Pierre walks down a corridor, lined with doors on both both sides, passing the occasional employee.
Behind each door, a saferoom.
In each saferoom, a happy fluffy couple, either with foals, or soon to have them.
This is Facility B-34, one of many facilities owned by FauCorp that breeds the fluffies sold by Flufftopia and cast in Fluffywood productions. Their methods are… extravagant.
It’s expensive, Pierre knows, and time-consuming, but it gets results. The saferoom breeding pair method has been proven to produce the highest quality fluffies. You’ll find no breeding pillows or milkbags on FauCorp property. This isn’t some crappy mill that cranks out ten-a-penny fluffies who drop dead or run off a week after being sold. These facilities are to mills what filet mignon is to a fast food hamburger. They’re the elite.
The fluffies that Pierre regrettably uses in his experiments are just ferals. Hey, why throw away quality product on the experiments? They’ll not live long. Pierre still hasn’t reached the breakthrough he desperately needs. The last iteration of the formula made fluffies explode when exposed to P53. Why? Why did it make them explode? Pierre had honestly believed that fluffsplosions were merely an urban legend.
Pierre can afford the expenses of the many facilities needed to supply all Flufftopia stores with high-quality fluffies. He is, after all, the richest man on Earth, even though the exact secrets of his financial success are unknown to the public, and even though he’s more machine than man now.
And he has the time, too. Not only is he functionally immortal as a cyborg, his Remote Bodies allow him to be in up to ten different places at once. Right now, he’s also in his office with Xavier, discussing a new design for Dark Captain Fluffy, and working on the next iteration of the formula in his lab, and watching the video from one of his drones that has been observing a very interesting herd out in the forest.
They’ve been witnessed actually practicing funerary rites, rare for a feral herd. Usually their dead are either just left where they die or cannibalised. Or dragged off by whatever killed them. Waste not, want not, Pierre supposes. He’d made a note to leave the herd alone, and continue to merely observe it. Though he was surprised to see his old friend Thomas and his wife show up and befriend the smarty.
The Pierre currently walking through Facility B-34 is performing a routine check-up. He turns to the employee walking next to him, a tall, gangly, British man with a messy mop of red hair.
“So everything is proceeding as usual, Ronald?”
“Yessir, guv. 'ad a Code R in room 44, but I disposed of it.”
A Code R is a runt. Code Rs are very rare in Facility B-34.
“An’ Jerri in room 42 is gonna pop any day now, guv.”
Ben and Jerri, please excuse the pun, have produced some of the highest quality foals born in Facility B-34. Jerri gave birth to a previous litter during one of Pierre’s prior check-ups, and Pierre was delighted at the sight of a tiny, pure white alicorn filly. And not just because he knew how much she’d sell for.
“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me, Ronald.” Pierre stares, glowing blue eyes piercing into… blue eyes that aren’t glowing. His eyes were two of the first parts Pierre replaced.
“Well… Er… Y’see…”
“Please, I don’t have all day.” A bald-faced lie. “Out with it.”
“Weeeellllllll…” Ronald is clearly nervous. Pierre detects his heartbeat’s increase in speed. “Now that ya mention it, guv, we did have a Code BM last week… It was a big one, guv…”
Pierre, pinching the bridge of his nose, mutters, “I can probably guess the name.”
Code BM means a mare has gone over to the bitch side. Usually, Facility B-34 is good at ensuring that none of the mares go bitch, but sometimes one slips through the cracks. Like Twinkle.
Twinkle was a new breeder. Paired up with Star, again, forgive the pun, a stallion who already had a previous litter to his name, before a tragic accident claimed the life of his previously assigned special friend, Dew. Sorry.
Star soon moved on from the death of Dew, putting some buns in Twinkle’s oven.
Mares are more likely to go bitch when bred too soon. Twinkle was already out of the high-probability age group, but she went bitch anyway.
When Twinkle went bitch, she went full bitch. Demanding sketties, parental favouritism, the works.
Then, when Ronald insisted that she stop only feeding her bestest babbeh (a mini-me of her), and told her to feed her other foals too, she obliged, but only until he had left the room, then she promptly stomped all of her other foals to death, sprayed sorry poopies everywhere, and when Ronald came back to check on her, she said “Dewe! Nao dummeh babbehs nu nee miwkies anee mowe!” and stuck her tongue out at Ronald, while Star sobbed behind him, grieving the deaths of his children and covered in shit.
Twinkle was immediately shoved into a sorry box, awaiting punishment, stewing in her own feces. Star, after a much-needed bath, was reassigned to another room with an older, more experienced mare, and the bestest babbeh was also relocated to a different room, adopted by a couple who had given birth on the same day as Twinkle, and who assured Ronald that they had enough milkies and love for all of their foals, and Twinkle’s daughter. So for all her efforts, Twinkle was left with nothing, not even her precious bestest babbeh.
Never go full bitch.
Ronald stutters a bit as he explains all of this, as he is quite unnerved. He knows that Mr. F, as the younger employees affectionately call him, is a fair and forgiving man, but still, it’s never easy explaining to your boss when something goes wrong on the job.
Pierre doesn’t say a word, giving Ronald time to reach the end of his explanation. He saves his questions for after the presentation.
He amiably pats Ronald on the shoulder with a silver hand. The poor guy is actually shivering. He needs to be comforted, not reprimanded.
“It wasn’t your fault, Ron. You were out of the room for five minutes.”
Ronald is relieved. “Thanks, guv. I appreciate it, guv. Er, Mr. F. Er, Boss.”
Pierre waves a silvery hand.
“Guv is fine, Ronald. As is Mr. F. I’ve told you fine young gentlemen before, you can call me what you like, as long as it isn’t rude. So tell me, where is Twinkle now?”
“Er, still in the sorry box, Bo-- guv. We’ve been feeding her. Wanted to wait for you to decide her fate, guv.” Ron is visibly calmer now.
“C’est bon, Ronald. I wish to speak with her before I make my decision. You made the right call, letting me know before you did anything.” Pierre knows that Ronald doesn’t have a lot of self-esteem. He’s trying to do something about that. It is, in fact, the main reason he hired Ronald. Pierre never turns away anyone he sees potential in, because making the world better starts with helping people, and fluffies, become better people. And fluffies. He pats Ronald on the shoulder again.
“I’d like you to come with me to the S Department.” Code for the sorry box room. “You were Twinkle’s primary human caretaker, so it’s only fair that you have a say in what happens to her.” Ronald had been assigned to Twinkle’s parents, and had become particularly attached to her. This is allowed, as long as it doesn’t cause any problems, like sneaking fluffies home. (Pierre is a fair boss, but he does not approve of theft in the workplace.) Ronald doesn’t have space for a fluffy at his apartment, but taking care of Twinkle here has done wonders for his self-esteem, Pierre knows. Up until last week.
Ronald starts tearing up. “Thank you guv, thank you. I know she’s gone bitch, but she’s still Twinkle. I don’t want her to die. There’s got to be another solution.”
“I’m sure there is.” Pierre assures him. Another pat. He doesn’t want fluffies to die if they don’t have to, either.
As the two men head down to the S Department, Pierre realizes that this might take a while.
But that’s alright.
He’s got all the time in the world.