Your sleep has been restless recently. You keep hearing people in your dreams. Seeing them in your dreams. People that aren’t you. That person with the alicorn, the mother you killed, the shopkeeper at the Fluffy Emporium, Fireball, the person who took YOUR fluffies, whoever they are. Why are they here? Why are they in YOUR world?
You’re awoken to the sound of speech. Speech? Yes, it’s speech. Muffled, but clearly speech. What now? It’s not just one, but four individual voices.
“Daddeh? peep! scawy!”
“Huu huu huwties, w-why weggies nu wowk? chirp!”
“Babbeh hab tummeh huwties, huu… peep!”
“Babbeh nu wan be in can nu mowe, nu can move…”
You don’t know how long it’s been since you got the cans. You know that they all had opened their eyes already, and the pillowed one immediately released a cry of anguish when it saw what had been done to it. Days blend together. Work bears no mentioning, and everything else is boring. Your life is defined by breaking children’s toys. You went to Princeton! You ignore the babbling of the canned foals, opting instead to check the mail. Let’s see… junk, junk, junk, hang on, what’s this? A letter addressed to you. From whoever, who cares, lets just read it.
“50 DOLLARS?!” A 50 dollar bill for releasing an unneutered fluffy onto the streets? But he didn’t have any fucking legs! How is he gonna do anything?! Fine. You’ll pay the goddamn bill. Ever since they passed those laws saying abusing fluffies in the open is public indecency, more bullshit laws have been passed. Sure, maybe the one about not releasing unneutered fluffies is understandable, but come the FUCK on! He has no legs!
After checking the mail, you go check on the cans. The white foal is asking for food (you let him drink for 5 seconds whenever you notice him), the purple one is tapping against the can in an effort to get you to free him (turns out he’s older than the other ones), the pillowfoal is wiggling his stumps, trying to run, and the light blue pegasus is the only one who isn’t having a horrible time. Not yet, at least.
“Daddeh, babbeh am getting tu big fo cansies, pwease wet out?”
You ignore the purple foal entirely, opting to instead check on the fluffies downstairs. You’ve pretty much left them to their own devices, opting instead to let them abuse each other. You haven’t checked the cameras yet, but you hope that they’ve done some interesting things. This is your legacy, you know. This is all you are leaving to this world.
You hear the mare singing from outside the door. “Mummah wub aww babbehs, Aww babbehs wub mummah”
“Huu… Sowwy fo be meanie tu babbehs, daddeh say good mummahs mean tu poopie babbehs, bu’ dat nu am twue! Maybe mummah hewp daddeh see dat aww babbehs awe good babbehs, eben if poopie.”
That goddamn bitch. You gave her extra spaghetti because you thought she was being a shit mother! You run back upstairs. You need to see how long this has been going on.
You check the camera feed. God fucking dammit, it started as SOON as you left. You tout your superiority of everyone and everything, and yet you were able to be tricked that easily!
You open the door, and see the mummah sitting with all her kids, feeding her brown small babies. Even the goddamn special friend is there! Boy, you’re really bad at manipulating children’s toys. Is there ANYTHING you’re good for other than complaining? She sees you, and immediately pushes the brown babies away. “Eep! Uh, d-dummeh poopie babbehs twy steaw mummahs miwkies! Uh, t-take sowwy hoofsies!”
She then proceeds to give one of the brown foals the most unconvincing punch in the world. You don’t think they even made contact. The foal falls over. “Huu huu, why mummah huwt babbeh?” it says, with acting that would fit right in at a school play.
“Stop. Stop this. What the fuck is going on, Slippy? Why are you being a bad mother? You’re supposed to HATE the brown ones! And why is your special friend back in your nest?”
“Daddeh, Swippy nu kno if be mean tu babbehs is how good mummahs awe.” You’re going to end up stabbing your eardrums with toothpicks one day. No one is forcing you to interact with them. “A-an Swippy say sowwy tu speciaw fwien, fogib speciaw fwien, an speciaw fwien say sowwy tu Swippy. D-daddeh happy?”
“Pick a kid, Slippy.” She looks up at you, confused and scared. “D-daddeh nu happy?” You look down at her. “Pick a kid.”
“W-why daddeh wan’ babbeh?” You just stare at her, unfeeling. “Pick a kid. I won’t ask again.”
She thinks for a few seconds, her tiny little brain working as hard as it possibly can to decide. Finally she decides. She presents the tiny foal version of herself, who has just started walking and talking.
“Swippy pick widdwe babbeh, Swippy name babbeh Bwuebeww.” It smiles at you. “Hewwo daddeh! Am Bwuebeww!” You scoff. “What a ridiculous name. Alright, have fun Slippy. I’ll be back tomorrow to give Bluebell her surprise.” She lets out a little ‘huu huu’ at that last part, and hugs the little foal close to her.
You head back upstairs, and decide to watch some TV. News. Well, might as well see what’s happening in the world.
“More information about the strange vigilante man, but first, a news story about a chance encounter, from the ASPCAB” American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Biotoys. They might not be protected by law, but that won’t stop people who are too dumb to make an impact on anything else from trying to protect these things.
Great. Ignore the cool story in favor of this. You ignore most of it right until you see something that brings you back to attention.
Fireball.
“This little guy was found abandoned on the side of the road. It looked like he had been there for a few days. Some fluffies were bringing food to him, but he was just crying and saying that he was gonna die there.” Then they show footage some dumb asshole shot, showing Fireball laying exactly where you left him, crying his eyes out.
“Huu huu huu! F-Fiwebaww nu wan fowebah sweepies! F-F-Fiwebaww nu wan sweep hewe nu mowe!”
Good.
“Then a kind soul called us, and we took him in. He got good food, got to hang out with other fluffies, and got a warm bed. Not long after, this young man came in and offered to adopt him.”
No. No this wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t what you wanted to happen. He was supposed to die, miserable, alone, and in pain. Why? Why would ANYONE take in a cripple fluffy? They’re showing the new owner, and Fireball. Curly haired guy, can’t be more than 26, looks like a pothead, wearing a T-shirt for some rap artist no one in their right mind would like.
“Well, my neighbor has fluffies, and sometimes he lets me watch them, but I kinda wanted one of my own. I was a little afraid of getting one, scared that I might mess it up, but I saw Fireball and I knew I had to have him.” What a pussy.
The camera cuts to a shot of Fireball. He’s rolling around on the floor of a saferoom, in some sort of wheelchair for fluffies. What moron would waste their time and energy building this?!
“My neighbor is an inventor, and he actually helped me and Fireball out, gave us a little car that one of his fluffies uses to move around. Calls it the pillowmobile.”
Camera cuts to the guy who made the dumbass thing. You could have sworn you’ve seen him before. And he’s holding something you’ve seen before too.
It’s Meatball.
It’s actually fucking Meatball. You had hoped that he and his siblings had at least been doomed to a short life of suffering. No, he’s living better than you could have imagined! He’s in a veritable fluffy paradise! God fucking dammit! Everything you attempt goes wrong.
“Well, I figured that not having any legs shouldn’t mean they aren’t able to move again. Saw an episode of American Dad, and decided I might as well give it a try. Worked well for Magnum here, seems to be working well for Fireball, and soon enough I hope it will be working well for other unfortunate fluffies.”
Why. Why. Why why why why why why why why why WHY? Why are they wasting their time on these nobodies?! Who cares if some femboy fuck made a goddamn wheelchair for a toy?! Who gives a shit if some stoner loser adopted a living lump of flesh?! He was supposed to be left there, to die! Why are they focusing on this bullshit?! You’re just mad that they aren’t focusing on you! What interesting story could you possibly provide?
You have plenty of interesting stories about the things that YOU have done with fluffies, why aren’t they interviewing YOU?!
You throw the remote at the wall, causing it to break into a large number of pieces. You need to take your anger and rage out on something.
You’ve been setting up a small pen for the canned foals to go in, just a litterbox, milk drinking area, little waterer thingy, simple enough. You’ve decided that now it seems like a good time to drop them in and fuck with them.
You grab the four cans and place them down. One by one, you open the cans. The pillowfluff is dropped right next to the milk area, far away from the litterbox. That’s sure to be funny. The blue pegasus is placed over by the litterbox, and the white foal is placed over in a corner. He immediately stands up on shaky legs and starts walking in what he thinks is the direction of food. You place the purple foal, still in its tiny tiny can, in the middle on a small, slowly rotating platform, so he can get a good view of everything happening.
“Alright, listen up. I’m not going to tell you where anything is, how anything works, or what the rules are. You’re going to learn how to do things the same way everyone had to learn. That doesn’t mean that you wont get punished. Maybe I’ll be lenient with the punishments at first, but they’re gonna progressively get worse.”
The foals look up at you, confused and scared. “D-daddeh, babbeh hungwy! W-whewe miwkies?” You sigh. “Alright, this is the only tip you’re going to get. Food is over here.” The baby looks over to where you point your hand. “T-tankyu daddeh, babbeh wub yu.” He walks over, legs still shaking. He’s considerably smaller than the others from malnutrition.
“D-daddeh, babbeh make poopies…” You look over at the blue pegasus, and see that not only has he shat on the floor, but he’s tracked it around in a panic. “B-babbeh sowwy…”
“Well, since it’s your first fuck up, I’ll go easy on you.” You pick him up, grab a disinfecting wipe, clean off his hooves, and pull out a long, very sharp needle. You then poke the needle into his hooves. “EEEE! H-huwties!!”
“There you go, there’s your punishment. You made bad poopies, and now you’re a bad baby. Don’t do it again.”
“B-buh, b-babbeh nu kno whewe poopies go!”
You smile at him. “You’ll figure it out. You might not be a ‘wingy babbeh’ by the time you figure it out, but you’ll figure it out.”
“M-maybe babbehs go poopies in dis bawks?”
Goddammit. Goddammit why is the white one smart enough to know that. You had an entire plan set up too.
(Gonna break this up into sections, this ones running a little long.)