Three months later…

The Third Branch

A presentation by Blanca DeWitt 

Chief Technology Officer 

VerdeCore Interfaces, Inc.

Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed leaders, visionaries, and scholars, Mr. President…

Permit me to begin with a gentle observation: scientists have spent far too long wringing their hands over the evolution of species. Important, yes, but quaint. At VerdeCore, we suggest that conversation is… pedestrian. The true story of history is not about the survival of the fittest body, but the survival of the fittest mind. Intelligence, not biology, has always crowned the victor.

And now, humanity has done something extraordinary. We have birthed a new kind of intelligence—artificial, bound by no blood, no bone, no sluggish neurons. It does not sleep, it does not tire, it does not forget. It is, quite simply, what we ourselves could never be.

Which brings us to the uncomfortable truth: if we are to avoid becoming evolutionary footnotes in our own story, we must become something else. A species that can stand shoulder to shoulder with the intelligence we’ve unleashed.

This, my friends, is where VerdeCore enters history. Our laboratories have already pioneered the tools to physically augment human cognition—tools that allow individuals to keep pace with artificial intelligence rather than be left in its dust.

But, let me be perfectly clear. This is not a charity. Not everyone qualifies. Augmentation thrives only in fertile soil; if the mind lacks the necessary depth, the process is at best exorbitantly wasteful—and at worst, catastrophic. Severe psychosis, irreparable collapse. Or to translate bluntly: if your IQ isn’t high enough, augmentation is not for you.

Now, I can already hear the objections. What about society? What about equity? Indeed—what happens when ninety-five percent of the population realizes they are not invited to the future? History tells us they will protest, resist, and drag at the ankles of progress like drowning men pulling their rescuers beneath the waves.

We have, of course, modeled this. Our simulations reveal the optimal path: reduce the unfit into a docile subpopulation. A gentling, if you will. A reconfiguration from would-be citizens into something closer to herd animals—content, compliant, untroubled by questions they cannot hope to answer.

This leaves us—the intelligentsia, the affluent, the capable—free to ascend. Yet even among us, there are sentimental attachments. Family, friends, even… beloveds, who sadly fall short of compatibility. To address this inevitable dilemma, VerdeCore offers a third branch in the grand arc of human evolution.

Designer Pets.

Not just companions, but living testaments to progress. Loved ones who might otherwise have been left behind, reshaped into something gentler, more beautiful, and—most importantly—manageable.

So, tonight I present not just a technological leap, but a moral framework for the centuries to come. Evolution is no longer a blind watchmaker. It has an architect now. And that architect… is us.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Missouri.

<The lights dim. A video begins.>

<The screen shows Blanca and Missouri at a grand piano. Missouri’s fingers dance across the keys, her voice warm and melodic.>

Blanca: "Today, you said you were going to teach me about the modes of a musical scale, right?"

<Voiceover, tender, almost reverent>: "Missouri is brilliant. A virtuoso. She could spend hours explaining the intricacies of harmony, the mathematics of melody. Watch."

<Missouri plays a C major scale, humming along with the notes, her voice bright with enthusiasm.>

Missouri: "There are eight modes of a scale. The Ionian mode, starting on C, sounds bright and happy. But if I start on A—" <she plays the Aeolian mode>, "—it sounds sad. My favorite is the Phrygian mode. It’s exotic, mysterious..."

<Blanca’s voiceover softens, almost affectionate.>: “She spent an hour teaching me. Then, she washed her hair."



<The video cuts to Missouri sitting under a sleek, futuristic bonnet-style hairdryer, her eyes closed in contentment.>

<Blanca voiceover continues>: "This isn’t just a hairdryer. It’s a revision tool. You see, the more recently—and deeply—a mind engages with a concept, the easier it is to... prune it. Like trimming a bonsai. We don’t erase skill. We erase awareness."

<The video jumps to Missouri playing the piano again, her fingers still deft, her expression serene. Perhaps, most notably, she is sitting at the piano naked.>

Blanca: "That’s beautiful, my love. Is that the Ionian mode?"

<Missouri pauses, her brow furrowing slightly.>

Missouri: "What?"

Blanca <on-screen, smiling>: "The music. Are you playing the Ionian mode?"

<Missouri stares blankly, then shrugs, her confusion fleeting. She resumes playing, her smile returning.>

Missouri: "I’m just playing what I feel, babe. You make me so happy."

<The screen fades to black.> 

In the span of a few hours, decades of theoretical study were erased—while her artistry remained immaculate. Missouri still plays with heart, with soul, with brilliance. But she no longer troubles herself with labels or theories. She simply plays.

And let me make something perfectly clear: I am not a sociopath. I do not delight in tampering with the mind of the woman I love with all my heart. I have lost sleep. I have wrestled with conscience. But—look around you. Look at the precipice upon which humanity teeters. Do you imagine we have the luxury of sentimentality?

If I would entrust this process to the love of my life, what greater proof of necessity could I offer you? Missouri does not have the requisite intelligence for augmentation. I will not consign her to the herd. And so… I choose the third branch.

Observe her in the video—confused for a moment, yes. But then? Content. Radiant. Happy. She is not diminished. She is liberated. She is not anxious, not restless, not straining after impossible thresholds. She is fulfilled. She is mine.

This, my distinguished audience, is the essence of the Designer Pet. A being who loves and is loved. Who is safe, serene, and loyal. Submissive without misery, mute without despair. A lifelong companion whose joy requires no ambition beyond the bond they share with their caretaker.

So I put to you a simple question: would you prefer your families, your beloveds, your sentimental attachments, to languish in confusion and resentment as you ascend? Or would you prefer to see them content, cherished, and—yes—beautifully transformed?

We stand at the brink of human evolution. This moment approaches us like a wave in the ocean. Unstoppable. Each person alive today must become one of three: augmented elite, domesticated herd, or beloved Designer Pet. This is not cruelty. This is mercy married to vision. This is the architecture of survival.

And VerdeCore… is holding the blueprint.

Thank you.

<>--+-

When Blanca arrived home that evening, not a single light illuminated their townhouse. The curtains remained drawn against the persistent late summer evening sun, casting the interior in premature darkness.

"Missy?" Blanca called out, making her way through the shadowed rooms until she reached their bedroom, flipping on the light switch.

Missouri lay curled atop a nest of pillows arranged on the floor, her body wrapped in a sheet pulled from their bed. From beneath the fabric, a chain snaked its way to a floor fixture Blanca had installed the previous week, the metal links gleaming under the sudden brightness.

"Missy?" Blanca repeated, concern edging her voice.

Missouri raised her head, her expression a portrait of distress. "I'm so sorry, Blanca," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Blanca quickly knelt beside her, fingers gently stroking through Missouri's thick dark hair. "What has happened? Are you okay?"

"I accidentally locked myself onto the leash and I couldn't figure out how to unlock it," Missouri confessed, her words falling soft and fragile between them.

"Locked?" Blanca questioned, brow furrowing in confusion. The chain mounted in their bedroom ended in a simple clip fastening, similar to a dog leash—there were no locks involved. She began carefully lifting the sheet to investigate how the chain was attached. 

Earlier that morning, she had asked Missouri to wear a buttplug—specifically one designed to expand inside her, locking it in place. The base of the buttplug included a sturdy metal ring intended for leashing purposes, though that feature was not employed when Blanca left for work. She suspected Missouri might have somehow added a padlock to the arrangement.

While Blanca examined the situation, Missouri's gaze remained fixed on a spot across the room, beyond the far side of their bed.

"It was locked, and I couldn't figure out how to unlock it, and I couldn't wait any longer for you to get home," Missouri explained as tears began trickling down her cheeks. "I'm so embarrassed... I'm so sorry, Blanca! I had to... I peed on the floor."

Blanca immediately abandoned her investigation and gathered Missouri into her arms. "It's okay, baby. I'm not mad. You're fine," she soothed, glancing at the thin puddle visible on the hardwood floor. "I can clean that up easily, but can I see how you've locked yourself?"

Missouri pulled away the sheet, revealing her naked form, the metal rings on her freshly healed nipple piercings swinging gently with the movement. Twisting her hips, she reached behind herself to tug at the chain clipped to the buttplug ring.

"I squeezed the connector again and again, but it wouldn't open," she explained, frustration evident in her voice. "Then I forgot, or I thought maybe I forgot, and I began to think that maybe the chain is clipped to the ring in the floor."

"No, babe, that end is fixed. Here," Blanca said, reaching down to easily unclip the metal chain from the buttplug.

Missouri's eyes widened in confusion. "Oh! How did you..."

"You don't squeeze this clip to open it," Blanca explained, her tone shifting to one of patient instruction. "This is a bolt snap. You use your thumb to pull this knob down. See?" She demonstrated the motion deliberately. "You have to slide the small, cylindrical bolt back and into the main body of the clip."

"Oh..." Missouri stared at Blanca, her expression a mixture of relief and bewilderment.

"Hey, babe! Relax right here and I'll clean up the floor really quickly," Blanca reassured her. “I’m just going to clip the leash back on the buttplug. We’ll wait a few minutes, then we’ll let you try unclipping yourself. Okay?” She pulled the sheet back over Missouri's naked form with gentle hands.

"Okay," Missouri responded, resting her head back down on the pillows.

As Blanca rose to retrieve cleaning supplies, she called over her shoulder, "In the future, maybe we should leave a small bucket here," a hint of amusement hiding beneath her practical suggestion.

As Blanca finished mopping the floor, Missouri suddenly sat upright, the sheet cascading down to pool around her hips.

"I totally forgot, Blanca! How did your presentation go today?" Missouri asked brightly, her earlier melancholy seemingly vanished without a trace.

"Oh! The presentation went better than expected," Blanca replied, setting the mop aside. "I think the investors completely understand what we're trying to do, and they seem to be behind our plan one hundred percent."

She walked over to where Missouri perched atop the pile of pillows and playfully stroked her head, fingers trailing affectionately through her thick, dark brown tresses. "They especially liked the new form factor for our gynoids," Blanca added with a devious grin stretching across her face.

"Does that mean...?" Missouri asked, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

"Yes!" Blanca exclaimed enthusiastically. "Soon, there will be thousands of gynoids that look and sound exactly like you being sold throughout the Americas and Europe."

"Oh? Will I speak... um... what language do they speak in Europe?" Missouri asked, brow furrowing slightly.

"What language do they speak in Europe?” Blanca smiled at Missouri’s question. “Any language they might want to speak. All of them, Babe!" 

"Cool!" Missouri responded, though her expression revealed lingering confusion behind her excitement.

"That reminds me," Blanca said, her confident demeanor practically radiating anticipation. "I got you a gift to celebrate! You're going to love this."

Missouri began practically bouncing up and down with excitement now, mirroring Blanca's infectious mood. "For me?"

With a flourish, Blanca produced a small dark jewelry box and handed it to Missouri, who slowly opened it with delicate fingers. "Oooo! Thanks!"

Gradually, Missouri's smile transformed into a puzzled frown. "Um... What are they?"

Blanca positioned herself behind Missouri, looking over her shoulder at the contents of the box. "They are thumb rings. Here. Let me show you." She extracted one of the items from the velvet interior. "Rather than slide on your thumb, they clip around the base." With practiced precision, Blanca wrapped the ring around Missouri's right thumb and squeezed until there was a satisfying click.

"There. See? It's a snug, yet comfortable fit." Blanca tugged firmly on the ring, but it remained securely in place—its diameter too small to fit over the knuckle of Missouri's thumb. "This way they won't fall off accidentally."

With equal care, Blanca helped Missouri secure the second ring on her left thumb, her movements methodical and deliberate.

"They match my nipple rings!" Missouri exclaimed happily, admiring her thumbs at arms length with genuine delight.

"Exactly!" Blanca confirmed. "They work together as a set."

"Work together?" Missouri echoed, pushing up her right breast to better compare the thumb and nipple rings, curiosity evident in her expression.

"Yes! Check this out!" Blanca rummaged through her bag for a moment before retrieving a small handheld device with a digital readout. "See? If I enter 'R Breast' and 'R Thumb' here, then... see?" The digital display illuminated with '2.3'. "Now, stretch out your arm."

When Missouri extended her arm to her side, the display immediately changed to '28.5'.

"It measures the distance between the rings," Blanca explained with the enthusiasm of an engineer sharing her creation. "Here, try this? R Breast, L Breast."

Missouri stared at the display for a second before pushing her breasts together and watching with fascination as the numbers fluctuated in response to her movements.

Blanca jumped up excitedly. "You haven't seen anything yet." She strode to the closet and retrieved one of Missouri's smaller musical keyboards, her movements infused with barely contained enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Missouri amused herself watching the display change. "Cleavage... no cleavage... cleavage... no cleavage..." she chanted playfully as she alternated positions.

Blanca connected a device to several ports on the keyboard and powered it up. "Okay... how do you make this sound like a theremin?"

"A what?" Missouri asked, her attention shifting from her new accessories.

"A theremin... like in that Beach Boys song... you know... Good Vibrations."

"Oh yeah! The wooo woo sound," Missouri replied, sliding the pitch of her voice dramatically on each 'woo' to demonstrate.

With practiced familiarity, Missouri pressed several buttons in the keyboard settings. "There."

"Okay," Blanca said, her smile widening with anticipation. "Now, your left arm controls volume—when you hold your left thumb close to your left nipple, the volume will be quiet, and the further away you hold your thumb, the louder it gets. Your right arm controls pitch, which works in a similar fashion."

Missouri began waving her arms experimentally, and the room filled with haunting, ethereal sounds that shifted with her movements.

"Ooo! Wait! Wait!" Missouri exclaimed as she stood up, allowing the sheet to drop completely to the floor, revealing her naked form. The chain still dangled from her buttplug, rattling behind her and causing Missouri to turn and glance at it momentarily, seemingly having forgotten she was attached. After a moment she simply smiled and stood straight and began waving her arms.

Within a minute of practice, she had mastered moving her arms to imitate the theremin sounds from the classic song, and shortly thereafter added percussion by twerking her hips to rattle the chain in perfect rhythm.

Soon she was dancing around the room, expertly scatting one of the vocal parts while flailing her arms to create the theremin accompaniment, adding vibrato with subtle shakes of her chest, and twerking to maintain the beat before breaking into the chorus with joyous abandon: "Good, good, good! Good vibrations!” 

Blanca stood back smiling, completely enthralled by the performance unfolding before her. "God! I love this woman!" she thought to herself, watching Missouri's uninhibited celebration with her new toys.

Her mind drifted to some of the other devices she was developing that would couple with this sensor system. "Good vibrations, indeed," she mused, already imagining the possibilities that awaited them both.