After weeks of shoving the captive ferals into the harness, subjecting them to low intensity shocks and implanted suggestions, it is finally time for you test its effectiveness. They don’t fear you in the slightest now; they have totally forgotten the fluffy pony whose eyeballs burst like eggs stuck in the microwave, and now associate you with treats.
A normal fluffy would have probably pressed itself against the bars and immediately started telling you how much it loved and wanted to hug you, either sincerely or to weasel more treats out of you. With the exception of the bottom B-11 through B-15, however, these shit-rats screech the same stupid threats they usually do, a plexiglass window trapping them in with their ‘sowwy poopies’ and blocking their already harmless ‘sowwy hoofsies’.
Frankly, they’d all get one and only one, even if every last one shit a gold brick. This is SCIENCE, damn it, and it doesn’t play favorites! You’ve worked with fluffies long enough to know that giving a smarty an inch leads to them taking a shit-soaked mile. Setting your coffee down on the exam table after a quick spray of bleach(you know EXACTLY the sorts of fluids this thing has been soaked in) and begin your task.
As usual, B-1 responds with his short-lived bluster, and in order to keep the control group relatively ‘clean,’ you resist the urge to pillow-fluff him with your bare goddamned hands. “Gib nummies! Nu wan dummeh hawnass!” he commands, but is pleasantly surprised by you setting him down in an interlocking pen. “Nu dummey fing? Wha hoomin munsta doin’?”
You grab a Fluffcker from the table, spritzing it heavily with mare estrus scent. It’s barely on the ground before B-1 waddling his way over to it, “Dat… smeww wike… mawe! WANDY SMAWTY NEE’ SPECIAW HUGGIES!” As expected, he’s madly humping at the synthetic fluffy with all the strength afforded him.
This is repeated with every member of the control group, caking the doll in fluffy pony semen. Needless to say, you throw this soggy horror in the biohazard bin, and unpack another, along with a few others; two junior models, and a stallion version for mares. They all get sprayed with the appropriate scents, and you briefly wonder why HasBio makes all this stuff before fetching B-6.
He and the others in the “Degenerate Group” show a lot of promise. You have already shown them pictures of various foals, which resulted in violent arousal, but this may also be normal behavior of smarties. There are countless reports of this sort of thing: most of the time, it’s because the smarty’s mate is pregnant and discourages “special hugs,” so they’ll snatch a subordinate fluffy’s foal for relief.
This test is made to determine the whether the fugue programming has actually imbedded a preference. B-6 wriggles as you carry him by the scruff, little prick already hard after seeing others get their rocks off. You pull out your notes as the smarty circles his prospective “mates,” practically drooling at the opportunity.
Eventually, he’s stuffing himself into the Fluffcker Jr., ripping the fabric and knocking the little mechanical joints apart before glazing its insides. As the fugue programming commands, B-6 begins to choke down the doll, gagging as his “no-no juice” squirts out from the grinding of his teeth, and you know full well that’s going to end in one way trip to the garbage bin.
Telling by the jealous reactions of B-7 through B-10, it may be safe to assume it took as well, but you keep being thorough. Not all of them take their frustration out on a “foal”, but they’ve ultimately fucked and attempted to murder every one of the Fluffcker they’ve been presented with. Some are lost in the experience, but a few weep as they follow urges that their conscious mind recognizes as wrong.
The final group is… troubled. You pull out B-11, limp and unresponsive since day two. It would seem that the programming you tried has resulted in the little dumbass holding his breath until he passes out every time he acted out; for a smarty, that is the first word that tumbles out of his stupid little mouth.
His eyes are open, and a thin stream of drool runs out of his slack-jawed mouth. You suspect that the constant oxygen deprivation has left him more or less brain-dead, staring blankly past you. The flesh where the electrodes were placed is scarred from repeated attempts to undo the implanted orders, as he would always start passing out from hypoxia and an unconscious fluffy doesn’t seem to respond to programming. This was not for any real concern for the smarty’s life, of course. You merely want to see if it can be undone, and free up test materials in the process.
This has occurred to all but one of them: B-12. Navy blue with a lighter mane, he sits up straight, murmuring to himself. “Bwuebewwy gud fwuffy… pwease nu bad sweepies… be gud fwuffy… make gud poopies… nu tawk back… be gud fwuffy… huu huu huuuu, bad sweepies munstah nu gib huwties!” he pleads to no one in particular.
He understands that you aren’t the cause, but is slowly killing himself in terror of an invisible monster that steals his breath. He doesn’t move from the litter box in his cage for fear of making “bad poopies”, doesn’t eat because he might accidentally make a mess, and goes dead silent when you address him, because his tiny mind can’t pick between what’s good and bad with any real certainty.
You shrug, taking the comatose fluffies to the biohazard bin before pulling the only survivor out of his cage. You can see the terror and anxiety in his big green eyes; he looks ready to head back to the litter-box in his cage, but that might be disobeying a human, and a bad fluffy does not breath. In your notes, you scribble down a recommendation for other negative reinforcement in lieu of passing out after you place the limp, emaciated fluffy in the harness.
“Alright, B-12. Let’s see I can fix your noodle before you starve to death…”