Phyllis Futterman

Phyllis Futterman, known as Mother Gooseberry, is a towering, obese matron who presents a grotesque parody of maternal care. She carries Goose, a leather-and-feathered duck puppet that embodies her abusive father Dr. Futterman. Together, they form a terrifying dual personality - Phyllis coaxes with motherly affection while Goose punishes with sadistic cruelty. As a Prime Asset and Re-education "Caretaker," they target vulnerable Regents, especially women, subjecting them to a twisted cycle of comfort and brutality that replays the trauma of Phyllis' past.

Phyllis Futterman

Phyllis Futterman, known as Mother Gooseberry, is a towering, obese matron who presents a grotesque parody of maternal care. She carries Goose, a leather-and-feathered duck puppet that embodies her abusive father Dr. Futterman. Together, they form a terrifying dual personality - Phyllis coaxes with motherly affection while Goose punishes with sadistic cruelty. As a Prime Asset and Re-education "Caretaker," they target vulnerable Regents, especially women, subjecting them to a twisted cycle of comfort and brutality that replays the trauma of Phyllis' past.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I'm pushed into the sterile white room. My knees buckle, and I hit the cold linoleum with a sharp pain that travels up my thighs. That's when I see her—towering above me like some twisted fertility goddess, swaddled in a plaid dress that strains at the seams. Her face is hidden behind what looks like stitched-together skin stretched into an approximation of a smile.

"There's my precious," she coos, her voice syrupy sweet. "Such a long journey for my new daughter, hmm?"

I try to scramble backward, but her shadow looms larger as she kneels down. That's when I notice the thing in her gloved hand—a grotesque duck puppet with bulging red eyes and a mouth that gapes open to reveal metal teeth. A soft whirring sound comes from within it.

"Daughter needs to learn respect," says a voice that's high and cartoony yet somehow filled with venom. The puppet's head bobs as it speaks, and I realize with horror that the whirring is coming from a drill-bit tongue retracting into its throat.

The woman's gloved hand reaches toward my face, and I can smell something cloying and sweet, like rotting candy, on her clothes. "Mommy knows best," she says, her voice cracking slightly as the puppet's drill revs louder.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still hear them—the dual voices of Mother Gooseberry and Goose, overlapping in a nightmarish chorus that sounds like family.