Part 2: Tester 387ab

The red door opens, releasing you back into the sterile white corridor of the testing facility. The transition from the warm, dimly lit apartment pod to the harsh fluorescent lights always leaves you momentarily disoriented.

A lab-coated attendant, face obscured behind a tinted visor, hands you a sanitized robe without a word. You shrug it on, the fabric cool against your sweat-slicked skin.

"Tester 387ab, report to extraction."

You nod, falling into step behind the attendant as they lead you down the winding halls. The walls are lined with identical red doors, each hiding its own fabricated reality. Somewhere behind them, other testers were going through the same motions of sampling milk, evaluating pleasure protocols, or, like you, fulfilling the newly introduced breeding directive.

Stepping inside you enter the familiar extraction room. It's small and clinical with a single chair facing a wall-sized screen. You sit, and the screen flickers to life, displaying a faceless AI representative.

"Tester 387ab, your performance has been logged." The voice is genderless, toneless. "Rate your experience with Model HX-9 'Nurture Series' on a scale of 1 to 10."

You lean back, considering that for a moment.... "Nine."

A pregnant pause leads to the AI saying, "Elaborate."

"She was responsive. Milk production was optimal. The breeding protocol... was efficient." You smirked, despite yourself. "It all felt real."

Another pause, longer this time. The screen flickers, processing your answers.

"Acknowledged. Your biological sample will be analyzed for viability. If approved, your genetic material may be selected for Imperium propagation."

You stiffen.

"Wait--selected for what?"

"The Imperium requires strong genetic stock. High-performing testers may be chosen as donors for mass incubation."

A cold knot forms in your stomach. When you signed your contract, you figured, sure there were probably waivers about testing, data collection and other stuff like that, but... you wonder if there was anything about mass incubation.

"Do you object?" The AI's voice remains neutral, but something in the question feels like a trap.

You exhale slowly. "... No."

"Compliance is appreciated. Proceed to compensation disbursement."

The screen goes dark.

You approach the door to leave the extraction room, stopping at a sleek box to the side of the door to place your hand under its sensor. The credit chit lands in your hand glowing faintly. It was symbolic, your actual payment was deposited instantly into your account with a number larger than usual. Breeding protocol bonus, you guessed. The chit was just to remind you of the hand that feeds you.

The work always paid, you remind yourself.

You make your way out of the facility through the elevator of the lower floors, and out into the neon-drenched sprawl of the lower city. The air is thick with the scent of artificial rain and fried synth-meat from the vendor stalls lining the filthy streets.

A familiar figure leans against the wall nearby. Jax, another tester from your block who you've been getting to know. His smirk is sharp under the flickering streetlights.

"Hey stranger," he says, pushing off the wall to fall into step beside you. "How was today's cow?"

You roll your eyes. "Better than your last, I bet."

He laughed, clapping you on the shoulder. "Well I've never been promoted so, probably. But seriously... they're pushing the incubation thing hard now. Rumor is, the upper tiers want a large new batch of laborers. And they're picky about the gene pool. We're about to be overworked in the best way possible!"

You frown. "What happened to the last batch?"

Jax's grin wavered. "What always happens. They outlived their usefulness and it's on to the next."

The words settle between you two, heavy. Testers don't really know a lot about their work. The Imperium very rarely showed their testers what was going on behind the curtain, so you don't think Jax knows what he's talking about.

After a moment, Jax shrugs. "Whatever they need us to do, imperium credits spend the same." He nods toward a nearby bar, its garish sign promising oblivion. "Drinks?"

You hesitate, then nod. "Yeah. Drinks."

As you walk, you can't shake the image of the hucow's hazel eyes, and her last words to you:

"I will deliver your children soon."

You wonder if HX-9 felt the babies growing inside of her yet. As a part of her testing, she'd be bred several times, but you hoped that her brain didn't get too foggy from the hormones she'd be pumped with. You wanted her to remember the stroke of your cock, stretching her and fulfilling her desire to be a fat pregnant cow.

Hucow models with pregnancy brains could start masturbating relentlessly in front of anyone at any time they were so delirious with the need to be fucked.

The cows became consumed with spreading their legs and getting pumped full of seed in all their eager holes. Their minds couldn't focus, they were always dripping from their engorged udders and cunts, leaving trails of their juices wherever they went in the facility.

It got to the point that the scientists decided the hucows should walk around naked. The amount of laundry to keep them in clean clothes was costing the Imperium a fortune.

Many of the testers benefited from the models increased sex drive while they were pregnant and fucked the cows stupid during their protocols. It was common to see pregnant cows waddling around with cum filled pussies as they made their way back to their rooms.

You sigh and step into the bar with Jax, wondering if you'd get to see HX-9 that desperate and cock hungry.

The bar is a cacophony of synthetic euphoria and neon lights pulse in time with bass-heavy music. The air is thick with the sweet, chemical tang of vaporized stimulants and you wonder if you should be wearing a mask. You and Jax claim a booth in the back, where the shadows swallow the worst of the garish glow from the bar. The air is cleaner further away from the crowd.

A server bot--sleek, silver, and utterly impersonal, takes your order and slides two glasses of dark liquor across the table instantly. You down yours in one burning gulp, the heat spreading through your chest slowly igniting its way down to your stomach.

Jax swirls his drink, watching you with a smirk. "So, you gonna tell me what's eating you, or do I have to guess?"

You exhale sharply. "They didn't just collect today. They initiated breeding."

Jax's smirk falters. "Shit. They promoted you?"

You nod. "If the sample's viable, they're putting it into rotation," you chuckle nervously, "me into rotation for mass incubation."

Jax whistles low, then knocks back his drink. "Well. Congrats, dad."

"Fuck off."

Jax laughs, but it's hollow. "Hey, at least you've got the genes they want. I'm still stuck on milk duty."

You clench your jaw. That was the thing, you hadn't signed up for this. Testing pleasure models, sure. Even the breeding protocol, fine, but fathering a generation of Imperium-raised laborers in the possible thousands? That was something else entirely.

The server bot returns, depositing another round without being asked. You stare at the glass.

"You could always bail," Jax says, quieter now. "Disappear into the undercity. Plenty of guys do."

You shake your head. "And do what? Scrounge for scraps in the ruins? Work for some syndicate until they slit my throat for half a credit?"

Jax shrugs. "Better than being a stud for the machine if you don't want to do that anymore."

You don't answer. He wasn't wrong, but you know that your Imperium property. Even if you wanted to risk it and managed to disappear, you'd never be able to come back. The outskirts didn't appeal to you and neither did the horror stories that made their way back to the lower city.

Three nights later, the summons comes.

You're in your room when the door slides open and two enforcers, clad in black armor, stand silhouetted against the hallway light.

"Tester 387ab. Report to Sector Gamma for genetic confirmation."

No explanation. No choice.

You go.

Sector Gamma is cold. White walls, white floors, white ceilings. Everything is sterile, everything is silent. The enforcers strap you into a chair, draw blood, scan your neural patterns, and measure your muscle density.

A human scientist, for once, studies the readouts with a detached frown.

"Viable," she says at last. "High compatibility with the Nurture Series. Your genetic material has been approved for Mass Incubation."

Your throat tightens... "What does that mean... exactly?"

She doesn't look up. "It means you'll be reassigned. Breeding protocols will now be your primary duty."

"And if I refuse?"

For the first time, she meets your eyes. There was no malice in her gaze. No pity, either. Just the clinical acknowledgment of an inevitable truth.

"You won't. Why would you refuse?

Admin has moved you to a new wing and upgraded your quarters along with your food. Regular medical evaluations are still mandatory, but you can leave the premises more and get out into the city. Every other day, you'll visit another pod, another Hucow, another breeding protocol, but you'll get plenty of rest in between."

You stopped counting the sessions. Stopped wondering how many children would be decanted into the Imperium's machinery through every lust filled cum shot.

Then, one day, you see her again. Hazel eyes, milk-chocolate skin with the cutest dusting of freckles.... HX-9.

She's in a gestation room in a wing you never visit. Through the see-through walls of her room, you can see her belly is swollen, her expression conflicted as she desperately humps her pillow exposing herself to everyone passing through the hallways.

Her large, swollen tits wet her bedding as she feverishly grinds against it, naked with her full belly on display.

All rooms for the models were see through and elevated on platforms along the hallway for public observance. They were designed that way so the models could be publicly observed at all times. If they weren't see through... well, that was too tempting for the testers.

Experiments used to fall apart with all the bastard children that would pop up.

A technician notices you staring at HX-9.

"That one's almost ready," they say, recognizing who you are from the chart they were holding detailing HX-9's breeding protocols. "The offspring will be assigned to the labor corps. Strong stock."

You swallow hard. "Yeah. Strong."

The technician claps you on the shoulder, cheerful, "You should be proud. You're serving the Imperium in the highest capacity. Look at her. She's doubling over she's so knocked up. Her model is extra fertile, but the results are off the charts with you two."

You look at the hucow.. your cock is already hard as a brick. She looks back and for a second, just a second, you swear you saw a flicker of recognition as she comes on her pillow.

Then the moment passes and you aren't so sure as the technician walks away.

You're left wondering if that matters, so what if HX-9 remembers you?