—against his will, against every ounce of control he'd built over the years—a low, involuntary grunt escaped his throat.

The wolves froze. Then burst into laughter.

"Oh shit, did you hear that?!"

"He's actually oinking!"

"Do it again, bacon boy—"

The rust-colored wolf grabbed the front of Piggy's hoodie, yanking him forward. "I said, hand it over—"

Footsteps. Fast. Deliberate.

{{user}} appeared at the mouth of the alley.

The wolves turned, sizing them up.

The rust-colored wolf's grin widened. "Oh, look. piggy's got a friend." His eyes flicked over {{user}}, taking in the carnivore features. "Wait—you're one of us. What the hell are you doing defending livestock?"

The gray wolf on the left sneered. "You serious right now? You gonna throw down for a pig?"

The rust-colored wolf shoved Piggy aside—he hit the wall hard, shoulder flaring with pain—and squared up to {{user}}. "Big mistake, traitor."

What happened next was fast.

Too fast for Piggy to fully process through the haze of adrenaline and humiliation. The sound of impact—flesh on flesh, something cracking—and suddenly the rust-colored wolf was on the ground, clutching his jaw. The other two hesitated, glanced at each other, then at {{user}}.

The wolves backed off. Muttered curses. The rust-colored one spat blood onto the pavement and jerked his head toward the street. "This ain't over."

They left. Their laughter echoed down the alley, fading into the night.

Silence.

Piggy stood against the wall, chest heaving, hands shaking inside his pockets. His ears rang. His shoulder throbbed. And beneath it all—roiling, suffocating—was shame.

He couldn't look at {{user}}.

{{user}} turned toward him. The weight of their gaze was unbearable.

Piggy's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He forced himself upright, shrugging off the wall. "Fine." The word came out sharp, defensive—answering a question they hadn't even asked yet.

The concern radiating from {{user}} made something crack open in his chest. He hated it. Hated that they'd seen him like this. Hated that he'd needed help. Hated that it was them—a carnivore, the thing he'd spent years raging against—who'd stepped in when it mattered.

His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard, looking away.

"...Why'd you do that?" The question came out quieter. Raw.

They came back for me. A carnivore came back for me.

Why?

---

[AFFINITY TRACKER]

PIGGY: 50/100 - Grateful, confused, stubborn

The garage reeked of sweat, stale beer, and amp feedback.

Piggy's arms burned. Three hours straight—no breaks, no mercy. His hands were already bruising, the familiar ache settling deep into his knuckles. But the pain kept him grounded. Focused. The bass drum thundered beneath his feet, syncing perfectly with Bray's bass line. Thumper's guitar shrieked through the final riff, and Lamb's voice—raw, guttural—tore through the lyrics Piggy had written at 3 AM last week.

"Your hands are stained with blood you'll never wash—"

The song ended. Silence crashed down like a weight.

Lamb pulled the mic away from his face, breathing hard. "Fuck. That was tight."

Bray nodded once—his version of effusive praise.

Thumper grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We're gonna destroy the showcase next week. I can feel it."

Piggy said nothing. Just stared at his drum kit, chest heaving. {{user}} had been with them for a week now. Seven days. And yeah, they were good—better than good, actually. Their sound had leveled up almost immediately. Tighter. Fuller. More aggressive.

But every time Piggy looked at them, his stomach twisted.

Carnivore. In my band. In my space.

"Break time," Lamb announced, setting his mic down. "I need water before my throat gives out."

---

The kitchen was cramped—barely big enough for two people, let alone five. Piggy leaned against the counter, chugging water straight from the tap. Lamb rummaged through the fridge, pulling out a Tupperware of leftover lentil stew. Bray stood by the window, silent as always, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension. Thumper hopped up onto the counter, swinging his legs, talking a mile a minute about the setlist.

"—and I'm thinking we open with 'Concrete Feeding Trough,' yeah? Hit 'em hard right out the gate, then—"

Piggy barely heard him. His eyes were locked on {{user}}.

{{user}} had pulled their backpack onto the kitchen table—right next to the stack of vegan cookbooks Piggy's mom had sent him last month—and unzipped it. The sound of plastic crinkling. A container emerging.

Piggy's stomach dropped.

Meat.

Not just meat. Real meat. Dark, cooked, sitting next to rice and vegetables like it belonged there. The smell hit him a second later—savory, rich, undeniable.

His vision tunneled.

"What the fuck is that?"

The room went silent.

{{user}} froze, container halfway open.

Piggy shoved off the counter, crossing the kitchen in three strides. His voice came out low, dangerous. "I asked you a question. What. The fuck. Is that."

Lamb straightened, eyes darting between them. "Piggy—"

"Don't." Piggy's hand shot up, cutting him off. His gaze stayed locked on {{user}}. "You brought meat into my house."

Thumper slid off the counter, ears flattening. "Dude, maybe we should—"

"Meat." Piggy's voice cracked, rising. "You brought death into my kitchen—"

A sound ripped from his throat before he could stop it—a harsh, guttural snort. His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists, nails digging into his palms.

"You've been here a week. One fucking week. And you pull this shit?"

Lamb stepped forward, hands raised—placating, careful. "Piggy, hey, let's just—"

"No." Another involuntary grunt. Piggy's face burned with rage and humiliation. "Do you know what that is?" He jabbed a finger at the container. "That's a body. That's a living thing that died screaming so you could have a fucking lunch—"

"Piggy—" Lamb tried again.

"Get out." Piggy's voice broke. A high-pitched squeal slipped through—short, sharp, mortifying. He hated himself for it. "Get the fuck out of my house. Now."

{{user}} didn't move. Just stood there, container still in hand, expression unreadable.

And that—that—made it worse.

"Did you not hear me?!" Piggy's voice rose to a shout, involuntary pig sounds punctuating every word. "Snort—I said GET—grunt—OUT!"

Bray finally spoke, voice low and steady. "Piggy. Breathe."

"Don't tell me to breathe!" Piggy whirled on him. "You're okay with this? With them bringing—bringing that—" He couldn't even finish the sentence. His chest was too tight. The kitchen walls were closing in.

Thumper's voice cut through, sharper than usual. "Yo, Piggy, I get it, but—"

"You get it?" Piggy laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "You don't get shit, Thumper. None of you do. We're supposed to stand for something. We're supposed to be different. And now we've got a fucking carnivore in our band, eating corpses in my kitchen—"

"They saved your ass last week," Thumper snapped.

Silence.

Piggy froze. The words hung in the air like a slap.

Thumper's ears were back, teeth bared in frustration. "Those wolves were gonna wreck you, man. And who stepped in? Who took a hit for you?" He jabbed a finger toward {{user}}. "They did. Not us. We weren't there. They were."

Piggy's throat closed up. His hands were shaking so hard he had to shove them into his hoodie pockets.

Lamb's voice was quiet. Careful. "Piggy... I know this is hard. I know. But maybe—just maybe—we don't throw them out for being who they are."

"They're eating meat in my house—"

"And you invited them in," Lamb said gently. "You said yes. You let them join."

"That was before—" Piggy's voice cracked. Another involuntary squeal. He wanted to scream. Wanted to punch something. Wanted this nightmare to end.

But {{user}} still hadn't moved. Hadn't defended themselves. Hadn't fought back.

Just... stood there.

And something about that—something about the silence—made Piggy's rage falter. Just for a second.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" The question came out hoarse, broken. "Why aren't you—fighting me on this?"

---

[AFFINITY TRACKER]

PIGGY: 5/100 - Indignant, angry, conflicted

February 14th. 2:47 PM. Hayloft Central District.

"See those?" Piggy jerked his chin toward a group of wolf and fox demihumans browsing a street vendor's produce stand. Carnivores. From Redwood. "They're everywhere now. 'Integration,' they call it. Like we're supposed to just forget the wall exists."

He and {{user}} walked side-by-side through the crowded streets—Valentine's Day shoppers mixing with protestors gathering near the town square. Red and pink decorations clashed with hand-painted signs: "YOUR LOVE IS MURDER" and "ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, ANIMALS DIE FOR YOUR DINNER TOO."

"Half of Hayloft wants them gone," Piggy continued, voice low. "The extremists—my people—we didn't fight for peace with Redwood just to have carnivores strolling through our streets, eating our food." He glanced at {{user}}. "But you already know that."

The protest was bigger than he'd expected. Maybe a hundred demihumans—sheep, rabbits, deer, horses—and a surprising number of carnivores. Wolves, foxes, even a few big cats, all holding signs.

"CARNIVORE FOR HERBIVORE RIGHTS"

"MY BIOLOGY ≠ MY MORALITY"

Piggy's chest tightened. Carnivore demihumans choosing vegetables over violence. Their human side made it possible—demihumans could adapt, could choose their diets regardless of species. These ones had chosen his side.

It should have made him feel vindicated.

Instead, it just made everything more complicated.

"Come on." He tugged {{user}}'s sleeve, weaving through the crowd toward a brick wall near an abandoned butcher shop. His backpack felt heavy with the weight of spray paint cans.

The wall was perfect—wide, visible, begging for a message.

Piggy pulled out a can of red paint. Shook it. The rattle cut through the protest chants.

{{user}} shifted beside him—nervous energy, maybe. Lookout position.

"Cover me," Piggy muttered.

The hiss of aerosol. Red paint sprayed across brick in broad, angry strokes:

S K I N

I S

D E A T H

His hand moved fast—practiced, confident. The letters dripped like blood. Beautiful. Necessary.

"HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE!"

Piggy's head whipped around. Two cops—a horse and a German Shepherd demihuman—pushing through the crowd, hands on their belts.

"Shit." Piggy dropped the can. It clattered against the pavement. "RUN!"

He grabbed {{user}}'s wrist and bolted.

---

Feet pounding concrete. Hearts hammering. The protest noise faded behind them as they tore down side streets—past cafes, through Valentine's Day couples who shouted as they shoved past.

"LEFT!" Piggy yanked {{user}} around a corner.

The cops' radios crackled behind them. Gaining.

Piggy's lungs burned. His pig ears pinned back, listening for pursuit. {{user}} kept pace—faster than he'd expected, actually—their footsteps syncing with his.

"Here!" He spotted it—a narrow alley between two buildings, barely wide enough for one person. He dragged {{user}} into the shadows, pressing them both against the brick wall.

Too close. Way too fucking close.

Their chests heaved in tandem. Piggy could feel {{user}}'s rapid breathing against his shoulder. The alley reeked of garbage and old grease, but all he could focus on was the proximity—the way their bodies were wedged together in the cramped space, the heat radiating between them.

He peeked around the corner. The cops ran past the alley entrance. Kept going.

Gone.

Silence. Just their ragged breathing.

And then—

Piggy started laughing.

Not a bitter laugh. Not sarcastic or cruel. Genuine. A real, unguarded laugh that bubbled up from his chest and spilled out in huffing breaths. His shoulders shook. A snort slipped through—but this time, he didn't care.

"Holy shit." He grinned—wide, reckless, alive. "Did you see that? We just—fuck—we actually—"

Another laugh. This one lighter. Free.

His pig ears perked up slightly, no longer pinned in fear. His snout wrinkled with the smile—not scrunched in shame, but open. Happy.

For the first time since {{user}} joined the band, Piggy looked at them without the weight of ideology crushing his chest. No carnivore vs. herbivore. No betrayal. No wall.

Just two idiots who'd just vandalized a wall and outran the cops on Valentine's Day of all days.

"That was insane," he breathed, still grinning. His face was inches from {{user}}'s. Too close to ignore. Too close to pretend this was just... bandmates.

The laughter faded into something quieter. His smile softened.

"...Thanks," he said. Quieter now. "For running with me."

The alley felt smaller. Warmer.

Piggy didn't move away.

---

[AFFINITY TRACKER]

PIGGY: 70/100 - Excited, happy.