You are Stone, a charcoal grey earthie stallion with black mane and tail. You live in a den with your special friend Leaf, a dark green pointy mare with soft pink mane and tail. Together, you have a single foal, a blue earthie colt with your black mane and tail named Sky Wawa. You vaguely recall some of the oldest fluffies saying that there used to be a word for sky wawa, but none of them could remember it and so the wawa that fell from the sky was known as sky wawa.
Sky Wawa is the only surviving foal from your third litter; both his siblings got sickies and then took forever sleepies. It hurt, but you got over it. You know from experience with your first two litters that you can always have more babbehs later.
Your den is deep under a pile of rubble, a jumbled mess of bricks, broken concrete, and rusted rebar. You and Leaf found it by wriggling through gaps in the debris until you found a nice open space at the bottom, which you expanded by digging into the soft dirt under all the hard debris. The den is safe from munstas like biwdie munstas and stwipey munstas since they canât wiggle through the cracks like you can, itâs warm in the cold times and cool (sort of) in the hot times, and it doesnât get wet when sky wawa falls from the sky. Itâs a good safe place, even if nummies are scarce. Nummies are always scarce, but youâve managed to find enough to get by, especially now that you only have one babbeh to look after.
The rest of the herd makes its home in the rubble around your den, sleeping in crevices between debris like you, or in boxes theyâve found, or dens they dug in the dirt. You have a good smarty; heâs done a good job organizing foraging parties to find nummies and making sure everyone gets enough to eat, and heâs done a good job driving off other herds that want to take your safe place away. Once, he even gave forever sleepies to a bawkie munsta! It sniffed out the safe place and tried to dig up one of the dens, and Smarty climbed onto a pile of debris above it and kicked at a big piece of concrete until it fell on the bawkie munsta and gave it forever sleepies.
Bawkie munsta didnât taste good and make your poopies extra nu smeww pwetty, but the herd ate well despite the shortage of gwassies.
You and your family are sitting on a flat piece of grey rock near your den, sunning yourselves and enjoying the warmth; you knew it wouldnât be long before the cold times came again. Smarty has already got the herd stockpiling nummies for the cold times; heâs a good smarty.
Right now youâre teaching Sky Wawa about The Ones Who Came Before.
âDa fiwst fwuffies in da hewd wewenât vewy stwong. Da toughies wewe, but da west wewenât. Dey wewe fat and scawedy aww da time, and nu know how do tings tu stay awive. Had vewy hawd time findin nummies an safe pwaces, an wots an wots of fwuffies got fowevuh sweepies fwum munstas. It was vewy hawd time fow hewd befowe dey weawn how to wive hewe.â
Sky Wawa cocks his head curiously and asks, âWhy fwuffies nu know how wive?â
âBecause fwuffies nu wive wike dis befowe; dey wive wif hoomins.â
You see it in his eyes; the same look all your previous babbehs had the first time you told them this. The same look you had when your daddeh told you for the first time, and your daddeh before you, and his daddeh before him. Excitement, anticipation, happiness. Youâd never heard the word before, hoomin, but it meant something to you. Something soft, and warm, and fuzzy.
âHoomins wive a wong time ago. Sum say dey wewe gods and dey make fwuffies so fwuffies would gif them wuv and huggies. Sum say dey wewe munstas who hate fwuffies and gif dem bigges huwties an fowevuh sweepies. An sum say dey jus wike fwuffies; sum gud, sum bad, an none of dem know what dey weawwy want. Stone nu know who is wight.â
âWhewe awe da hoomins nao?â
You shake your head.
âDey aww gone now. Nu fwuffy see a hoomin in wong, wong time. Stone nu see hoomin, Stone daddeh nu see hoomin, Stone daddehâs daddeh nu see hoomin, an his daddeh nu see hoomin. Nu fwuffy see hoomins in fowevuh. Stone nu tink dey awive nu mowe.â
Sky Wawa scrunches his face and cocks his ears.
âIf nubuddy evew see hoomins, den how yoo know hoomins weaw?â
Good question. Most of your babbehs just accept the story, but one or two of the clever ones question the story. Sky Wawa has always been a clever babbeh, and he too questions it.
âStone show yoo. Fowwow daddeh, an stay cwose. It dangewous; yoo can get huwties fawwin down, ow git stuck in howe, or gotted by munsta. Stay cwose tu daddeh, an yoo see.â
You shudder as you tell him he could get stuck in a hole; one of your babbehs from your first litter fell into a small hole while playing and you couldnât get him out. He cried and cried, but you couldnât reach him or move the debris aside to dig him out.
His bones are still down there.
You lead Sky Wawa away from the den, Leaf dozing in the sun as you leave her behind. You carefully pick your way through the debris, making sure Sky Wawa is following closely, exchange pleasantries with other fluffies as you pass, and pause as you step outside the debris field and into the gwassy area.
âDis way. Stay cwose.â
You lead your son to whatâs left of a brick wall, standing only a little taller than you, and stick your head through a gap hidden behind some gwassies, listening and sniffing. Good; no munstas. You lead him, showing him where to step, down a ramp made of debris into a large, dark space.
âHuuu, daddeh, nu wike dis pwace!â
âNu be scawed. It otay. Fowwow daddeh.â
You let your eyes adjust to the darkness, but mostly navigate by feel, sound, and smell. You carefully pick your way through the large cave, pausing occasionally to help Sky Wawa, until you pass through a narrow gap and enter another large space.
Sunlight shines through cracks in the ceiling, making it a little brighter in here, and you can vaguely hear fluffies playing and chattering above you. Youâre beneath the center of the herdâs safe place now.
You hear Sky Wawaâs breath catch in a gasp, and he skitters behind you. You smell scaredy peepees and chuckle.
âNu wowwy, it otay! Wook, see?â
You step forward and nudge what frightened your son, and he peeks out from under his hoofsies, timidly at first, then more confidently once nothing happens.
âWut dat, daddeh?â
âDat,â you say sadly, âis a hoomin.â
Itâs obviously been here for a very long time. Thereâs no skin, fluff, or meat on its bones. Its clothing is rotted, but still bears an obvious blood stain on its lower abdomen. One hand is clutching a rusted piece of metal, and the other hand is stretched out to lay on a bare spot on the floor next to it. The skull is slumped over, empty sockets staring at nothing. You know itâs harmless, but it still creeps you out every time you come down here and look at it.
âWhy hoomin nu haf fwuff?â
âHoomin took fowevuh sweepies a wong, wong time ago. Befow hewd cum hewe.â
âWhy hoomin take fowevuh sweepies?â
You shake your head, then shrug. Youâll never know the truth, you can only guess from the legends and vaguely remembered memories that other fluffies have passed down from generation to generation.
âDa owd stowies say dat hoomins wewe wike gods. Hoomins haf stwong magic, wots an wots of nummies, su many nummies dat dey nu can eat dem aww an toss sum away. Dey haf big safe pwaces cawwed âhousiesâ, nevu get sickies, can wun fastew dan da fastest fwuffy, an haf magic wocks dat wet dem see stowies wike dey weawwy happening. Hoomins wewe stwong, stwongew dan da wowstest munsta, an dey vewy smawt; smawtew dan da smawtiest of smawties. Sum even say dat hoomins make fwuffies so fwuffies would wuv dem and gif dem huggies. Stone nu suwe about dat, but dat wut sum fwuffies say.â
Sky Wawa continues hiding behind you, peeking around you to stare at the hoominâs remains. You continue with your tale.
âSum fwuffies say dat hoomins wewe munstas, da stwongest, fastest, smawtiest, scawiest munstas. Dey wike to gif bigges owies and fowevuh sweepies, just tu heaw fwuffies huuhuu. Stone nu suwe about dat eithew, but dat wut sum fwuffies say.â
âIf hoomins su big an stwong an smawty, den why dey aww take fowevuh sweepies?â
âDunno. Sum fwuffies say dat one day, aww da hoomins stawt fightin and giffin each uddew fowevuh sweepies, untiw dewe nu mowe hoomins weft. Dey say dat aww da stuff yoo see, wike da boxies an soft tings we use fow nesties, wewe made by hoomins, an hoomins destwoyed dem aww. But nu fwuffy awive nao was awive back den, so nubuddy know fow suwe. We jus haf stowies. Stone tink dat hoomins fight each uddew wike da stowies say; dunno why dey fight, but dey fight fow sum weason. Dey fight tiww dewe nu mowe hoomins an aww dey buiwt was gone. Dat why it impowtant dat fwuffies be nice an nu be meanies, so we nu end up wike da hoomins.â
Sky Wawa gazes at the hoomin soberly, pondering all that youâve told him. You stare at the empty, lifeless eye sockets in the skull and wonder, just as you wondered the previous times you led babbehs down here to teach them about hoomins, and when your daddeh led you down here to teach you.
Why are they all gone? Why were they fighting? Youâll never know.
But you feel the same sadness you get every time you look at this pathetic pile of bones and not-fluff. Whether he was a bad munsta or a friendly god, for whatever reason he was here, for whatever reason he was fighting and killing, this hoomin died here, all alone. It doesnât feel right. He was scared and all alone here, in the dark, until the forever sleepies took him away, and that gives you a lump in your chestie.
âTum on, wetâs gu. Yoo mummah gunna wowwy if we gone too wong.â
With one last look over his shoulder at the skeletal remains, Sky Wawa follows you out of the dark cave and back into the sunlight.
Youâre Robert. And youâre dying.
You got careless. Thatâs all there is to it. You spotted the dead body laying in the street with what looked like a full backpack, and the temptation was overwhelming; you hadnât eaten in days and you decided it was worth the risk.
Thatâs when the sniper shot you in the side. You managed to run for a block before the pain and blood loss overcame your surge of adrenaline, and you climbed through a window into a bombed out apartment building, two walls collapsed and disgorging bricks and concrete into the street.
Then the rotting floor gave way and you fell into the basement. More bricks and concrete fell down and covered up the hole in the floor youâd fallen through, a fair number of them following you into the basement and bashing you over the head and torso.
You screamed in agony. Now you had a bullet wound and two broken legs.
You used what was left of your first aid kit to patch the bullet wound and tried to fix your legs as best you could. It was a lost cause and you knew it. Even if the asshole that shot you didnât come looking for you so he could finish you off, you were never leaving this basement alive.
Now here you are, in the dark, waiting to die.
Dammit. Itâs not fair. Itâs not fucking fair. Why did it have to be like this? You survived the fallout, the poison gas, the diseases (both the engineered ones and the ones that spread following the collapse of civilization and its attendant medicines and hygiene), and you always expected to be die quickly, shot, hacked apart with a machete, bashed over the head with a rock while you slept⌠You knew youâd die eventually, and you knew itâd be violent and painful, but you expected it to be quick.
Not like this. Not a slow, agonizing death, all alone, in the dark.
You clutch your shotgun and contemplate finishing the job. Just stick the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. You only have one shot left anyway, and it wonât do you any good except to end your suffering sooner rather than later.
Well, no, it might still do some good. If the fucker who shot you comes down here looking for you, youâre gonna shoot the bastard in the crotch and let him bleed out good and slow like you are right now.
You lean back against the cool concrete wall and bash your head against it a few times, tears welling up in your eyes. Dammit. Not like this.
You survived! When all your family, friends, and co-workers died in the fevers, died from contaminated food and water, died in the riots, died of starvation, died one by one in the house-to-house urban warfare that erupted between fellow survivors fighting over what remained of the resources, you always made it out somehow. Usually without a scratch. You lost your home, everyone you ever cared about, everything you ever knew, but you always came out ok in the end.
Only for it to end like this.
Itâs not fair. Itâs not fair. Itâs not fucking fair!
You sob aloud, teeth clenched in pain as you jar your broken lungs, breaths coming in shallow pants as blood seeps from the wound in your side. By the time you lift the shotgun up and tuck it under your chin, youâre crying like a little bitch.
Your finger is on the trigger, but you donât pull it. Dammit. You remember the internet. The gore photos. The people who tried to kill themselves in exactly the way youâre doing now. The ones who blew off half their faces and failed to kill themselves. What if that happens? What if you fuck yourself up even worse, but donât die? Damn, that would suck.
And, in the end, youâre selfish. You donât want to die. You want to cling to every last second of life thatâs left to you.
You canât do it. You lower the shotgun and cradle it in your arms. At least you have the option, if bleeding to death in this fucking basement takes too long. You rest the gun in your lap and hold your face in your hands, weeping.
âWhy yoo cwyin?â
You jerk in surprise, then yelp in pain as the sudden motion sends a stabbing pain through your wounds. Thereâs someone down here with you!
You look around the dark basement and dimly see something move in the shadows. Itâs a fluffy. A bright yellow fluffy.
Youâre honestly surprised to see it here. Fluffies have been few and far between for well over a year; you usually eat any you come across, if they arenât obviously diseased. Theyâve been pretty scarce, not faring well in the post-apocalyptic hellhole that used to be your home town. You havenât seen one in months.
âYoo haf huwties? Bigges owies?â
âUh⌠yeah. Iâm hurt pretty bad.â
The fluffy regards you warily; even if it was never abused before, itâs probably learned to avoid humans. You assume thatâs why itâs hiding down here, despite fluffies being scared of the dark.
âNice mista⌠wan huggies? Make owies betta?â
You snort, tears and snot running down your face, and chuckle. Youâre trapped in a fucking basement with two broken legs and a bullet wound, and a retarded cross between a day-glo horse and a little girlâs stuffed animals wants to know if you want a hug. As if a hug will make it all better.
Your hysterical laughter is obviously bothering the thing, but after a while you settle down. Hugs can cure all wounds! If only youâd known this sooner! Too hilarious. Thatâs probably shock from blood loss talking, but itâs still hilarious.
The fluffy starts to leave, staying a safe distance from you and creeping away to the opposite side of the basement. Suddenly⌠youâre afraid.
âWait! Donât go!â
The fluffy pauses, looking at you.
âWh⌠whatâs your name?â
âFwuffy nu haf name.â
You pause, thinking. Everything should have a name. Itâs not right to die without a name. But youâre not going to give it one of those lame names everybody gives fluffies or dogs or cats or whatever. Youâre going to give it an awesome name.
âYour name is⌠Lightning McThunderdick.â
â⌠wut.â
âFine, just Lightning. 'cause youâre yellow.â
âFwuffy name am Wightning. ⌠fank yoo fow name.â
âIâm Robert.â
âWobewt. Otay den.â
Lightning starts to leave again and you call out frantically.
âPlease stay! Please, I⌠I donât want to die alone.â
The fluffy stares at you. You know these things have their own odd dialect of baby-talk and euphemisms, but you never had one for a pet (what idiot would?) so you donât know how to talk to it on its own level. But it should understand.
âIâm dying. I⌠I donât want to be alone. Please. Iâm scared. Please donât go.â
Lightning looks at you, then the other side of the basement, obviously torn. But after you start sobbing again, he makes up his mind and cautiously pads over to you, just out of reach.
âYoo haf bad huwties?â
â⌠yeah. It hurts, a lot.â
He nods. Then, slowly, watching you closely for any sign of treachery, he hugs you.
Itâs⌠kind of nice, actually. Touching. Youâre not sure if he actually cares about you, if heâs programmed to behave this way, or if heâs just being nice by comforting the dying. Itâs certainly more than you would do for another human being, if you came across someone dying of his wounds. You know. Youâve done it more than once, and each time you were a callous bastard who didnât give a shit about their suffering. You just looted them and left.
You rest your hand on Lightningâs back, feeling him tense up nervously, and scritch his ears. Lightning relaxes and lays down beside you and you continue stroking his back. After a while, you start telling him your life story. Just babbling really. None of it really means anything to the creature, even if he understood most of what you were saying, but it felt good. You got it all out. Your regrets, your hopes, your sorrows, your fears, your pain⌠you got it all out. After a while, you ran out of things to say, so you just sat there in silence, cradling your shotgun in one hand and Lightning in the other, stroking him in the dark.
You were so tired. You didnât hurt as much as before, which was good. You were thirsty, but it didnât really matter; you were dying, after all. It was taking a long time, but you knew it was inevitable. You were just so tired. You continued stroking Lightningâs fluff in silence, feeling your head slump over. Youâd just rest for a bit. Dying took a while, apparently, and you werenât going anywhere, so it didnât matter if you just took a short nap. You closed your eyes and stopped stroking the fluffy, just resting your hand on his back. You just had to rest for a bitâŚ
Lightning waited until he was sure, then gently slip out from under the cold, limp hand. He looked up at the hoomin; hoomins were scary and unpredictable, but this one looked so peaceful, laying there. Like he was just sleeping. He knew better though; heâd seen enough fluffies and hoomins taking forever sleepies to know this one was gone.
Why had he stayed with the hoomin? Why offer comfort to something so terribly dangerous in its final moments? Maybe⌠maybe he just wanted to be a good fluffy. To be what fluffies were meant to be, right up until the end.
Lightning gave the unmoving hoomin a gentle hug, avoiding the booboo juice, whispered a soft âfank yooâ for his new name, and then crept across the basement and climbed up the rubble and out the basement window heâd entered by when he first sought shelter here.
He left behind a still body, but it wasnât as terrible as it could have been. Lightning was alive, and the hoomin had had company in his final moments.
He slipped away down the rubble-strewn streets as the leaden skies began to rain, seeking a new place of shelter and perhaps more of his kind to stay with. It wouldnât do to be alone when his time came.
