The smell of gunpowder is barely enough to mask the stench of the people surrounding me. The cattle on the assembly line pour their dirty hands on these beautiful machines, denigrating them, the expertise behind their construction. They’d be unable of understanding how to clean these machines, let alone basic maintenance. “It’s been so long since I’ve had food…” A disgusting, dissonant voice emanates from one of the throats in the audience. Maybe the higher ups should make it so they can’t use their vocal cords from birth… No, personally I’d do something about the smell first. The speech thing can be worked around with some duct tape and a lot of patience. 

Cattle... Such a curious name, some years ago I thought it was insulting, but seeing them with my own eyes… Calling them livestock feels like an insult to bovines.
And yet I’m expected to supervise these… sub-human, room-temperature IQ, genetical dead-ends. And that’s not me being mean! No sir! They’ve been designed like this, genetically modified. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see the process through which they are created— not that I’d like to. Some information was never meant for my prying eyes, in spite of how addicted I may be to data hoarding.

I scribble the last of my accounts for the day, everything seems to be in order after all. I ought to get someone else to do these routine checkups for me, it takes too much time and effort away from the research table. Do these people even know how much is wasted on making sure these… half-assed attempts at homunculi don’t kill themselves? I could be ensuring the machines are working efficiently myself, I could be fixing the entire logistical supply chain of this section, I could be designing the damn guns these machines spit out! But no, I have to get off my comfy little chair and exert all my energy on this because someone got scared one of their livestock got eaten alive by a machine. Should’ve designed your assembly workers to not pop like a watermelon! …I guess that’d make it hard to kill them if they ever revolt. If they can even revolt… Pretty sure that’d take some sort of basic organizational skills. Looking at these guys… they clearly lack self-preservation to begin with. 

Today’s count is quite decent, it seems I’m producing more weapons than my father… Both the Director and the Captain should be sufficiently pleased with this, my family name won’t get erased this way. Still, rather messed up to just go and die, leaving your daughter to fend for herself. It’s quite odd, though… This figure has been piquing my interest all day long. I didn’t change anything between yesterday and today, yet we’re up on serial production by a significant percentage.
…Well, it must be a fluke. It’ll show up tomorrow if it’s true, won’t show up tomorrow if it ain’t. So I suppose it’s not my problem for now.

As I step back into my office, I’m welcomed by the lovely aromatic flavors of ethylic mist, industrial grease, and uncapped gunpowder cans— my bad... Let’s close that real quick.
No longer hampered by human sweat and other bodily odors. I filled my quota of complaints for today, I say it’s time to go back to the weapons.
I’ve seen the order, we’re currently on an order for space pirates and mercenaries. I’d love to sell them caseless ammunition but… well, this station lacks the means and technical manpower to do so.

There could be benefit from mass production of roller-delayed blowback weapons, but I’m unsure of the strain it would cause, and the ease of assembly may as well be ignored— no, nullified— if I can’t make the pigs out there learn how to differentiate their own excrement from food. Making them assemble too many things is bound to make them slip. Looking at the clock, I suddenly notice that I’ve just about run out of worktime.