S1 NNF Tyler EP 113

S1 NNF Tyler EP 113
The scrape of the bolt sliding back was the only warning I needed. It was a sound that cut through the low hum of the barn. A sharp, metallic punctuation mark at the end of my very short-lived hope. I didn’t turn toward the noise. I just listened to the gate swing on protesting hinges. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, stopped just behind me.

“On your feet, cow. The doctor wants to see you.”

Not Jake’s sneer. Not Aaron’s clipped command. A new voice, flat and bored. I pushed myself off the floor, wondering what new hell awaited me now. My muscles protested. I turned slowly, keeping my eyes on the hay-covered floor.

A pair of standard-issue brown steel-toe boots came into view. I let my gaze travel up the drab gray coveralls to a face that was a study in mediocrity. This was a man built to be forgotten. Another fucking cog in the milk machine express. He held a shock prod loosely in one hand.

What the fuck? Was this now a tool of the trade for new handlers? Held it with the same casual indifference a mechanic might hold a wrench.

I studied him from under the cover of my hair. He wasn’t bulky. If anything, he was wiry. Looked like a stick figure with clothes on.

Bet I can take him! Knock the ever-loving shit out of him and shove that prod right up his ass. The thought almost had a smirk spreading my lips. Hell, he might even like it.

That was the old me thinking, not the new me. The new me bit down on my tongue, keeping the words I wanted to speak contained.

He gestured with his head. “Let’s go.”

I shuffled out of the stall, my bare feet cold against the floor. He fell into step behind me, the prod held low. I could feel its potential, a low thrum of menace just at the edge of my hearing. Or maybe that was just my own pulse hammering in my ears. We didn’t head toward the milking parlor or the arena. We went the other way, toward the main complex. The administrative heart of this shithole. Every step was a confirmation of the dread that had been coiling in my gut. My perfect performance hadn’t bought me time; it had moved up the schedule.

Fuck me.

The transition from the barn’s gritty, organic reality to the main building was always a shock. The air changed first. The scent of hay, human waste, and unwashed bodies was sucked away, replaced by the sterile bite of antiseptic cleaner. The floors turned from rough concrete to polished linoleum that squeaked under my feet. The lighting became a flat, shadowless fluorescent glare. It was a place that tried to pretend it was a hospital or a lab. A place that used cleanliness to hide the filth of its purpose.

The handler stopped in front of a plain metal door, indistinguishable from a dozen others we’d passed. He tapped a code into a keypad beside it, and a lock clicked open with an electronic chirp. He pushed the door open and nudged my shoulder with the tip of the prod. A gentle reminder. Get in.

I stepped across the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind me.

Dr. Reddy’s office was exactly the way I remembered. It was unnerving. It wasn’t a place for a person; it was a place for a process. The air smelled faintly of dying dreams, that clean, sharp scent of extinguished freedom melting away, layered over a cloying hint of lavender.

There was no desk piled with papers. No personal photos. No clutter. Just a single, large, black leather chair facing a wall-sized screen that was currently dark. The chair looked comfortable, deeply padded, but the thick leather straps and polished steel buckles at the wrists, ankles, and forehead told a different story. It was a throne of surrender.

Dr. Samuel Reddy stood beside it, a tablet in his hand. He wasn’t looking at me. He was studying the screen of the device, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wore a crisp, light blue button-down shirt and dark slacks. He looked like a university professor, maybe a therapist who specialized in high-income patients with manageable anxieties. He looked sane. That was the most terrifying thing about him.

“There you are,” he said, his voice calm and even, without looking up from his tablet. “Thank you for joining me. Please, have a seat.”

As if I had a fucking choice! The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging for release.

He gestured to the chair.

The handler behind me gave me another gentle prod, this time in the small of my back. A command, not a suggestion. I moved toward the chair, my legs feeling heavy and disconnected. The leather was cool against the back of my thighs as I sat. It was as comfortable as it looked, a plush trap.

The handler went to work immediately, his movements practiced and impersonal. He cinched the strap over my right wrist, then my left. The leather was smooth, the steel of the buckle cold where it touched my skin. He moved to my ankles, securing them with the same efficient clicks. Finally, he took the strap for my forehead, pulling it tight enough to hold my head firmly against the high back of the chair. My view was now locked forward, aimed directly at the center of the dark screen.

Reddy finally looked up from his tablet. He offered me a small, professional smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes held a chillingly placid curiosity, like a biologist observing a specimen.

“Your performance metrics have been exemplary,” he said, his tone conversational. “Truly. Aaron was quite impressed with your lactation response under duress. Your cortisol levels, while high, remained within acceptable parameters, and your acceptance of the process was… textbook.” He swiped a finger across his tablet. “It shows a remarkable degree of progress. A testament to your resilience and our methods.”

Fucking psychopath. The words screamed in my head, but my face remained slack, my body pliant. I was playing the part. The good girl… for cow. The success story.

“Good behavior should be rewarded,” he continued, setting the tablet down on a small, sterile metal tray next to the chair, “Progress should be encouraged, solidified. We wouldn’t want you to backslide, would we?” He picked up a syringe from the tray. It was already filled with a clear, viscous liquid. “This is simply the next step. A way to reinforce the positive pathways we’ve established. To help you fully embrace the peace that comes with acceptance.”

The crazy fucker was framing it as a gift. This violation, this chemical invasion, was a prize for being a good little cow. The sheer, twisted audacity of it almost made me laugh.

It was then that I saw her. Tucked away in a simple chair in the corner of the room, almost completely out of my locked field of vision. It was Alice. I could only see her in my periphery, a pale shape. She was staring at the wall, her hands folded in her lap. Still. Silent. The perfect product.

The goal I was supposed to be striving for. Broken.

Her appearance didn’t break me. No. On the contrary, it made my fucking blood boil.