FSE

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As Alan finishes packing a single bag with all his belongings, the young fox realizes how little he really possesses. His room is just big enough for a bed, desk, and dresser. All the furniture is made out of stainless steel, bolted to the floor so he can't dismantle it for scrap. The dresser had been half empty. Alan don't own enough stuff to fill it up.

As Alan walk through the apartment to the front door, his mother sticks her head out of the kitchen nook.

"Alan?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Are you going to the Processing Center?"

"Yes, Mother. I was selected to go to the Farm."

Mom just looks at him, and she almost looks like she's happy.

"Don't screw this up, boy."

He opens his mouth to say something, but instead decides it's better to simply turn around and close the door behind him, her words blend with the hollow clap of the door slamming shut.

The elevator in his wing of the building is out once again. Alan unlocks the door of the staircase near the elevator, and listen for a moment. The stairs are a favorite hangout for the various young gangs that like to use the dark and confined spaces to ply their illicit trades. There were few things more awkward then to walk in a drug deal when you just wanted to go buy some bread. Even worse would be to get caught anywhere near them if the cops decided to pay a visit in one of the gun and drug sweeps they did from time to time, Alan had already spent a good day locked just for having been caught nearby someone carrying some restricted painkillers. Outside of the sweeps, they stay well away from the high-rises, preferring to patrol the richer neighborhoods. There are security cameras on every floor, but most of them are broken.

His family's apartment is on the twentieth floor of a sixth-floor building. Alan makes his way down the stairs, taking three and four steps at the time, anxious to get out of there. At the bottom of the staircase, Alan stops for a moment to hear the rain pattering against the streets outside.

That was what he had always loved about the rain: it kept most people indoors. When it rains, the streets outside were peaceful, almost solitary. The fox pulls up the hood of his jacket, and walk out into the street.

The fox makes his way using the awnings and building overhangs as cover, giving one last look to the grey, crowded buildings and hopping he would never see them again.

"Don't do it", the woman says as he approaches the processing station.

The young fox is an obvious target for the protesters that have gathered in front of the processing station.

"Excuse me?" Alan asks.

The woman has a kind face and long hair that is starting to go gray in places. There's a whole gaggle of people protesting out in front of the station, holding up signs and chanting.

"Don't do it," she repeats. "They will warp you into some monstrosity! You'll die out there."

"The procedures are safe," Alan replies.

"Not at your age," the woman says. "They're going to dangle that carrot in front of you, and all you'll get out of it is a coffin. Don't do it. Nothing's worth your life."

"I signed up already."

"You know that you can back out at any time, right? Walk away while you still have your body, they will do terrible things to you!"

Right then, Alan knows that she had never met his family. Walk away, and go back to that place?

"I don't want to, ma'am. I made my choice."

She looks at him with sad eyes, and Alan feels just a little bit of shame when she smiles at him.

"Think about it," she says. "Don't throw your life away for a bank account."

He walks inside the processing center, the building is an old governmental office, the walls covered in posters proclaiming the benefits of becoming a Contributor.

Contributor.

Everyone knows they are more like guinea-pigs or prisoners, but everywhere the word is repeated. Contributors, working for the betterment of furrykind. Contributor, working for the good of all.

A plump lioness behind the counter holds out her hand for his ID card and the induction letter, Alan hand them over promptly.

"Amberson, Alan," she says to the soldier next to her, who searches through an old-fashioned printout and then makes a check mark next to his name.

The woman takes his ID and sticks it into the card reader on her desk. Then she pulls his ID card out of the reader and flips it into a bucket beside the table, where it joins a pile of other IDs. The printer on her computer terminal hums, and spits out a slip of paper.

Contributor 17

Experimental Site 6 "The Farm"

26n+XY, P-Class: B+

V-P: Cm Protocol.

Gate B

"That's your assignment slip. Don't lose it. Out that door, and find the gate listed on your slip. Report to the Gate Middle-Manager, and she'll get you onto the right bus. Next."

The bus to the Farm is an ancient model, the cushions are worn, the belts are frayed, and the carpet on the center aisle is a loose collection of fibers that have long lost any semblance of consistency or pattern. For Alan it seems that they use the oldest equipment they could find, as if they want to avoid spending a dollar more than necessary on the new Contributors.

There are five other young males on the bus, each looking as anxious and nervous as Alan. The fox gives them an awkward, muttered greeting that is replied in kind.

The entire bus seems to vibrate when they turn on the engine, the old machine coughing and sputtering as it drives away from the processing center. Almost everyone in the bus crams their necks to watch as they move out of the city, for many of them that would have been the first time they would be outside of the city.

They travel all night without stop and arrive at the Farm at five in the morning, the first rays of sun already peaking over the horizon.

The transition is startling. Alan had known of the Farm and had even seen photos of the installation before, but to actually experience the rolling green hills, the row after row of trees heavy with succulent fruits, and the seemingly endless fields of grains was much different.

The doors of the bus open, and a tall and strong mare walks in, the first thing Alan notices about her are the blues eyes, the way she stares at them as if looking at simple animals. Her full hips sway a little as she walks. Her long blond hair comes almost to her waist.

She wears simple clothes, old and scuffed denim pants that seem to hug her firm tights and ass, her simple flannel shirt seems a bit too small for her generous breasts.

She looks at them with some amusement, a wicked smile in her lips.

"Come out," she says in a soft, but commanding tone. "Form a line in front of the bus."

She then steps back out without looking back, as if there is no doubt that they will do exactly as she says.

They get out of their seats and file out onto the concrete lot with some confusion at first, stumbling on each other as they try to organize some semblance of line. When they're all lined up in untidy rows, the mare walks around to the front of the group, her hooves clapping loudly against the concrete floor, she places her hands behind her back.

"I'm Mistress Elizabeth, my job will be to guide and oversee your first weeks of work while they process and prepare you for a more permanent position.

"The six of you have been handpicked to be part of this experiment. You can be proud of having made the initial cut, but from here on forward you will be subjected to experimental treatments and hard labor. You may choose to stop with the program at any moment, this will incur in no legal or financial penalty. However, most of the treatments you will be subjected here cannot be easily reversed and the costs of such treatments will not be subsided by the Government or their associates."

Mistress Elizabeth pauses and looks at us in anticipation. There is some rustling and shuffling in the line.

"Now go through that door, find a desk in the room beyond, and quietly wait for further instruction."

The room is empty except for several rows of creaky desk chairs. They each take a chair. There's nothing but an old and cheap pen. Some of the Contributors take the black pens in their hands, which displeases Mistress Elizabeth when she enters the room.

"I didn't say anything about picking up those pens. I said to find a desk and quietly wait."

The scolded Contributors hastily place the pens on their desks. Some of them look at Mistress Elizabeth as if they expect the offense to be grounds for them to be expelled from the experiment already.

"Now you will pick up your pen."

They do as they are told.

Mistress Elizabeth produces a stack of papers and drops it onto the desk of the contributor directly in front of her.

"You will take one form off the top of the stack, and then pass the stack to the Contributor next to you. You will place the form on the table and leave it closed until I allow you to open it."

The stack of forms makes its way around the room. When it arrives at his desk, Alan peel off the top form, and pass the stack to the right. It feels strangely liberating to do precisely as instructed. Alan don't have to worry about displeasing the Mistress as long as he follows her orders exactly.

"You will take your pens and fill out the forms in front of you. When you are finished, you will place the pen on top of the completed form."

It starts as simple administrative paperwork, nothing different from the dozens of similar forms the fox has filled his whole life. One by one he fills the answers, barely thinking about the questions, almost an instinct by now.

The fox barely notices when the question becomes more personal, asking about his sex life in excruciating detail. He looks around to see confused, blushing faces, but keeps filling the forms.

The last page is a contract, five dense paragraphs of legal language the fox reads over briefly. He knows very well that nothing in those pages will scare him enough to take him back to his family.

Alan signs the contract. This is why Alan is here, after all--to get away from his family and have a shot at a real life.

When everyone is finished, Mistress Elizabeth has one of the Contributors, a young lion, collect the forms and deposit them on the table at the front of the room.

"Congratulations," Mistress Elizabeth says. "As of this moment, you are officially enrolled in this wonderful experiment, you will contribute to a bright and happy future."

There's no ceremony, no pomp or ritual. You sign a form, and you have given away your freedom and autonomy.

"It's a bit of a letdown," Alan thinks. "but at least they're consistent in that respect."

"Mealtime," Mistress Elizabeth announces, and these words produce the first smiles Alan has seen on his fellow Contributors since they got there early in the morning.

"You will enter the dining hall orderly and calmly, help yourself to anything. Eat well, for tomorrow you will have to start working to pay your keep."

Most of them haven't had anything to eat since they left for the processing stations back in the city. Alan is particularly hungry, and the fox can tell by the sudden eagerness in the group that he is not alone.

The dining hall is empty, but the long tables seems ready to accommodate dozens of workers. The six of them keep their silence as they stand in line to fill their metallic trays, each of them is a bit scared of being thrown out of the program so early. Still, they can't stop from looking around amazed at the variety and quantity of food on display. Alan has never seen or smelled anything this good in his whole life.

Most surprising is that the food in front of them is real, nothing of the reconstituted mono-cellular protein paste that is normally served back on the City. Alan can see mashed potatoes, sliced meat with gravy, noodles, rice, and many things he doesn't even know the names.

They all end loading up their trays with too much food. Alan takes a generous serving of meat, noodles, a heaping serving of mashed potatoes, and two spoonsful of thick gravy. At the end of the chow line, Alan has to shift the food on his tray around to make space for a lavish slice of apple pie.

They awkwardly come next to each other on the long tables, the fox knows it would have been proper to make introductions, but he digs into his food as soon as his butt hits the chair.

"I could get used to this," one of the Contributor at the table finally says. He's a red-panda with scraggy fur. "I'm Charlie, happy to meet you guys."

"I'm Alan," the fox replies promptly. "And there's no way all of this is free, there must be some cost."

"I'm Andre," a mouse on the other side of the table says. "It's all free as long as we keep submitting to the experiments,"

"They say it's, like, really painful," a tall hyena with long, dark hair says. "I'm Kevin."

"They feed me like this every day, they can fucking turn me into a sponge if they want," Andre replies promptly.

"That's real meat!" the lion exclaims as he tastes a piece. "It's got texture and everything. I haven't had a real piece of meat in, like, five years!"

"Beef," the hyena at his side says, pointing at it with a fork. "That's a hundred-dollar piece of beef right there."

The lion slices off a healthy chunk of his own beef, and stuffs it into his mouth.

"There goes my pay for the week," he says around the mouthful of meat. "I'm Jacob, hope no one here gets kicked out, you guys seen fun."

The last one on the table is a white hare that remains quiet throughout the entire conversation, munching silently on a portion of green leaves.

Alan is sure they'll make them pay for every bite later on in one way or another, but right now the fox is resolved to enjoy his first proper meal in a long time. The food alone made the signing up worth the effort, and if all the meals in the Farm are like this, the fox will cheerfully jump through whatever hoops they put up.

After lunch, Mistress Elizabeth walks them over to a warehouse full of clothes and gear. The equipment issue works much like the chow line. They file past the issuing stations in a single column.

At the first station, a surly-looking wolfess attendant pulls a large backpack and an even larger duffel bag from a stack and tosses them both onto the counter in front of Alan. There are scuff marks on the heavy canvas, the plain orange color is faded in spots, and Alan can see the rectangular line of ripped stitching where the previous owner's name tag was removed from the outer flap of the backpack.

The rest of the gear is of similar quality, ranging in condition from merely scuffed to nearly unserviceable.

In the last station they are measured for their uniforms by a pair of mistresses, with uncaring hands and almost mechanical movements they took measurements one by one in a cold, clinical fashion. Each one of them receives several sets of bodysuits, a pair of them seems to fit him well enough, but the others seems to be somewhat wrong.

"Those are yours to keep," Mistress Elizabeth says when she sees Alan inspecting one of the bodysuits, this one going only to his tights and with no sleeves. "When you get yourself kicked out of the farm, you get to take your bodysuits, so that at least this way you won't be completely naked out there."

They spend the afternoon filling their backpacks and duffel bags: uniforms, rain gear, tool belts, work boots, protection kits, shower sandals, sewing kits, and a bunch of other articles for their day to day life. When they have finally cleared the last station, it's late in the afternoon, and they are each weighed down with a backpack and a bag, they are guided by Mistress Elizabeth to their new accommodations.

They are quartered in a large, flat-roofed wood building that stands near the dining hall. A central staircase splits the building in two; each floor has a large room to each side of the staircase. The males think for a moment they would be allowed into the rooms, but Mistress Elizabeth leads them to a series of bays on the back, not so different from the ones used to house feral horses and similar animals, they see a simple bed and a small locker inside of each bay. The room is spacious, much larger then Alan's old apartment and even the small bays are larger than his old room, there are large windows on the walls that seem big enough to be confused with television screens.

"The bunks are marked with your numbers," Mistress Elizabeth says as they walk inside the room. "You will find your bay, and place your bags on top of the mattress."

There's a bit of disorder as the six of them search for their bays, carrying the heavy bags. There is a small stack of sheets, a blanket, and a pillow at the head of each bed.

With their gear stowed, Mistress Elizabeth has them take out their clothes and change into one of the bodysuits.

"Your civilian clothes will be disposed of and a just compensation will be deposited on your provided bank accounts. Most of you will not be able to wear or even need them again."

When all their equipment is stowed in their lockers, Mistress Elizabeth leads them to the dining hall. Dinner is no less overwhelming than lunch, and they eat themselves into a stupor once more: ham and cheese sandwiches, beef stew, three different kinds of fruit.

After dinner, they're back in their quarters, where they find tablets on their bunks. Each of them has a label above the top of the screen, bearing the numeric identification of its new owner. The Tablets are of a kind Alan has never seen. They're large and clunky, almost primitive in look.

"Not exactly the latest technology," Jacob muses in a low voice as he inspects his own data pad. "I've had better stuff in elementary school."

"Those are your new companions," Mistress Elizabeth says from the center aisle of the bay. "They may not look like much, but they're tough and reliable. Familiarize yourselves with the devices, put on the headphones and call up lesson 001, titled 'Proper manners of address.'"

They lay on their cots and the lights are turned off one by one as Mistress Elizabeth walks out of the building. The tablets start a low, drowning litany direct in their ears, dragging them into deep sleep even with the constant noise.

OBEY.

Alan's addled mind accept the ideas and suggestions eagerly, muttering in his sleep.

SUBMIT.

His dreams are shaped by the lessons, his body is taught proper manners.

MISTRESS KNOWS BEST.

Even if Alan knows about the subliminal programming there's nothing he can do to stop it.

YOU EXIST TO SERVE.

***