Brandon flipped from channel to channel, surfing boredly. On one channel, he stopped. A brightly-colored, obnoxiously loud commercial blared on the screen.
“Prancing Princess Ponies. One of the most prestigious fluffy breeding facilities out there, PPP just keeps pumping out designer after designer. This successful ‘brand’ of fluffy is known for both its intelligence and extraordinary colors. That’s right folks, these fluffies have both beauty AND brains! PPP’s fluffies have been featured in Westminster fluffy shows, in both agility courses and beauty competitions. They have won many of these showings as well, and while their fluffies are often used in competitions such as these, they also make the perfect family pet. Call today to reserve a designer fluffy!”
He shut the TV off, its screen fading to black. “Jesus christ.” Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. “When will these fluffymill breeders learn it’s not all sunshine and rainbows? Everyone knows those mills are fucked up, it’s only a matter of time before they get caught.” He glanced at the clock, stood, slipped on his shoes and put his wallet in his pocket. “Alright, time to meet that new baby fluffalo.” He stepped out the door, then shut it with a click.
One of the breeding facilities of the PPP resided in a rather high-class neighborhood, many of the homes surrounding it reserved for workers only. There was an employees-only back door to this facility that led to a surprisingly dirty alleyway.
Muffled shouting, fast footsteps and a yowled “NO!” could be heard from inside the building before…
WHAM
The door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall and careened back inwards. A blur of cream, light brown and black leapt through the entryway and tumbled down the stone steps, falling to a stop on its side. It was a fluffy, a freshly pregnant mare to be exact. Her sides heaved as, wasting no time, she struggled back to her hooves and resumed her gallop, wheezing tiredly with each gasping breath.
The humans that had held her captive had called her #782, but she had named herself in secret. Mocha was her self-chosen name, based off of her colors. Her hooves pounded against the asphalt, desperately carrying her as fast as they could away from her human captors. She had to get away, she just HAD to! She couldn’t stand to see another litter of hers end up taken by humans or forced to bear foals of their own.
Mocha’s beautiful black-furred legs burned with exertion, as did her lungs. Her pretty markings did nothing to aid her escape, and her looks would do nothing to convince her subduers to show mercy on her if she was caught. They would kill her for sure! They made so many pretty fluffies, she knew they could bear to sacrifice just one. Especially if it misbehaved by escaping the second it had the chance.
Her eyes watered in pure terror as she turned the corner, hooves skidding against the hot, smooth pavement. She heard 2 humans chasing her from the alleyway, and she forced her legs to keep pumping. Blindly, she sprinted down the sidewalk, not daring to look back and only using her ears to gauge how close her pursuers were.
Eventually she started slowing down from the exhaustion and she heard them gaining on her. She began to zig zag, run in circles and double back on her tracks. This helped her put less effort into playing keep away and made them put more effort into following her. Speed was no longer as important if she did this, and her body could recharge a little.
Eventually she slipped into another nearby alleyway, this one dark with shadows. Thankfully her captors were far behind again, and she had time to hide. She pushed and squeezed herself under a small hole in a fence and dove behind a brick wall. Her enemies took one glance into the alleyway and, no longer seeing her, sped by, thinking she was somewhere up ahead.
She let out a shuddering sob of relief, but steeled herself. She was not out of the woods yet. She couldn’t go ‘prancing’ (Haha) down the street like any feral fluffy, she was still being looked for. So she slunk along the grass that grew close to the wall, keeping her belly low like a cat.
She acted as if she were still being actively followed, and smartly kept to the shadows until nightfall. Then she avoided streetlights despite her fear of the dark, knowing that being visible was more dangerous. Eventually, hours into the night, she finally made her way into a less high-end neighborhood and found an overturned wooden crate in an alleyway. She collapsed into it as if it were a goose-down bed and fell right asleep, dreaming of nothing.
Days later, she learned just how hard life on the street was. She’d fallen into an oil puddle and grown absolutely filthy to the point where her markings were near-invisible. Humans kicked at her and attempted to grab her up as if she were some flea-ridden, obnoxious stray dog, spouting insults meanwhile.
She learned to avoid human feet by keeping close to walls and out of walkways when possible. She learned to not trust hands (Alas, she already knew human touch was often painful, from her days in that hellish facility). She learned that the shiny dark puddle she’d fallen into was not water (She had been sick all that night afterwards, earning her no sleep). She learned to be crafty, sneaky and quick-witted, as one had to be when homeless.
In the week after her escape, she came to understand what money was. Reluctantly, she began to work alongside criminals despite her general dislike of humans. She would pickpocket unsuspecting people and exchange this act for a few dollars from their earnings. This she would usually spend at a convenience store for food and clean water, or for a single night in a safe place not on the street. Humans often accepted this exchange, due to the mere amusement of a fluffy of all things possessing money.
Within 3 weeks, her belly had grown greatly swollen with a litter of foals. When she was for sure alone, she would croon softly to her unborn babies, singing for them and telling them she loved them. She knew she would be a mother soon, and that she needed to stockpile food for the time after she birthed, so she could rest.
She had also seen, on display TVs that were being sold in stores, how humans gave birth and made it safer. She would need a shallow pool, water, and a soft cloth of some sort. She pickpocketed more, skipped a few meals and spent a few nights on the street to make enough money to get a pool and extra water. She stockpiled food and saved some water on the side for drinking as well.
About 3 days after finishing her stockpiling, she awoke from a midday nap to contractions, and that her water had broken all over her bed.
She gasped and whimpered as she opened bottle after bottle of water, dumping it into the pool. Although right when she was about to grab the very last bottle, her legs collapsed under her and she cried out in agony. The contractions were getting faster.
She might have had no choice but to give birth on the filthy alley floor.
