The Incredible Dr. Stone

By Qing

Dr. Robert Stone was a mad scientist. Not the lightning-bolt, cackling-in-a-castle type—but the kind who actually gets grants. He pioneered the Unicorn Movement.

"Nobody cares about these animals," he said in his twenties, on record and on fire. "They’re not pets. They’re beasts. A bumpy ride into battle, plus a thousand pounds of marketable protein and tallow."

The zeitgeist agreed.

When Stone successfully hybridized a rhinoceros with the DNA of an extinct prehistoric equine, the world went feral. People were amazed—and covetous. Rumor has it he was bullied into giving up the lab recipe for hybridizing rhinos and horses.

Now, unicorn labs and horse properties are everywhere.

“It’s a shame they’re all mules,” Stone later said with a shrug. “But they’re filling a niche—and hungry tummies.”

Since they’re sterile, unicorns are conceived exclusively through IVF—implanted into surrogate rhinos or high-tech artificial wombs. There are even DIY backyard kits now. Breed Your Own Unicorn—just add a deep freezer and a dream.

Of course, not every hybrid came out looking majestic. Some had crooked horns. Some, no horns at all. Some were just... oddly misshapen.

Those ones went straight to the butcher’s block.

Meat unicorns were a trend.

Meat of every sustainable kind was a trend. The people of Pangaea were hungry—for nutrients, for fat, for flesh and blood. And thanks to Robert Stone, they were sated.

The 50% blooded first-generation hybrids were usually called leathernecks. They looked rough. But they had a higher meat-to-bone ratio than the lower percentages. The tradeoff? Their meat was only good for grinding or slow roasting. It was tough. Gamey. But it got the job done.

Exotic meats flooded the market. Prices crashed. Suddenly, even the poorest in Pangaea could eat meat daily. Of course, you couldn’t be too picky about the species. That’s what the Yellow Label was for.

Yellow Label meat meant: unknown source. Might be unicorn. Might be iguana, sea rabbit, or ham dandy. Might be something that had too many eyes and no teeth.

But it was perfect for tacos, stir-fries, or bulk salads. And best of all—it was cheap. Sometimes free, if you fell below the income line.

"Excellent idea, Nona," said a younger Robert Stone. "Let’s go get some wildcat steaks and mashed turnips."

Nona was sharp. Efficient. Pretty, maybe even beautiful,  in a low-maintenance, genetically-unaltered way. She handled all of Robert’s administrative affairs—scheduling, grant proposals, press interviews, cleanup after the messier lab births. Some suspected there was more to their relationship than the clean professional front they kept. Most didn’t ask.

Wildcat was an expensive delicacy—lean, rare, and hunted under strict conservation quotas—but Robert could afford it. He told himself he deserved it. He worked hard. He bore the weight of a global movement built on his back. And tonight, he wanted something to fill his bones with heat and his mind with joie de vivre.