Smarty (that’s you) looks to the sky. The sun is shining brightly, not a cloud in the sky, and only a slight breeze. The heat in the desert was terrible if you had thick fluff, but there was plenty of cool, fresh wawa and a system of caves and overhanging cliffs the herd used as a shady safe place.
On a cloudy or overcast day, nothing happened. On a rainy day, the bad sky wawa roared down the cliffs and troughs into the valley, and many fluffies drowned or were swept away, never to be seen again. The first time it happened, nearly every babbeh in the herd, all of the soon-mummahs, and many other fluffies were killed by the terrible sky wawa; a little over half the herd.
The next day, the sun shone brightly and smote a fluffy. The herd was terrified at first, but after this happened the bad sky wawa didn’t return for a while. It came again and gave forever sleepies to several more fluffies, and the next day the sun smote another fluffy. No bad sky wawa.
At first, the herd was terrified that the sun was angry with it and was punishing it. But then you realized the truth and explained everything to the herd.
And they discovered their new god.
Now, you have a system. Sometimes the sun god is satisfied, and the chosen fluffy is spared. Sometimes, the bad sky wawa comes anyway and you try to discern what sin the herd was being punished for.
Today, you must appease your god and protect your herd from the terrible sky wawa.
“Bwing da sacwifice!”
You rear back on your hind legs, spreading your golden wings wide; your fluff, horn, and wings are a shiny golden, and your mane and tail are the purest white, just like the sun. Just like your god. And you are his prophet.
“Huuhuuu, fwuffy nu wan be sacwifice!”
“Siwence! Da gweat sky-baww wiww decide if yoo am sacwifice! If da sky-baww am pweased wif yoo, den yoo wiww be spawed. If the sky-baww wan yoo fow nummies, den hewd mus gif yoo tu sky-baww so dat hewd wiww nu be punished wif bad sky wawa!”
You drop to all fours again, wings still spread majestically and shining in the sunlight, and gesture with your horn. The toughies shove the frightened mare foward and position her in the center of the white X on the black rock you found near your desert home. The toughies quickly back away and stop shuddering in fear once their hooves touch sandy dirt again. One notices a mummah with chirpy babies grazing on some brush and bops her nosie; all must be respectfully attentive while seeking the sun’s will.
You look to the sacrifice; she’s been very annoying lately, stealing nummies from the mummahs and soon-mummahs, hurting a stallion’s special lumps when he asked if she wanted special huggies, and basically being a total prat to the rest of the herd. In other words, she’s expendable.
The green and purple mare is shaking violently in the center of the X, making scaredy peepees and huuhuuing. If the sun decides she’s a worthy sacrifice and has her for nummies, then so be it; she was a bad fluffy and deserved it. If the sun decides not to have her for nummies, then she must not have been so bad after all and will be allowed to rejoin the herd.
Several times you’ve tried sacrificing dummeh babies, but the sun has never had one for nummies; after pondering the sun’s will for a long time, you finally concluded that dummeh babies must not be so bad after all and the sun wanted you to give them a chance. Most died without ever speaking their first words, and fewer still made it to adulthood, but you must admit that the ones who did survive have been just as good as other fluffies, though often much dumber or with crippling defects that mean they must be cared for constantly or they die. The useless ones you take to the altar to be sacrificed and they’re nearly always taken for nummies by the sun. But every now and then, one is spared, and you try to figure out why. Determining the will of a remote and speechless god is difficult.
“Oh gweat sky-baww! We fank yoo fow yoo wawmies and da wight dat wets us see and makes da scawy dawk gu way! We fank yoo fow scawin way da bad sky wawas! Pwease take dis bad fwuffy tu be yoo nummies, su da hewd wiww be safe agin!”
You rise and make a give-huggies-please gesture to the sun overhead, basking in its radiance, trying not to pant from the heat, and then look down at the herd. All of them, excepting the babies too little to understand the significance of the ceremony, and the invalids left back at the safe place, are making the give-huggies-please gesture to the sun and repeating your prayer word for word. Finished, they all sit and wait for the sun’s decision while the chosen sacrifice huuhuus and makes bad poopies.
After a long, long time, the black rock suddenly gets brighter, so bright it dazzles your eyes and makes them sting. The sun has decided.
And it has tummeh owies.
The sacrifice realizes what is about to happen to her and shrieks, reaching out for huggies from the herd. They all look away, partly because they’re not willing to look at a bad fluffy like her any longer and partly because the light shining from the sun is too bright.
You close your eyes just as she bursts into flames and you can see the afterimage of her burning, screaming body along with the glare.
The heat is like a physical blow and you shudder at the raw, seething power unleashed before you.
You are nothing before its power. You are less than one of the little crawly bugs are to a big fluffy like you.
You open your eyes and the sacrifice is gone; she has become nummies for the sun. Only a scorch mark remains on the white X, and the black rock is so hot it flows like wawa for several minutes before hardening again. Once everyone in the herd is done blinking and can see normally again, you spread your wings and make a give-huggies gesture to the sun again.
“Oh gweat sky-baww, fank yoo fow acceptin dis sacwifice! We hope yoo wiww safe us fwom da bad sky wawa agin, an keep giffin us wawmies an nu scawy dawk.”
The ceremony concluded, the herd meanders back to the safe place in orderly fashion, with you trailing along at the rear. You can hear a few of them complaining that they liked the fluffy you just sacrificed, but all agree that if the sun had her for nummies then she must have been a truly bad fluffy. All are also in agreement that the sacrifices are necessary to keep the herd safe.
You still have a hard time figuring out the will of the sun, and sometimes you think the herd is punished by sky wawa because you came to the wrong conclusion, but you don’t feel too bad. Discerning the will of an inscrutable, unspeakably powerful god is difficult for one as unworthy as you, after all.
But you do your best. For the good of the herd.
You’re Jake, a colonel in the US Air Force. You’re in charge of testing for the S.O.L. orbital weapons system. The Icarus Array is a series of large mirrors out in space that are used to reflect sunlight back at the earth, supposedly to experiment with weather control and lessen the effects of various natural disasters, as well as boost the growth of crops during cold seasons.
In reality, it usually reflects raw, concentrated sunlight to the S.O.L. satellite, which focuses the light even further and beams it to an asphalt pad with a giant white X painted on it out in the Nevada desert, a target used for testing the accuracy and firepower of the weapon. So far it isn’t very practical, as it can only hit a specific target for a 15 minute window, but it’s powerful enough to melt concrete, set fire to buildings, and vaporize individual humans and small animals.
You watch through the satellite feed as the target platform comes into range and zoom in.
“There they are again. Why do they keep doing that?”
“Who knows? Maybe the retarded neon ponies have a sadist in charge that gets off on this sort of thing. I just like having a small target to aim for; makes it more challenging.”
“I hear that.”
You center the crosshairs on the small green blob in the center of the X and click it, then wait for S.O.L. to get in position to fire its beam of focused sunlight on the hapless fluffy pony. About once every other week, a herd of feral fluffies living near the target will gather around the target. Usually there’s a lone fluffy sitting right in the middle of the target, sometimes you can’t see anything on the target. If S.O.L. is due for testing, or just if you feel like playing god, you’ll fire the solar beam and vaporize the poor fluffy on the target.
You sip your coffee and smirk; like frying ants with a magnifying glass.
