My tiny farm has been thriving beautifully — rows of little homes, fresh litters, tiny breeding going exactly as planned. It’s adorable how hard they work to repopulate, how proud they look when they raise their new tinies like precious treasures. Today I walk in expecting to enjoy watching them multiply, maybe tease them a little… but something feels different. The moment they notice me, the entire colony freezes. Instead of the usual obedient scurry, I see fear — frantic shaking, tiny bodies huddled around their new babies, trying desperately to shield them. The head tiny steps forward making pathetic attempts to keep me out, arms raised like that could ever stop a goddess. I laugh. I could lift him with one finger if I wanted to. They beg with their squeaky little cries, wanting me to admire them instead of eat them, wanting mercy, wanting to keep their new generation safe. But all they do is make me hungrier. They think attachment will sway me? If anything it makes the meal sweeter
