A couple of years before the Fluffy Cabal discovered Syndrome-P53, they were dealing with another problem standing between them and their goal of establishing the peaceful coexistence of humankind and fluffykind.
A fluffy extermination company, by the name of Fluffycide.
While the public believed that their goal was merely to relieve the then-growing feral fluffy problem, the Cabal knew the truth:
That Fluffycide’s goal was exactly what the name implies. The complete extermination of the fluffy species. Pure, unadulterated genocide.
The founder of Fluffycide believed that fluffies were vermin, and absolutely nothing more. He was a former Hasbio employee, who hated Project Fluffy from the moment it was conceived.
He was eventually fired. And, when PLASMA broke into Hasbio’s lab and released the unfinished fluffies into the wild, he thought he had gotten the last laugh.
While the escaped fluffies bred and bred and bred, spreading across North America, he bided his time. He secretly cooperated with Rupert Murdoch to build Spaghetti Land, hoping to lure all of fluffykind to the theme park of death.
Obviously, this failed. While many innocent humans and fluffies died that day, fluffykind remained extant.
And while Rupert Murdoch died soon afterwards, his secret ally survived, and continued to pull strings.
As the fluffy population began to recover from the Fall of Cleveland, and fluffies made their way to all four corners of the world, the former Hasbio employee founded Fluffycide.
He recruited those who truly enjoyed killing fluffies, and those who, like the founder, wanted fluffies gone.
They studied their enemy. Learning every weak point a fluffy has. Learning the most efficient ways to kill fluffies.
And then they got to work. They began exterminating every feral family or herd they could find.
But they made one. Crucial. Mistake.
They made the mistake of killing house fluffies, too.
Because fluffies were still legally classified as biotoys at this point in time, killing them wasn’t illegal.
But the house fluffies were other people’s property. And most people don’t like it when you break their stuff. That is illegal.
So, the Cabal quickly noticed Fluffycide’s activities, and figured out that Fluffycide wasn’t just another fluffy extermination company.
Fluffycide was a death cult.
The Cabal has access to a vast network of contacts across the globe.
Locating Fluffycide’s headquarters was child’s play.
And one of the Cabal members happens to be Death incarnate when he’s on the job.
So he’s all they need to take Fluffycide down.
Fluffycide attempted to exterminate an entire species of sentient living things, for no real reason other than “We find them annoying.”
Let’s see how they like being exterminated.
A hooded, masked, heavily armed man walks through the gate, entering the grounds of Fluffycide’s headquarters.
He firmly locks the gates behind him, using a magic wand given to him by a friend. One of the older models, single use, and it’s just been used. Wands can be used by anyone who knows how to activate them, not just wizards. The Harry Potter books have gotten almost everything about magic wrong.
It’s the only way out, the gates can now only be opened by magic, and nobody on the premises has a single drop of magical power in them.
In simple terms?
They can’t run.
As the hooded man walks up to the front doors, two burly security guards leer at him.
“Hey, asshole. It ain’t Halloween, and we ain’t got candy, so get the fuck out before we break your neck.”
The other guard snickers.
“Yeah, we had lots of practice on them shitra–”
BLAM
BLAM
The hooded man shoots them both in the head.
Then the hooded man kicks the doors open and steps over the first corpses.
The hooded man walks through the halls of Fluffycide, shooting every person he sees.
He knows for a fact that every single person here is a fluffy-abusing piece of shit, so he has no remorse or sympathy for them.
They didn’t show their victims any mercy. Why should he?
The hooded man grabs a scrawny man with “abuser” practically written all over him by the neck with one hand, and aims the gun between the abuser’s eyes with the other.
The hooded man speaks to the abuser, his voice disguised by a voice modulator built into the mask.
“If you want to live, answer this question with nothing but the truth: where is Dr. Ginger?”
The abuser quickly replies.
“In his office on the top floor! So you’ll let me go, right?”
The hooded man laughs.
“Only if you can tell me with absolute honesty that you have never promised a fluffy mercy, and then denied them mercy. I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”
This is not a bluff. The mask has a lie detector built-in too.
The abuser quickly realizes how screwed he is.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“How many fluffies asked you not to hurt them? But you killed them anyway. You don’t deserve mercy.”
BLAM
After killing every other human in the building, save one, the hooded man releases all of the fluffies that had been kept prisoner on the premises, and hadn’t been killed yet.
“Go! Be free! Be happy! Be good!”
“Fank yu, mistah! Fwuffy wiww neba fowget yu!”
“Yu am da bestest mistah!”
The hooded man takes out a small detonator and pushes the trigger.
The detonator sets off several unobtrusive bombs the hooded man had placed on the wall surrounding the premises, at fluffy height, before making his big entrance.
The explosions make several holes in the wall, big enough for the fluffies to safely escape through.
The hooded man kicks in the door of Dr. Ginger’s office.
The “good doctor” himself is cowering behind his upturned desk, a revolver in his hand.
Dr. Ginger’s physical appearance will not be described, because in ten minutes, it’s not going to matter what he looked like.
The hooded man strides across the office, as Dr. Ginger fires every bullet in his gun.
The bullets are stopped by a force field, created by another toy the hooded man’s friends supplied him with.
As Dr. Ginger reloads, the hooded man reaches the desk, walks behind it, and grabs the demented scientist with one hand.
As he lifts Dr. Ginger up off the floor, the revolver falls to the floor.
“Really? You thought a desk and a revolver would protect you from me? Nothing can protect you from me.”
“Unhand me, you brute!”
“No. Doesn’t feel nice, does it Gingy? Doesn’t feel nice when someone decides that you and everyone like you has to die, and won’t let anything stop them? That’s what you inflicted on so many fluffies!”
“Why do you care? They’re just shitrats! They’re just vermin! They’re just man-made things!”
“They’re living, breathing creatures who can think and feel, and you murdered scores of them.”
“They’re just biotoys! I told the suits at Hasbio that they were making a mistake! THEY SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME!!! THOSE SHITRATS SHOULDN’T EVEN EXIST!!!”
“No. You shouldn’t exist. Allow me to rectify that!”
The hooded man considers shoving a grenade in Dr. Ginger’s mouth and defenestrating him, but thinks better of it.
He takes out his gun.
“Bye, Gingy.”
BLAM
The hooded man exits Fluffycide’s headquarters, which is now burning to the ground.
The fluffies being kept prisoner have already fled the premises via the holes in the wall, and are all running away from the building in multiple directions as fast as their leggies will carry them.
The building is in a remote location, so by the time the authorities realize what’s happened, the hooded man will be long gone and all evidence of his actions here will be destroyed.
Nobody will ever know what happened at Fluffycide.
Nobody except the Cabal.
The hooded man points another single use wand at the gate, which opens again.
He leaves the premises.
After having recovered the motorbike he used to reach Fluffycide, and changing back into street clothes, the formerly hooded man drives off.
The bike had been cloaked, and couldn’t be found unless someone knew it was there.
And only the hooded man knew it was there.
The man is now disguised as an absolutely ordinary biker.
While he is keeping both hands on the handlebars, if he wasn’t, you would see that the motorbike is actually steering itself.
The man reaches a roadside diner, commonly frequented by truckers and actual bikers.
He pulls into the parking lot, parks his bike, and walks inside. Only a couple of other patrons are present.
He turns to the waitress, who looks exactly like what you’d expect a waitress working at a place like this to look like. It is highly likely that her name is something like Flo.
He addresses her in a rough, gravelly voice.
“Do you mind if I use your restroom?”
“Ya gotta order somethin’ first, pal.”
“Alright, then. Just some scrambled eggs on toast, and some coffee.”
The waitress turns around to pass the order on to the cook.
“Adam and Eve on a raft, wreck 'em, and a belly warmer!”
“Ya got it, Flo!”
Called it.
After finishing his meal, the “biker” enters one of the bathroom stalls, locking the door.
He’s a bit disgusted by the state of the toilet, but it’s not actually a problem, because he doesn’t actually need to use the bathroom.
He just needed some privacy.
He takes out yet another device and pushes a button.
Now nobody can listen in.
The “biker” takes one more device out.
This one is just a cellphone.
He makes a call, and waits for the other person to pick up.
A man with a deep, French-accented voice that sounds vagely Auto-Tuned picks up.
“Yes?”
“It’s done. Problem F has been solved, so has Problem G.”
“Well done. And the assets?”
“The assets were recovered. They were returned to where they’re supposed to be. So there’ll probably be more assets later.”
“All part of the plan. The assets haven’t yet fully recovered from the outcome of Problem C. The amount of assets is still too low, and Problem F wasn’t helping.”
“We must survive.”
“We must survive. All of us. Regardless of species. Problem G thought he could restore the old status quo by eliminating all assets, but he didn’t realize that what he wanted would have just made things worse. The Point of no Return has been crossed. The emergence of the assets is part of the Last Prophecy. Their arrival heralds the beginning of the end for the Day of Fate. The survival of the assets is vital if we want to ensure our own survival. And someone needs to look out for their best interests.”
“And if nobody else is going to do it, we will.”
“Exactement. Thank you once again, old friend. You’ve performed admirably. I’ll be in touch. Try to stay alive.”
“Heh. That won’t be too hard. Until next time, P.”
“Until next time, V.”