(Preface: Isn’t there something just primally satisfying about simple creatures grappling with forces they cannot possibly understand? Facing odds completely outside of their control and comprehension?)
The leaves rustle gently above me, shaking in the gentle breeze and scattering dappled light from the midday sun across the grassy forest floor. Pine needles shed to the ground, flipping in the air like the fur from a longhair cat. The trees creak gently in greeting as I walk past, and my clothes shine in the mottled sunlight. The shaded portions of my outfit matches the drab green of the canopy. The chill autumn air glances off my field jacket and baggy pants as I trek across the low hills, through the city of foliage.
My eyes don’t need to be peeled too hard for what I’m looking for. While my own attire matches the whispers of color in the forest, my objects of interest tend to fail at obfuscation spectacularly.
A soft, cheeping noise, not unlike the sound of a dog’s chew toy, rises from within the forest, confirming my prejudice.
“peeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeep!”
I move silently and swiftly forward.
Upon reaching the source of the cheeping, I see a dense thicket rustling.
“peep! mummah! peeppeeppeeppeeppeep! nu weave babbeh!”
I peel the branches apart and there lies what I’ve been searching for all day now, a small, tan colored fluffy pony foal - a Bio-toy. It somewhat resembles a horse, in the same way a dachshund or yorkie resembles a wolf. A living wonder to some, an abomination to others, but the first successful artificial species. It’s about the size of my hand, a pegasus colt with a dark brown mane trapped in the thorns. Abandoned, like a doll. Not unlike what he was designed for. He is covered in cuts and scrapes across his tiny body through his fluffy coat. Blood wicks onto the thorns as he struggles. He cheeps pitifully, flapping his minuscule wings and milling his stubby legs about for anyone to save him. Unfortunately, no other fluffies are around, and with the height of his prison in the bramble, his attendance doesn’t seem accidental. I frown beneath my camouflaged balaclava and reach in, grabbing him with my gloved hand. I gently try to remove him from his stabby cradle, unsuccessfully. The thorns catch his soft body and his eyes pop open in pain and surprise, I catch sight of his irises for the first time - blood red. He struggles weakly as I turn him to face me, my tinted goggles and full mask obscuring my features. All he sees are the scarlet bulbs in his head staring back at him in his own reflection upon the dark lens. He voids his bowels in a rancid spray into the branches below. I lift my goggles to get a better look at his situation when I notice the deluge. I decide to cut my losses and yank him the rest of the way out, bits of tan fluff and brown hair shearing away and staying stuck in the snag. He writhes and cheeps loudly in pain as I produce a wet wipe from my bag, tending to his wounds. The stinging sensation from the cleaning causes him to jerk around in my hand as he squeaks and peeps.
“PEEPPEEPPEEPPEEPPEEPPEEP!!! PEEEEEEEP!!! PEEPPEEP!!! PEEmmf-”
I finally close his mouth with two fingers, muffling his cries as I finish wiping him off, ending with cleaning the remnants of his accident from his ass. His crimson gaze locks on my eyes in terror as I swap the wet wipe for a few perforated layers of toilet paper. The soft sheets of the squares seem to calm him as I press them to his body, or perhaps he finally runs out of energy. Either way, he ceases his struggle, panting with exertion against the gentle embrace of the material as he stares into my eyes, the panic easing from his own. I take the opportunity to roll him up in his new impromptu blanket and stuff him in my upper jacket pocket. There’s a small, momentary cheep of distress, but it’s soon replaced by the soft sounds of breathing from the now unconscious foal, the occasional whimper of “mummah” drifting through the air as he instinctively cries for the only care he’s ever known.
I nod to myself. A definite keeper, but in order for this to work… there needs to be more. At his age, this colt would be ideal, but several candidates are necessary. Time to keep looking, then. I drop my goggles back over my eyes, shading my eyes with the tint. I continue my trek beneath the gently swaying trees as the light cascades at uneven angles and trajectories. It creates a net of rays cast over the school of drifting green leaves, but fails to capture any. My feet carry me onward until I hear the squeaky voices belonging to the grown versions of the little life I carry in my pocket. Artificial echoes of those that once created them, in a dialect of their own. A dialect once meant to appeal to human children, to be cute and entice potential customers. I kneel to the ground and drop my pack. Crouching low behind a tree trunk, I catch a glimpse of pink fluff dash past the brush.
“Tagsies!”
a small, squeaky voice calls out, followed by a slightly lower, far dopier response,
“Musswoom it! Gon git yu Pwincess!”
Staying silent, I adjust to get a better look. In a grassy clearing, just past the trees, there’s three fluffies of varied color. One is a bright pink mare with a deep blue mane and warm yellow eyes. She has none of the special features somewhat common to fluffies, like wings or a horn. These kinds are usually called “Earthies”. At least, that’s what the old promotional material called them. She’s apparently named “Princess”, judging by the playful babble of the fat fluff chasing her. The witless stallion “running” (waddling, really) after her, Mushroom, bears a blinding red coat beneath a subdued purple mane. His dull blue eyes are fixed on the tail of the mare as he puffs with excitement and exertion, his tiny, vestigial pegasus wings flapping erratically. The last fluffy, another stallion, brings up the rear. He shuffles behind Mushroom and stays out of his line of sight. His dark brown eyes dart from tree to tree as his ears swivel like antennae on either side of his small, blunt horn. His manila mane vaguely compliments his bright green coat as he putters meekly behind the bumbling red fluffball. His snivelly voice squeaks out,
“Prwincess, Smawty say don pway in da fowest. onwy pway in da safe pwace…”
Princess shoots him a sneer, as best a fluffy can manage. She hops irreverently, her tail swishing as she puffs herself up at the criticism.
“Dummeh! Weafy twee fwens an gwassies am bestest fo pwayin. Fwankwin am dummeh, poopeh see-pwace fwuffy!”
Franklin whimpers at Princess’s outburst, his brown eyes apparently a sore point. However, her rebuttal sparks a rare thought in Mushroom’s head, and he turns to begin bouncing after the nervous green fluffy.
“Fwankwin! Musswoom gon git yu! tagsies fo Fwankwin!”
Franklin flattens his ears and trots hurriedly away from the red menace advancing on him. Princess smiles smugly at the change of events and struts proudly about the edge of the clearing.
Slowly, my attention is drawn from the three stooges and to a small rumbling, a buzzing like a distant swarm of mosquitoes. It seems that Franklin notices too, because he dives for the ground among a low bush, trembling violently as he covers his face with his legs. Mushroom uses the opportunity to catch up to Franklin and obliviously taps him with his soft hoof.
“Huh huh! Tagsies! Fwankwin it!”
Mushroom flees from the stationary unicorn, chuckling goofily as the buzzing grows louder. My hand shoots to the pistol on my hip instinctively as I track movement in the opposite treeline. Finally, the other two fluffies slow to a stop with apprehension. Mushroom is the first to acknowledge the static in the air.
“Uhm.. Musswoom feew funny.”
As if summoned, it appears. Looming right over Princess’s head. A veil of colors and shapes, faces in the murk. Lights and sounds impossibly floating rigidly through the brush. There’s a crackling in the air, like electricity is sparking off every surface. Princess falls to the ground in shock and scrambles a short distance away before she releases a small whimper of fear and begins shaking like a broken blender. Her soft yellow eyes, wide with terror, stay glued to this twisting, turgid, twirling, tumbling, torrential deluge of sensation above her. Again, Mushroom babbles reflexively.
“Nyu fren fo fwuffies?”
It turns, faces him, faces all of us, faces itself. Many things, but one thing, all at once, all in the same place. The mere sight of it is enough to induce a headache, but it’s nothing compared to the auditory response. A cacophony of sound: blaring horns, indiscernible screams, muffled gibberish and white noise, and the deafening rumble of an afterburner - along with the force that it projects. At the mere question, we’ve been placed within a shaking, crumbling world. The leaves swirl from the blast as it forces me down to the ground. Darkness and light vent from it, a flailing of tendrils, a thumping in the earth. The fluffies stay stunned for a moment, but Princess suddenly lets out a scream. The moment she opens her mouth, at the first vibration of a shriek, it all stops, and so does she. As if the sound was sucked from every source simultaneously. Her eyes fill with horror as she realizes she can’t hear herself. She jumps to her feet, but it’s too late. Red, yellow, green, blue, tendrils of every color, first individually, then tens, then hundreds - each as thin as fishing line - lash out into the air from it in every direction. Princess’s voice and scream emanate from all of them at once, at different times, saying different things, disagreeing with each other, calling out for help, for Franklin and Mushroom, for her mother. A thousand thieves shrieking and yelling in her stolen voice. She tries to flee, but can’t decide where to go. Her body splits at the seams. Each leg charges in an entirely different direction as they rip from her body, running separately. Her head pops cleanly from her neck like a bottlecap. There’s a flash of pain in her eyes, tears running down her cheeks as her face separates and she falls slowly upwards in thick hunks of flesh like tumbling dice. Every piece of her insides is laid plain, each individual organ is visible - like a shattered cutaway. All the pieces split evenly in cubes, an invisible knife chopping her for a stew. Her panicked yellow eyes dart between Franklin and Mushroom before the chunks of her face holding them pop apart like a block of tofu. Her wails of agony come out of every tendril as they snake further through the air, none calling for help anymore. Hues of light from every part of the spectrum glint and refract around the scene, a kaleidoscope vivid enough to make your eyes bleed - if you hadn’t seen it before, at least. The scent of fear spreads through the air like a fog, intense and intoxicating. Mushroom stares, stunned, as he watches the parts of Princess being bisected again and again. The screams overlap each other, echoing while she reduces to a fine pink mist. It gyrates feverishly as the mist coalesces into tiny fibers, compressing and elongating into a thin line. The fine pink strand darts through the air towards it. As the strand lands upon its incorporeal shapes to join the others, the sounds stop again. The tendrils slither back into its cloudy, indiscernible borders. It slowly fades, then appears again momentarily between the other fluffies. Staring, but looking nowhere. Reaching out with nothing, emitting whispers and distant cries. Finally, it separates wholly into dust. The fine powder streams upwards out of the forest canopy like smoke from a candle.
And all is quiet again for a moment.
Then Mushroom lets out a torrent of shit. He begins crying profusely and stomping his pudgy hooves against the ground.
“WH-WHERE PWINCESS? HUUUUUUUUHUUUHUUUU!!! SCAWY!!! MUSSWOOM SCAWDIES!!! HUUUUUUUU!!!”
Franklin finally peeks out from his legs at Mushroom, who continues confusedly sobbing. Tears rake Franklin’s fluffy cheeks as he pushes himself slowly off the ground. He looks over to the treeline where Princess had just been mere moments ago, and whimpers.
“Fwuffies nee go tuh safe pwace, Musswoom… nee teww Smawty.”
He turns and quickly trudges away from the scene, Mushroom bawling with shaky “Huu huu’s” as he bumbles rapidly to catch up to Franklin. I hear a gentle sob from my jacket pocket as the little colt wriggles in fright. The screams and cries obviously affected him. I reach in and stroke his head gently as he trembles in fear. But I can’t stay, I need to find this… “safe place”. Franklin would’ve been a viable candidate if he were younger. Good instincts… No time to dwell on that. I lift my pack back onto my shoulder and slink low through the trees as the fluffies hurry back home, unknowingly leading me along. My footfalls are nigh imperceptible against the loud bawling of Mushroom, and I follow them closely. The fluffies burst into a clearing made by the pines, the needles littering the ground crunching gently under their soft hooves. There’s far less vegetation than the other clearing, the brown detritus from the pine trees keeps the sandy soil devoid of other plant life. There are several holes conspicuously dug about the circumference of the clearing, and the area itself opens to a slowly flowing creek. The two stallions pant with exertion and fear, still sobbing as they flop to the ground. Several other fluffies emerge from hiding places. Colorful tufts of fluff poke out from burrows under tree roots, others from the holes dug in the soft sand, between stacked rocks, or dense brush. Two by two, then tens, and before long there’s a whole gaggle of them, a sizable herd. They approach cautiously at first, but the babble begins almost immediately after, each fluffy prodding the pair for information.
“Heaw scawy noisies! What was? Fwuffies hidies…”
“Fwuffies am otay?”
“Fwankwin? whewe Pwincess?”
At the mention of Princess, Mushroom begins crying louder, stomping his little hooves.
“HUUUUHUUHUU!!! PWINCESS GU FOWEBAH SWEEPIES!!!”
The crowd recoils and every fluffy looks at each other worriedly. I again place my pack down, moving along the treeline towards the water. Slowly, staying low to the ground, I peek at the commotion. The fluffies again coalesce around the two, but soon a raspy voice barks out with authority.
“MOOB DUMMEHS! Smawty comin!”
The colorful mass parts for a neon orange unicorn with a manila mane, his piercing green eyes narrowed at the two sobbing fluffballs as he approaches. On his flanks are bigger, but equally colorful, earthy stallions. Each glares down the crowd as they advance. Franklin rises slowly to his feet and stares at the brown pine needles, but Mushroom stays pasted to the ground, blubbering gently. The orange unicorn snarls as hard as a fluffy can manage.
“…Wha habben to Pwincess?”
Mushroom whimpers and shakes his head against the detritus on the forest floor. Franklin clears his throat gently and looks up at the other unicorn.
“Nu know, Smawty… Fwuffies pwayin in fowest, an- and Fwankwin teww Pwincess nu pway in fowest, but Pwincess nu wisten! Cwackwy munstah come… Take Pwincess. Den break Pwincess… Den cwackwy munstah gone…”
Mushroom nods frantically in agreement as he continues to sob silently.
“Cwackwe munstah! Musswoom twy make fwen wid crackwe munstah but crackwe munstah take Pwincess an… HUUUUUUHUUHUUHUUHUU!!”
Smarty grimaces in disgust at Mushroom. His green eyes flare with anger as he looks between the two.
“Nu nummies fo bad fwuffies fo two bwight times! You wost mawe?? You am poopiest dummehs!!!”
He barks his displeasure with the two, switching his accusing hoof between the two of them as he speaks. Both the defendant stallions whimper at the thought of two days without food, punishment enough for most fluffies. Then Smarty looms closer to Mushroom.
“An YOU! Musswoom am biggest stupi’est fwuffy! Smawty awways teww aww fwuffies, nevah tawk to munstahs! Awways wun way! Hide fwom munstahs!”
He steps on Mushroom’s leg, eliciting a yelp from the red fluffy.
“Sowwiest hoofsies. Fo wowstest dummeh fwuffy.”
There’s no time for Mushroom to react to the sentencing, the two earthies on either side of him advance quickly. They stomp and trample on him roughly, eliciting cries and sobs of pain. The crowd retreats, and even Franklin shrinks back away from Mushroom while his punishment is dealt harshly. The tubby pegasus lolls back and forth from the force of the kicks as the two bigger stallions pummel him with every appendage they have, as hard as they can. There’s a wet snap like the sound of a carrot being cracked in half and Mushroom screeches loudly, flailing wildly.
“SKREEEE!!! NU HUWT GUD FWUFFY!!! WOWSTEST HUWTIES!!! NU MO-”
Smarty steps on Mushroom’s snout with all of his weight, forcing Mushroom’s mouth closed as a trickle of blood leaves his lips. The earthies hold Mushroom down with their front hooves as Smarty begins to speak again. He kicks Mushroom in the face with his other front hoof to accentuate each word as Mushroom cries out muffledly.
“Nu. Tawk. To. Bad. Munstahs! Stoopi’. Stoopi’. DUMMEH. USEWESS. FAT. FWUFFY!!!”
He hits Mushroom harder with each kick. One connects with Mushroom’s eye, causing him to jerk violently. The bright color of Mushroom’s coat is stained with a darker red of his own blood as he emits muffled sobs. One of the little wings on his back dangles limply. Finally, Smarty steps off of Mushroom’s nose and backs away, leaving him to half cry, half heave for air. More blood seeps from Mushroom’s mouth, his tongue missing a piece from the tip as it lolls from his gasping mouth, oozing red. Smarty sneers at the rest of the gathered fluffies.
“AWW HEWD SEE WAT HABBEN TO BAD FWUFFY!”
The herd is silent for a moment, shifting uncomfortably, before they all begin to nod quickly in agreement and let out small babbles of understanding.
“Fwuffies see…”
“Nu wan be bad fwuffy…”
“Heawt huwties…”
The crowd begins to disperse and Smarty walks over towards Franklin, his vanguard again at his flanks. The green unicorn whimpers but doesn’t retreat, standing still with his head bowed low. Smarty stares him down, but soon his eyes wander across Franklin’s fluffy coat. He paces to the sides of the despondent fluffy, his softening green eyes searching Franklin, looking him over for a moment. He then places one of his front legs between Franklin’s and throws his head over the fluffy’s shoulders.
“…Am gwad you okay, bwuddah.”
Smarty holds his brother like this briefly, his eyes shut tightly. He then steps away, walking towards the edge of the clearing without another word, the two other stallions falling in behind him. Breath exhales through my nose as I observe the herd separate back to their burrows and bushes, squeaky voices fading as the show ends. The setting sun glints through the trees as I watch the little creatures worm back into the brush. The last I see is Franklin, squeezing his way into a hole dug amongst the roots of a tall pine tree. No more candidates today, it seems. I sneak back towards my pack and retrieve a trail cam. I mount it high above the bushes around a thin pine tree, pulling the strap taught about the shedding bark. The bark scratches gently as I adjust its angle just a little bit, pointing it down to center on the battered red fluffy still heaving and crying in the center of the clearing. Satisfied, I back away quietly, following the creek to catch the trail again.
After some time walking, I hear the colt in my pocket whimper with distress. My gloved hand reaches into the pocket to comfort him, but this time he grabs it with his stumpy legs. I hear him sigh a little as he hugs my fingers, his soft hooves pressing against my skin through the thick gloves. I recoil a little, withdrawing my hand, prompting him to blubber in confusion.
“Nu h-huggies? Nu w-wuv babbeh?”
I huff at his plea as I walk through the shifting forest, the net of pines melting to a dense canopy of sumac and oak, the dead needles upon the ground giving way to green undergrowth. The foliage stands in tiers, giving the impression of a roof and shelves with a carpeted floor. The foal whimpers at my non-committal response.
“Am bad babbeh..?”
I curl my finger and flick it against the pocket gently, eliciting a squeaky whine as the foal bounces a little from the force. The ground ahead of us rises as the unmarked trail narrows. A hint of grey now tinges the rapidly disappearing undergrowth along the thin path as we come to a stop at a thick, steel door. The door has thick steel hinges, and the shape is somewhat difficult to make out. The assembly has netting and fake foliage placed upon and about it, camouflaged amongst the brush. It sits atop a slab of concrete, at an angle upon a small hill. The slab is faded and drab, weathered by the elements and surrounding vegetation. My voice sounds out in acknowledgement of the needy foal, a warm tenor grazing his ears.
“As of today, you’re no longer a little baby fluffy.”
I step on a lever hidden amongst the brush and the door squeaks and whirs as it lurches open slowly under its own power. Emboldened by my voice, the colt struggles up to the top of my pocket, his red eyes shining in the last light of day as he pokes his upper body out. He tracks the swinging of the door with his whole head in wonder. I release the lever and step to the precipice of the doorway, which has revealed a dimly lit stairway leading down a considerable distance.
“You’re a survivor.”
I state bluntly as I step down the stairway, the air warming from the cool fall breeze as we descend. The foal looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings, whimpering a little in the dark. I press a button on the concrete wall a few steps down and the door creaks as it rotates slowly closed, letting out a deep “clunk” when it latches.