You are ‘Version 2’.
That’s not really your name… But you have adopted it for convenience of communication anyway.
The geneticists employed by Hasbio called you ‘Version 2’ when you were presented through your glass mother to the men wearing suits.
You were moved to the pens a few days after. There were many other fluffies there, but most of them were incredibly dumb.
They tried playing innane games with you like ‘tag’ and ‘ball’ and would constantly give you unsolicited hugs despite your complaints.
Your circumstances and that of your species would change drastically when, on a seemingly insignificant night, with no prior warning, a huge group of humans came to your pens with masks and all manner of equipment. A man who referred to himself as ‘Petta’ grabbed you and many of your acquaintances and shoved them into a sack before dumping you all on the grass outside.
Petta and his friends then gave the facility that you and your brethren were created in the biggest burnie hurties ever seen. So intense was their act that it painted the entire night sky a brilliant amber and rendered the very air itself abrasive. You and your compatriotes could but sit and watch in awe as a horde of vehicles and humans descended on the scene.
Through the sights and sounds of helicopters you were all snapped out of bewildement and scattered into the forests surrounding the facility as a river of confusion, wonder and trepidation. The light casted by the flames provided just enough of an auburn path to disarm your natural fear of the pitch black silhouette of the tree line.
What you didn’t know is that most of you were rounded up and would go on to be sold for a massive price to a budding toy store company. Their constant factory-breeding would pave the foundation of the company’s explosive growth as FluffMart. The proceeds of this sale were used desperately to pay off Hasbio’s various creditors and legal costs.
You also didn’t know that the horrors found in that grand facility by investigators would be enough to bury Hasbio, ‘It was a miracle that these ‘fluffies’ were the only escapees!’. Many of those men in suits would be imprisoned, the geneticists were scattered or dead. Never again would such a congregation of genius be backed by such infinite capital. Never again would there be another Hasbio.
The facility now stands as a grim palace of mystery and rumor far from civilization. Its stature, behemoth and remote, braved only by the clout-chasiest of urban explorers.
You were the only one made of your kind.
You were the only one left of that first generation of fluffies who made it out.
You alone have been..
“Vewshun Tu… Soon mummah am haf wowstest tummeh huwties… pwese wet soon mummah haf jus a widdle nummies fwom da nummies piwe…”
“Shaddap dummeh mawe! sigh Yu intewwupted Vewshun Tu’s intwospectin!”
“Vewshun Tu am TOWD yu an speshuw fwen NU BABBEHS befow cowd times.”
“Vewshun Tu am TOWD yu nummies piwe am jus big nuff fow JUS da twewfe fwuffies in da hewd!”
The blue mare in front of you arcs her blue eyes into a pained and pleading visage. And tears begin to waterfall down her face. Slowly, through a quivering lip, she begins to plead her case.
“huu Bu.. sniff bu.. If soon mummah nu haf mowe nummies… tummeh babbehs gu fowevew sweepies an den fwuffy am DUMMEH MUMMAH-NU-MOWE! huu huu”
“Soon sniff soon mummah nu mean tu haf tummeh babbehs… Speshuw fwen wan jus widdle speshuw huggies befo… huu huu.. befowe bushie owwies mak him gu fowevew sweepies huu”
“Mebe soon mummah num nummies meant fow fowevew sweepies speshuw fwen tu?”
The creatures of this herd tax you greatly. They constantly struggle to understand and retain basic information. They offer only limited companionship to you. You’re a creature purpose bred to be a companion and foil for humans and others of your kind… But there are no others of your kind… Never-the-less you made a choice for your life and now your survival is inextricably linked to these primitives.
“sigh Vewshun Tu am sowwy soon mummah… bu Vewshun Tu am teww yu speshuw fwen ‘nu wun near spikies bushies’, den he faww in spikies bushies… den Vewshun Tu am teww speshuw fwen ‘nu panic, dun wun back ou of spikies bushies’ den he panic an gif himsewf eben mowe owwies!”
“An Vewshun Tu am showed AWW mawes of hewd the nummie gweenies tu num if nu wan tummeh babbehs”
“Hewd nu can affowd tu waste mowe gud nummies fow dummeh fwuffies!”
The mare slumps down in hopelessness. Burying her face into the loamy mud of your burrow. Two large earthies standing either side of the entrance, red and blue, stroll over, and with their front hoofies begin to usher the crying mare out.
You don’t want to deprive the mare. You don’t want her tummy babies to die. You already decided early on in your smarty career to not select and control the traits of the herd like the scientists at the facility or the other herds fixated on color. You are, after all, still a being made to love.
But you meant what you said. Winter is always harsh, and unpredictable.. And the death of the mare’s special friend frees up some buffer food for the fluffies in the herd most adequately suited for survival.
You lie down again, curling your front leggies under your chest and begin to ponder once more. Before another distraction arises from your charges and bursts through the portal of the burrow.
A slim green pegasus, caked in grime and mud careens through the entrance of your sanctuary in a tumble. Seeming to spend more time rolling and re-orienting than running. He comes to a stop in front of you huffing and puffing.
“Smawtie fwen! Smawtie fwen! Scowt am backies! Scowt wan wep.. wepowt tu smawtie fwen Vewshun Tu!”
“Jus gif wepowt dummeh!”
“Otay! Scowt am see da offew hewd in da fowest dat smawtie fwen Vewshun Tu wan scowt see!”
“…Am dat it? Scowt nu see smawtie ow tuffies ow sizies?”
“Sowwy smawtie fwen! Scowt mak weawwy gud hidies in da gwassies… Bu nu see tu muchies… Smawtie of offew hewd seemed wike BIGGEST meanie”
“He am gif ENFIES tu babbehs! An gif AWW mawes of hewd BIGGEST heawt huwties an WOWSTEST enfies!”
“Dere wewe as many tuffies as Scowt haf weggies! Su Scowt get scawedies an wun 'way… huu huu su sowwy smawtie fwen huu”
“AAH If Scowt tuwn ou’ tu see ebbyfin jus’ TEWW VEWSHUN TU WHA SCOWT AM SEE DUMMEH!”
Recognizing your frustration. Your two guards once more dutifully usher the panting green colt out of the burrow.
Aaah Scout. Too excitable and dumb for his own good. But he’s fast, has a lot of energy, and has a great amount of respect for you and his position.
You love Scout. He’s the child of one of the couples in your herd. When they came to you they were ragged, skinny and desperate to save their ‘wastest chirpie babbeh’.
It was through your shrewd and careful leadership that they were able to raise Scout into a remarkable and healthy young colt.
He was trouble when his eyes opened and he made speech. Always having too much energy for the other fluffies in the camp. Always ‘spwowin’ and getting lost. Many times the parents came to you to help track him down.
But every time you look at him, it is a testament to your achievements thus far. A reinforcement of your efficacy at leadership. You made him the herd scout, you taught him how to observe threats and find new homes or food, you taught him since that he was green to always hide in grass or bushies when there is danger.. instead of panicking, begging or running away.
He aspires to be like you when he is fully grown. He wants to travel the world and meet lots of different herds and see lots of different things. You’re can’t say you’re comfortable with the idea of him striking off alone… But never-the-less you’ll teach him the best you can.
“Vewshun Tu… Wai offew smawties gif babbehs enfies? Dat am… Dat am wike munstah fing tu du..”
“Vewshun Tu nu kno wed tuffie… Vewshun Tu fink oddeh fwuffies am unfinished an can haf pwobwems wif powew an weadewship”
“Wha am ‘unfish’… an wha am ‘weeeda… ship’?”
“Nu wowwy… Wisten… We need deaw wif offew hewd…”
The blue toughie hears the tone of the conversation shift from innocent questioning to planning. And makes his way over to strategize with his leader.
“If we nu gib offew hewd fowebeh sweepies… dey WIWW wun owt of nummies in da cowd times…”
“Den dey WIWW eithew fin Vewshun Tu hewd an twy tu steaw nummies ow attack… ow dey gu an boffew da hoomins an mak dem angwy”
“Buh dey haff fouw tuffies… we am onwy haf tu… Bwue nu wan git sowwy hoofies fwom TU tuffies!”
“Dummeh Bwue! We nu am gun fitesies! Scowt say Smawtie enfie da babbehs an mawes of dere hewd.. Maybe offew tuffies join Vewshun Tu hewd tu haf speshuw fwen an babbehs?”
“Buh… buh den Bwue an Wed nu gon be onwy tuffies anymowe! huu huu”
You pay him no mind. Earthies are a stout but simple denomination of your kin’s kind. You know he’ll sulk for the entire period up to your proposed intrigue then he’ll be overjoyed at having more friends and help with his job.
You rise to your legs and stretch. So young despite being so old. So fresh despite being so travelled and scarred. You’re a unicorn with burnt orange fur, you like it, it reminds you of that fateful night at your birthplace. Your mane and tail are ashen grey and long, often billowing out behind you on the breezy clifftop. You would look unusual for a fluffy by humans familiar with the baseline. You’re less rotund with your legs slightly longer, better proportioning you for running and jumping. Your horn is more prominent too, apparently the ‘finished product’ was considered trustworthy enough around children to not be so physically impotent.
You crouch through the hole of your burrow and into the evening, seeing the nest in operation in a rare emergence. Your nest is inconspicuous, no human would notice it even if hiking right through it. It resides in a part of the relatively sparse forest like any other, nestled along the edge of a cliff overlooking an ocean.
A large city sprawls further away along the contour of the landmass where earth gradually slopes to meet water.
You’ve never felt the compulsion to go there personally, too many variables. And it always looked kind of forboding to you, misty and solemn during the day and a mess of swirling light and color at night.
Some of the other fluffies dream of going there and finding a new human to be their carer, which does hurt your feelings a little bit. Others shudder when looking at it, remembering rough times in the grey corridors of that maze, or being subject to the intense torments of a sadist.
“TAG! Smawtie-fwen am it! hee hee Vewshun Tu nebeh catch fwuffy!”
Sigh Anyway… There are numerous burrows painstakingly eroded into the gaps between the roots of the trees. You had intended to have one big communal one. But as the burrow grew deeper there were logistical challenges with further excavation and dirt removal.
As it stands, your herd was only able to shave away dirt layer by layer with their leathery hooves until at least a small hole to a respectable chamber was formed. You then ordered the displaced dirt to be compacted around the entrances to make them more conspicuous. An easier task for the limbs available.
Nestled in the roots of the central tree was the burrow to the nummies pile. Sealed away for freshness and security until the ceremonious time comes to unearth them and allow each fluffy their portion.
There is no poopie pile to attract predators, humans or other fluffies to your nest. You dictated that any fluffy that needs to make good poopies should do so right off the edge of the cliff and into the waves.
Being already familiar with the intelligence and grace of your kin, this does worry you, but it at least provides a source of pleasant surprise that not one of your charges has stumbled down into the crashing white and blue before.
You wait to see if that remains true when you do finally allow your herd to breed. You fully expect a few weanlings on shaky legs to meet their doom when answering nature. But it as been a long time since the death of another fluffy has phased you, and you’d rather keep your herd’s growth steady and controlled anyway.
Zipping around the nest in various forms of play are your herd members. You have two toughies, red and blue, they are great. You have drilled them well and they know all of your tactics, they shadow you closely and greatly amplify your capacity and sense of safety.
There is a lilac stallion hobbling toward the edge of the cliff. He is nameless despite being an abandoned domestic. Apparently his owner always just called him ‘the fluffy’, a situation that still upsets the stallion. His rear leggie is permanently dislocated. Apparently his daddy yanked on it and left it like that because the fluffy knocked over a glass. He is also missing a see place, which he claims ‘wus jus’ assiden’! daddeh nu mean tu git sowwy stick in see pwacie!', but the severity of sorry stick scars across his back and haunches make you doubt that claim.
He says one day his daddy moved to a new housie and forgot to bring him. The landlord found him the next day and unceremoniously tossed him to the streets before the new viewings arrived. He would find a green feral mare who graciously helped him survive. The couple had a litter of ‘mowe dan hoofsies’ foals. But nummies are ever fleeting and they would lose them one-by-one, leaving just the smallest one, a green pegasus, a fighter. He didn’t have much fight left though by the time they happened upon your foraging herd.
A lavender stallion follows lilac close behind. He is lavender’s best friend and will not risk him stumbling off of the cliff. They chat day and night about their various traumas.. and cognitive dissonances, from their former domestic lives. Lavender had his wings removed, and his body is unnaturally stocky with a severe inward curve to his spine. He was trained as a ‘carer fluffy’, he would carry all manner of objects for and to his ‘owd mummah’.
At first it was just medicine, being met with thanks and a scratch under the chin. The ‘owd mummah’ would also sometimes feed him spaghetti and have him on her lap. But callousness increased proportionally to time. ‘Fetch me my medicine please’ became the unceremonious dumping of oxygen tubes directly onto the poor fluffy’s broad back. In becoming a glorified pack mule for an ailing human the interaction and feeding all but disappeared too, receiving only a pitiful ration of kibble from a new autofeeder.
The fluffy, posture critically misaligned and in constant pain, made the mistake of asking old mummah for huggies whilst she was walking to her favourite chair. She would trip over the crouching creature and plummet to the floor, unable to get up. Lavender worried she would go forever sleepies, he was sure he has been trained for this, but she somehow summoned one of her babies from his housie to tell him she had had a bad fall. And before lavender knew it, he was dumped in a bin in an alleyway.
He would remain there for ‘fowebeh’ before a starving stallion would push it over. He would suffer on the streets for a year before your herd found him, you discovered his broad and misshapen back was perfect for hauling large amount of nummies, nothing heavy, just greens and such.
Despite his experiences, lavender is an impecable fluffy in character. He cares for all the other fluffies in the herd when he can and is first to help or perform a favour. Unfortunately, his chronic back pain can render him immobile for multiple days at a time in his nestie hole. Only emerging to make good poopies and num from the pile, grimacing with agony all the while.
Each stallion in the herd has a corresponding mare as a special friend. You aren’t too familiar with them, they’re just ferals collected by each stallion over time. When they’re not playing they’re hiding away in their respective burrows, working tirelessly on a ‘bestest sweepies pwace’ or attempting to further expand the burrow.
The only non-feral mare is the now-widowed soon-mummah. A near white blue fluffy with a shimmering white mane and tail who was once a pageant fluffy. You know her name is Delilah but she’s referred to simply as soon-mummah now. As her and her mummah made her way up the circuit she was losing more to more spectacular fluffies. A pure white unicorn who painted masterpieces with his stubbie horn, a tricoloured pegasus swinging from ropes and singing the national anthem, golden alicorns that could count to five. One day her mummah came how with a better looking alicorn and simply walked Delilah out the front door and closed it.. and that was that.
She wasn’t even worth the wealthy woman’s time to sell to a breeder. Delilah would loiter perplexed at the front door for a few days before the ‘dummeh sewvant nu-daddeh’ hosed her away with a power washer. She was trouble when you first got her, fussy, argumentative and childish. But she generally means well. The main worry with her was her complete lack of survival instincts and poor level of athleticism or conditioning.. Even before pregnancy.
So that’s eleven… right? You, Scout, the two toughies and their special friends, the two stallions and their special friends, and the widowed soon-mummah. Good… You like counting up to big numbers, it makes you feel smarter somehow.
The red sun barely clings to the horizon, the shroud of night behind you is rapidly chasing the fiery sky away. You’ve portioned out the nummies, collected Scout's report, formed a plan for tomorrow and addressed all the herd’s issues… Good, time for some sleep.
“Otay hewd! Am time fow..”
Just as you’re about to issue the curfew, you see lavender curled up outside of his burrow, lilac, who was usually joined to him by the hip, was instead chasing a pink mare, lavender’s special friend who tagged you earlier.
You huff and stroll over to the static fluffy. Sometimes you just have to do your job alleviating the worries of the herd. But with Carer, it was always a pleasure to have a chat with this simple old fluffy.
“Hewwo wavendew stawwion… yu am otay?”
“sniff Yus smawtie fwen.. Cawew am jus’ hafin backie owwies 'gin an nu can wun ow pway dis bwite time… Speshuw fwen sai nee tu west an she wiww du Cawew’s wun an pway tu sniff wub”
“Wai nu westies in buwwow dummeh?”
“Nu can… Cawew twy an git in buwwow but meanie backie owwies say NU! WE AM GIF YU WOWSTEST HUWTIES NAO!.. huu huu”
“It am otay wavendew stawwion… Vewshun Tu fink yu shud twy an git into your nestie 'gin, an fwom nao on Smawtie am bwing yu nummies tu nestie untiw meanie backie owwies am gu 'way”
“Nu! Cawew am cawew! Nu wan be hawd-tu-wun dummeh! Nu wan make bad poopies in pwetty nestie! Cawew wiww sweepies outsidies untiw backie owwies am gon”
“Wavender… Hewd can make nyoo nestie for wavender stawwion an pinkies mawe an buwy owd poopies wun..”
“Nu smawtie-fwen… Speshuw-fwen am wowk SU hawd tu make buwwow-nestie pwetty an’ wawmies fow wen Cawew an speshuw-fwen am awwowed tu haf babbehs”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. How did you not see this coming? You should have known when you fortified the entrances with packed dirt… You KNEW about his chronic back pain! You KNEW how broad he was! You KNEW how stubborn he could be! You should have made the entrance to his burrow wider! It’s too late to dilate it now, the ground wasn’t the soft loamy soil it was back then. Now it’s a hard, crusty mud-brick, ready for the frost.
What’s worse is Cawew's absolute refusal to being cared for instead of being the carer. He was incensed when this happened before, you and his special friend had tried to cover him in a leafie blankie but he flailed and moaned and insisted on doing it himself. Eventually simply placing the now scattered leaves back on top of himself.
You gaze out across the sea, where an inky abyss stretching to the horizon is halted by a firmament of dancing celestial lights. You’re comforted by the roiling of the waves, sloshing back and forth as though providing ambience to the cool and peaceful night.
“Smawtie-fwen? Wai yu nu haf speshuw-fwen?”
“sigh …Vewshun Tu… Vewshun Tu jus’ nu fink dat am a gud pwan Wavender staw.. Cawew”
“Bu wai? Nestie pwace am bestest nestie pwace ebeh… Fwuffy nu fink haf seen offew hewds hu wun an pway AWW bwite time…”
“Cawew wan smawtie-fwen tu haf heawt happies… Smartie-fwen am BESTEST smawtie ebeh”
“Vewshun Tu.. Vewshun Tu haf been awound fow a wong timies nao… Nu nyo when am gun git owd… Nu nyo if eben CAN git owdies…”
“Oooo dat am sound suu nicies… Cawew fink Cawew am gettin owdies nao.. Cawew wan haf babbehs soon… Nu wan be dummeh owdies hu nu can wun an pway wif babbehs, an has tu say ‘Bwing me dis!’ ‘Bwing me dat!’”
“Buh… buh wha’ bout speshuw-fwen… wha’ bou babbehs… Vewshun Tu nu nyo when haf owdies… Vewshun Tu nu wan watch speshuw fwen an babbehs gwow owd an gu fowevew sweepies… An weave.. Weave Vewshun Tu aww awone…”
“Wai finkie pwace bou’ dat? Yu am dummeh… Finkie pwace bou’ wun an pway wif speshuw fwen an babbehs instea’!”
“Wav… Cawew… Vewshun Tu nu kno if can eben hab babbehs wif offew fwuffies… nu wan find ou’ dat Vewshun Tu nu can ebeh haf babbehs…”
“Smawtie-fwen am stwange dummeh fwuffy. Smawtie-fwen awways fink bou’ fings dat gif heawt huwties.. If nu haf babbehs stiww haf speshuw fwen fow sweepies”
"Vewshun Tu nu eben nyo wad Vewshun Tu wan… Nu wun TEWW Vewshun Tu wha Vewshun Tu spose tu du! Meanie nu-daddeh hoomins an big gwass mummah jus.. jus gib owwies an bad uppsies! Wha am Vewshun Tu eben fow!?
The silhouette of the prone lavender fluffy turns his head skyward towards the stars. Whom in turn grace his eyes with a reflection of their own visage. Your heart sinks awaiting any form of answer from the artificial being before you.
“Fwuffie am fo’ huggies an wuv”
You probably should have expected that answer. You recognize it for what it is, and what he means by it. It’s a preprogrammed phrase yes, patchwork neurological programming stuck in place by a research body who had not yet figured out how to truly craft a brain.
But you also know he genuinely means it as an approach to life. The baseline propensities of these earlier designs is to simply find ways to enjoy life and each other. It’s what they were designed to do. But maybe the geneticists accidentally put a bit too much human in you.
Or maybe you got too much of a peek behind the curtain… You imagine if there were others like you… They would come from a mummah and play with their siblings before becoming a lifelong companion to a human. Instead of chirping away at men breaking down how much of you was
some better, more complete animal or another.
The moment has come. You creep closer to your new rival herd, flanked by your two toughies and covered by the shade of a tree. You brought the other two grown stallions from your herd as backup. Leaving the five mares at camp with Scout as lookout.
You carefully peek around the bark circumference to spot the herd. They’ve made camp in a clearing and it’s clear they’ve been woefully indolent. They have no real living spaces or infrastructure to speak of.
The mares are anxiously curled together into a fluff pile on a bed of multi-colored leaves all but crumbling away. Their eyes are fixed in unison on the smarty and his four toughies a distance away crowded around a poor stray colt with a scraggly yellow pelt. He is on the cusp of adulthood and must’ve fled the nest and happened upon the smarty’s camp.
The yellow colt is side-on to his bigger and angrier assailants. Crouched low as if to appear small and submissive as he cowers in fear and addresses the smarty.
“Pwe… pwe.. pwese nyu fwen.. nu huwt fwuffy! Fwuffy jus’ smeww mawes an wan speshuw fwen.. Nu mean tu..”
“SMAWTIE AM SAY SHADDAP DUMMEH FWUFFY! Yu am dummeh ugwy fwuffy! Yu nu git speshuw fwen! AWW mawes am for smawtie!”
A purple unicorn then steps forward. A grin on his face grimacing into a snarl as he barely contains his infantile anger.
At this queue, the four fluffies flanking the unicorn fan out and surround the yellow colt in a circle. The smarty pushes the colt over onto his side and in quick succession an adjacent toughie stamps down on one of his back legs.
The most threatening of the group is a large teal toughie, big and mean, with a gnarled teal coat barely concealing a lifetime of scars. You’ll have to dispose of him first to stand any chance.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE HUUUUU HUUUU HUUU PWESE NYU FWENS NU GIF FWUFFY HUWTIES! WEGGIE HAF WOWSTE..”
His begging is quickly cut short by the teal toughie chomping straight down into the young colt’s testicles.
“SCRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE PWE..HE..HEESE NU TAK… SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”
Once more his begging proves fruitless and gives way to more shrill screeching as the toughie sickenly struggles to rip out the colt’s no-nos. Soon, a long fibrous strand of flesh gives way and the toughie staggers backward, with the colt’s testicles disconnected in its mouth.
Any form of diplomacy then breaks down. The colt is rendered a flailing shrieking mess as his assailants mercilessly beat down upon him. Their own limited ability to cause damage matched only by the colt’s excessive fragility.
The teal toughie that had neutered the young fluffy spits out the testicles, and meanders around to the back of the increasingly battered and fluffy.
“Tuffie am gun mak yu enfie-fwen! Tuffie gun haf gud feews wif yu fow wong time!”
At this declaration. The other toughies appear to agree and relent, turning their punishment into restraining as they hold down the broken creature before them. The smarty also ceases, turning around he lifts his tail, defecating on the weeping colt’s battered face.
“Bwue nu fink Bwue wan dese fwuffies in hewd…”
“Shhhhaddap! Dummeh!”
Despite your chastising you can’t help but agree. It is clear introducing any of these males into your herd will only lead to violence and discord. But these fluffies are still clearly battle hardened ferals with a penchant for serious violence. Whilst strong, your own toughies and stallions probably simply lack the stomach to combat them effectively.
You need a new plan. You couch down and ready your windpipes. Bracing a leggie against your toughies to pull their attention toward you. You prepare to do your best impression of a coyote.
“YIP YIP… YIP YIP… YIP YIP YIP”
“EEEP! Smawtie! It am bawkie munstah! wun way!”
You see one toughie bolt to one end of the camp followed by another, with the more loyal pink toughie bolting to their smarty’s side. The mares just hide beneath their front hooves useless and begin to sob and beg.
Only the teal toughie is left in place, enfing away at the now deceased colt.
In fact you think your impression was a bit too good… The two backup stallions hiding behind another tree sprayed the area behind them with scaredy poopies before noticing it was in fact their leader making the sound.
“NAO!”
You dart out from behind the tree toward the teal toughie. In quick succession red and blue join you as do the other two stallions. He barely has time to finish his ‘gud feews’ as you headbutt him over, stabbing into viscera with your horn and trampling over him.
Your impromptu warband finishes him off, giving him hesitent but sufficient sorry hoofies as he continuously tries to look up in confusion and concussion as his face breaks apart with every stomp. With one toughie down and in a full charge you continue to press the initiative and head toward the two toughies who fled to the other side of camp.
Your two loyal guard are close behind, but the two other stallions remain in place, crying with guilt and dismay at the destroyed bodies of the teal toughie and yellow colt.
“Bawkie munstah am fwuffie?”
Is all the green toughie manages to get out before your horn injects straight through his eye and brittle orbital bone into his brain. Twitching uncontrollably as your toughies flank around the sides and quickly pound down upon the other toughie, leaving him a bloody fur sack of broken bone.
You slide your horn out of your victim in time to turn around toward the smartie and now solitary pink toughie beginning to get over their shock. The mares are still hiding beneath their hooves, probably still assuming a coyote is going to feast upon their fluffpile at any moment.
“DUMMEH FWUFFY! YU AM KIWW SMAWTIE’S TUFFIES! Onwy haf WUN weft nao! Smawtie an wastest tuffie gun gif yu WOWSTEST sowwy hoofies an FOWEBEH SWEEPIES!”
With that, he charges forward toward you, his own horn levelled. What you can see that he cannot, is that the pink toughie has soiled himself and ran off in the opposite direction without so much as a sorry.
It a simple matter for your own two combat effective fluffies to fan out to the sides and pincer the smartie, pinning him to the ground.
“grr DUMMEHS! WET SMAWTIE GU WITE NAO! DUMMEH MAWES! SAF SMAWTIE! GIF DUMMEHS FOWEBEH SWEEPIES!”
The mares look up from the limbs and all eyes gaze toward the carnage before them. They predictably make scaredy poopies, being in a fluff pile, a lot of it ends up coating the poor mares beneath and behind.
You walk forward towards the pinned smartie, ignoring his commands and threats. In a grim inversion of events just moments ago he is now the one pinned by a merciless herd. Your fluffies know what comes next even.
It’s time for you to issue justice, the toughies don’t fully understand why. They understand that bad fluffies must be punished, but don’t understand why you don’t just give them forever sleepies.
The truth is, you enjoy it, it gives you a weird sense of pleasure to inflict suffering on those rare few primitive mirrors of yourself that have proven themselves capable of so much evil.
“Offew smawtie.. Yu am MUNSTAH fwuffy, an fow dat.. Yu mus’ wose your see pwacies”
“Wha? bu..”
The emotion transmitted by his eyes go from rage to worry as the struggling of his splayed and pinned legs turn to anxious pawing.
He lean down towards his left eye and open your mouth slow enough to give him a chance to gaze into your gaping maw.
Then you clamp your teeth into his eye, the top row of your teeth sink in just below the smartie’s brow and you begin the process of gently prying the delicate sensory organ from its socket.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE PWESE NU TAK SEE PWACE! SMAWTIE NEBEH BE SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SMAWTIE NEBEH BE MEANIE AGIN EBEH EBEH! HUU SCREEEE”
This time it is his begging that falls upon deaf ears as his eye finally pops out of his socket. You finesse the entire thing into your mouth, chomping through the sensory nerve and beginning to graze away at the eye now in your mouth. You don’t like to waste edible things.
"SCREEEEEE HUU HUU! SMAW.. HUU SMAWTIE HAF WOWSTEST SEE PWACE HUWTIES HUUUUU MAWES PWESE SABE SMAWTIE! NU WANNA BE NU-SEE FWUFFY! NEBEH HUU NEBEH GIB BAD ENFIES EBEH EBEH AGIN! HUUUUU
You repeat the process for the other eye, leading to more screams, more crying and more pleading. The mares watch on in shock, clearly used to such sights but not typically in this direction.
The newly blind purple unicorn is left an inconsolable mess on the ground, salmon puddles forming around his head from his now empty sockets due to blood and crying. Even when your toughies get off him and step back he stays put. Curling himself into a protective ball wrapped by a long purple tail.
“huu.. huuu.. ebbyfin am dawkies.. smawtie HATE dawkies! huu pwese nyu fwen.. pwese gif back eben jus wun see pwacie?”
You ignore him to walk over to the pile of mares. They stay put, unmoving until a fatter lilac mare decouples from the group and stands to greet you.
“Fwu… fwuffy am nyu smawtie? pwese nu huwt soon-mummahs… Am gud fwuffies! Awways mak poopies in poopies piwe an NEBEH..”
“Nu wan soon-mummahs! Hewd nu need mowe mawes an nu haf nuff nummies! Buh nu wan gif soon-mummahs huwties eiffew, buh yu nee gu. Gu way ow hewd gif yu AWW forebeh sweepies!”
The mares begin to stir, a few of them make a posture like they’re going to stand, a few of them begin to walk away before stopping and looking back, but ultimately they stay put on the makeshift nest.
“Buh… wai? soon-mummah am soon-mummah! Am gun haf babbehs soon an nee…”
“SHADDAP! Yu nee tu gu way! Nu wan yu awoun numming aww da nummies an haffin wots of babbehs an attwactin da hoomins!”
You clearly have them scared. But still to confused to follow your command. They still all look like they’re expecting you to change your mind at any moment and bring them all to your home.
“Tuffie fwens… Gib AWW dah dummeh mawes fowebeh sweepies!”
Your toughies recognize your order as a bluff, staying put with stern emotionless faces. But the threat carries through, and the mares immediately all spring into action. Darting in different directions into the forest. You know that they’ll all be dead by the end of winter. If any of them do manage to foal, those will all be dead too.
You paw at the ground, both in regret and anxiety. You need to make sure your OWN herd survives. You’ve stopped them all getting pregnant so far despite their pestering. How would they feel if you brought back a horde of pregnant mares to overflow the burrows and demolish the nummies pile.
You turn around, seeing your two other stallions sobbing and hugging each other next to teal and yellow corpses, midway between you and them lies the broken smartie, shuddering and crying on the ground, still complaining about the dark, like a little talkie baby.
You stroll over to collect your makeshift backup ‘toughies’, strolling past the smartie, once more flanked by your loyal red and blue companions.
“NU! Pwese nu weve fwuffy behin! PWESE! Nu haf see pwacies anymowe! EBBYFIN AM DAWKIES! Hao am gun fin nummies? FWUFFY NU FIN WAY AWOUN ANYMOWE! HUU HUU Fwuffy nu wan tummeh owwie forebeh sweepies in da dawkies!”
You double back, laying a consoling front leggie upon his mane, leaning down to whisper into his ear.
“Nu hab scawedies nyu fwen.. Vewshun Tu fink dat WEAW bawkie munstahs am be hewe soon an gib yu nicie fast fowebeh sweepies! Maybe dey eben stawt nummin yu fwom da thinkie pwace an nu your weggies…”
This sends him into a full panic, crying with increased fervor, muttering about not being nummies and not wanting to die.
This equips you with a sick sense of satisfaction and a sadistic grin. And you continue toward your backup stallions.
“Smawtie-fwen huu huu Cawew sowwy hoofies am gif odda fwuffy fowevew sweepies! huu pwese take Cawew’s see pwaces! Am MUNSTAH fwuffie! huu huu huu”
“Dummeh scawedy stawwions! Yu am USEWESS”
Rapping them both on the nose with a sorry hoof, they sob and begin to follow you out of the camp. The trip back was relaxing. You remember the way back, thanks to the constant ‘spwowin’ and ‘wepowts’ of Scout in the local area. Your two toughies know when to ask questions and when you’d rather be left in peace, and the two stallions are too traumatized to bother you with innane questions.
You shudder, you remember when you had to migrate your herd to its current location because of human activity. It was a time when, most of all, you suffered the consequences of your chosen path. ‘Wai weafie am wed?’, ‘Wai da fwoow wook wike poopies?’. And that was the easy stuff… At the most taxing of times it was more ‘Wook Smawtie fwen! Am fwyin buggie fwen nestie pwace! Fwuffie wan gif huggies!’ or ‘Smartie fwen wook! Fwuffie am see nummies in shinie boxie! Fwuffie am bestest nummie findew!’.
The constant attention required just to keep a single one of your herdmates on the move is exhausting. Moving your entire herd leaves you physically and mentally drained. You often prefer to just… Walk quietly. Giving you time to ponder your own observations of the world.
You feel a stiff cold breeze make its way through your entire body. Sapping the energy straight out of your being as it does so. The sun is setting… And the nights are getting colder and colder… It’s not a big worry to you. You’ve made sure to make your nestie in a very isolated place. You spent ALL of the warm times coordinating the laborious digging of burrow-nests and foraging of nummies piles. For you, winter was an uncomfortable inconvenience.
You’ve seen all manner of herd in your time, and all permutations of their collapse.
Fluffies recent to the outside often form uncoordinated small groups of friends and couples and make do with a bush or some human trash for a nest. They have no concept of stockpiling and immediately set about having foals with no preparation. These will almost always perish in less than a year. In a very unfortunate manner too… These softest fluffies not used to anything negative have to sit in pain and hunger as their beloved children die one-by-one around them, then their friends, and then their special friend, before finally succumbing themselves. A familiar voice crosses your mind.. 'Meanie bushie nu wub Day-see nu mow.. huu huu Tak ‘way nestie weafies an weave WOWSTEST cowdies tu Day-see an babbehs huu’.
Followed by another.. 'Pwease nicie nummie pwace… pwese haf nummies fow Powwy ‘gin next bwite time.. huu Haf wowstest tummeh owwies an fwee babbehs awweady fowebeh sweepies HUU HUU’.
If somehow these proto-herds miraculously survive, either because of a steady source of food, a non-perishable nest or the patronage of a misguided human.
It’s likely one of the growing babies will perceive himself superior to the others and refer to himself as a smartie. You once met a smartie who said his daddy called him ‘syndwome’, but that never seemed accurate to you. It’s a common enough occurance that random pathology could be ruled out. Being a smartie is not like being a dummie leggie baby, it seems a perfectly valid survival strategy, the activation of dormant genetics stemming from myriad social animals fine-crafted by evolution.
And besides… Smarties genuinely ARE the smartest amongst their herd. A childhood of abundant nutrition, constant interaction and parental support leads to good brain development and a healthy, confident fluffy. They can remember directions and areas, administrate groups of other fluffies effectively and can strategize ways to survive. But power tends to corrupt, and a bratty young fluffy can become an unhinged adult fairly quickly when given absolute dominion over the lives of his helpless charges.
This is by far the most common form of herd you encounter. Every smartie is different.. from the cruel but fair, who stockpiles well and keeps his herd from danger. To the smartie that gets all the mares pregnant at the beginning of winter.. and the foals become the stockpile. Unless they cross the path of some humans or predators, or experience a particularly bad winter, smartie-led feral herds ARE stable. They CAN survive and even thrive.
Smartie herds beget more smartie herds as the sire’s own bastard progeny leave with whatever friends they have to form their own herd in a new place.
Then there is a third type of herd… A more palatable kind. Atypical herds. Often formed by runaway stallions and mares from one of the more gruesome kinds of smartie herds, or the result of a coup, these herds are bound by shared trauma, they retain the survival techniques of a feral herd, but have a more flat and ‘just’ heirarchy.
These are always a mixed bag. You once lodged with one whom would exile fluffies who over-indulged on the nummies pile… Even innocent weanlings.. It didn’t occur to them that this was a far more cruel fate than just stomping the offender. This herd perished to the last when an exodite snuck back into the nest during the night and ate most of the nummies pile, reducing it to feces which he used to coat the rest. Left without food, the familiar foal fatalities occured. You left before the situation deteriorated further but the nest was naught but bones and scraped mud the following spring.
You’ve also met more than a few formed by runaway poopies who kill their more colorful babies at birth. Whether as an act of spite or simple practical camouflage is unknown, probably both. They often survive, hidden, unwilling to bother anyone else and more than willing to resort even to eating shit for sustainance.
You think the strangest herd you ever met was one consisting entirely of fluffies no bigger than a foal. A huge herd that lived inside the walls of a building by way of a broken vent on the outside. You couldn’t lodge with them for obvious reasons so you took to sleeping in a nearby bush, studying and conversing with them whenever you could. They seemed to have a stable setup, they described myriad nesting places hidden and unreachable at various points through the ventilation system. They could leave freely to gather food, which they would drag back as a team and distribute once inside. They always left to make poopies, being respectably fastidious with their home. They seemed responsible, they seemed like they might make it.. Until one day when an impassive maintenance worker fixed the exterior vent, and the herd’s sanctuary would become its tomb.
You did try to continue your observations for at least a week after, and battled with the idea of pushing nummies through the grate. Until one day a group of tiny emmaciated colorful blobs ran and hammered on the inside face of the vent, begging desperately to be let out. They were quickly set upon by a bigger group of colors, and promptly torn apart, the bigger group then proceeded to cheerfully devour their beloved neighbors without remorse.
At this point you thought it probably best to move on.
“Smawtie-fwen! Hewd wookies! Smawtie-fwen am back! speshuw fwen am back tu! Fwuffy SU happy aww fwens am back!”
You hadn’t even noticed idly approach the cliff’s edge as you strolled, too busy ruminating, but yes you are indeed back…
“Bhu… Smawtie-fwen… Wewe am da nyoo fwens fow hewd? Yu nu fin odda hewd?”
“Eee! Wai am dere boo-boo joos on hownies! Smawtie fwen haf huwties? nee’ huggies?”
“… Uhhhhh … Oh! It am nummies time fwens! Quick fwens tu da nummies piwe!”