You are Surge the Tenrec, and it has been two weeks since you found a little rust-colored creature under a dumpster.
Since then, the internet seems to have caught up to the dimensional shift that dumped it into your care in the first place, and you have been…you suppose appalled is the right word. Once you figured out what you were dealing with, you had been second-guessing your decision to raise it constantly.
Turns out this thing was called a Fluffy; a blasphemous synthetic bio-construct made specifically to be a pet creature to little girls, based off a colorful kid’s cartoon about friendship and magic and some other bullshit lovey-crap. In the middle of development, before they could be fine-tuned or even properly finished being designed, a bunch of animal-rights whackjobs known as PETA raided the facility, setting loose an unfinished product into the streets that rapidly began to multiply and become a massive, egregious problem the likes of which the world had never seen, taking on similar characteristics to swarms of wild rats, except with the unfortunate mutation of childlike, near-human intelligence.
You’d read every story that fell into your grasp then. Sometimes you’d forget to feed your own, but you were so enthralled by what you’d stumbled on that sometimes it’d peep or chirp for HOURS before you decided to do anything else.
You read everything you could find; from the hugbox to the abusebox, from the minor inconveniences down to the worst Smarty stories cooked up by the minds of people so fed up with life’s bullshit that they treated these creatures like screaming stress balls. You were sure at least half of them might even be getting off to it. Every so often you needed a break; sure, you were a rowdy rebel, someone who delighted in casual destruction and wanton violence, but some of these stories made you just stand up and groan or sigh, face in your hands.
You contemplated throwing out yours; you didn’t want to deal with this bullshit. You had no idea what your own inner desires were now telling you, your brain constantly tossing itself back and forth, trying to decide whether you were some bleeding-heart hugboxer for taking it in, or an abuser who just hadn’t had her first taste of making something that trusted you truly, unbelievably suffer. You decided to let your body command itself; you did what felt right to you. You walked over to the rust-colored foal - your brain finally recognizing it as a “poopie-babbeh” - and stared down at it.
You knew that indent in it’s belly made it a Bowl fluffy; one of the rarest subspecies that could float on it’s back. Two stories came to mind; one where a man had adopted a poopie bowl named Sandal and put his abusive mother in the toilet until he finally made her flip over and drown, and the other where a nice mummah who loved ALL her babbehs floated into the middle of an active geyser and was boiled alive. As you looked down at yours, you tried to decide what you’d do with it.
The week prior you’d discovered just how badly these things shit everywhere after nearly every meal, and so you’d placed a litterbox in the corner of it’s hamster cage. Every time it had peeped that telltale peep of being about to let loose, you sat it in the sand or held it over it, waited till it had done it’s business, and then used a small stick to brush the sand over it before the smell could escape. A week later, as in yesterday, you had gotten concerned; it hadn’t peeped for the bathroom all day, and as you watched, it wiggled it’s way to the litterbox all by itself, turned to crap, and then wiggled back to the washcloth you had given it as impromptu bedding.
Today, it did just the same; wiggled off it’s cloth, shat in the litterbox, and then wiggled back and began peeping for food once more. You hadn’t fed it all day; how could it still SHIT like that?? You wrinkled your nose, disgusted at the prospect, and let your body decide what to do with it; throw it? Squish it under a boot? Dump it back in the alley and forget about it?
Surprising even yourself your finger rubbed over the little charcoal stripe that had appeared on it’s head, and took it out of the cage to once more place your unpierced tit into it’s hungry muzzle. Supping on your electrified milk, you watched it’s body give a couple small convulsions, and realized you felt worry for the thing; then, it steadied, and drank steadily, it’s body acclimating to the minute current running through you.
It took you a long moment to finally come to the realization you weren’t going to hurt this one. No, despite what you’d learned about them, this particular fluffy was YOURS. It wasn’t a poopie babbeh you’d white-knight rescued, it was some thing you’d found, and it was YOURS. You’d have to discover what you really were when you found OTHER fluffies. You walked over and sat back down at your makeshift computer desk with a sigh, leaning back and returning to the comics and voiceovers. You were about halfway through Smarty Party’s story when your little rust-bowl popped off your tit, bringing your attention back down to it. It let out that little belch that it always did, and then peeped again; slower than usual, it’s head turning this way and that. You’d never seen it act this way before, and a brow rose. “Ey. You all right little guy?” you asked it, and slowly, the last thing you’d expected happened; slowly, it’s eyelids opened, inching their way back across gleaming rusty eyes that matched it’s fur.
You are a babbeh. For two whole lots-of-forevers, you’d found yourself in what you knew was a new housie, laying in what wasn’t exactly a WARM nesty, but much better than the alley you had been born in. Your new mummah had given you lots of milkies and love - or what you believed was love, feeling her finger carefully pet your head every so often - but recently it hadn’t been the same. You had called much more often, your tummy-hurties growing worse before finally getting more milkies each and every bright-time. This time was the worstest tummy-hurties of all; you couldn’t even count how long you’d cried out for milkies, and all the while you smelled your mummah nearby. You tried to crawl to her a few times, but just like the past two lotta-forevers, cold metal met your hoofsies, pressed against your face, stopping you from going to her.
You slowly crawled your way to the poopie-placed; one lotta-forevers ago you’d felt the sand under your bottom when you needed to poopies, and didn’t like the new sensation. You gave the weird-feeling grains your poopies with no where else to go, with your mummah holding you by the scruff of your neck. You weren’t sure WHY she gave you the bad-upsies, but when you were all done you felt her place you in the good-upsies, and that finger gently brushed your head. “Good boy.” she had said, and your heart-hurties from the bad-upsies had been immediately replaced by so many heart-happies you almost couldn’t stand it!
Today, you did the same, but there was less poopies; mummah hadn’t fed you in several long-times, ever since bright-time started, but you still had to go and make Good Poopies. So you went to the box, made good poopies, and crawled back to the soft-nestie your mummah had you sleep on when she wasn’t holding you. This time, you felt mummah draw close as you cried out; your tummy hurt SO much, and you NEEDED milkies! You heard her open your cage and pick you up; this time was different though. For some reason, mummah felt colder, and you could feel one of her fingers twitch towards your body. You grew worried, but soon that teat approached your mouth and you relaxed, happily drinking at mummah’s milky-places. Just like every time before, the shocks came, the mouth-hurties that made your little body tremble, but over the last two lotta-forevers, you figured this must simply be how you’re supposed to get milkies.
You drank your fill until your tummy was full, and then you leaned back; you gave good urpies, and then you felt something new. A tickle in your see-places, a tickle you’d never felt before, and you knew you had to do something. “Ey. You all right little guy?” your mummah asked, but you couldn’t respond, you had to think REAL hard over this. Your eyelids fluttered, and when you realized you could move them yourself, you slowly opened them. In front of you was the tit you’d suckled on, the shape familiar and soft, the areola and nipple dark and still dripping slightly. Slowly, you raised your eyes, and your entire body froze.
Looming above you was a massive green THING; it’s head was huge and round, and it’s own see-places were brighter than the room around it, surrounded by some sort of fuzzy-light you couldn’t describe. The thing’s face had a black circle, raised up between it’s see-places, before turning green like the rest of it’s head. Above, three large…you weren’t sure, but your first thought was that it’s mane was sticking up weirdly. Slowly, it opened it’s mouth, and you could see sharp fangies within, your eyes widening as you saw how the light seemed to gleam off just how pointy they were. You began to chirp wildly as your tiny mind took all this in; you needed mummah! This thing was scary! It must be some kind of munstah, ready to num you up!!!
You are Surge. Your little baby rust-colored bowl fluffeh just opened it’s eyes for the first time, and you knew right then and there you’d viciously kick the ass of anything that came between you and it. It’s little rust-colored eyes, almost a direct match for it’s fur, opened wide and darted around, looking over your face; for a Mobian, you were pretty averagely-proportioned. Large head, facial fur markings, big eyes. Your quills were tied up in a haphazard punk-frill, held there by a spiked headband. As your foal took all of you in, your mouth dropped open, inhaling slowly, trying to think of what to say to it. Should you just say hello? Should you speak in the nauseating-looking baby babble you’d come to read and hear from comics and voiceovers? Your foal’s eyes darted down to your open mouth, and suddenly it began to cheep and peep and chirp, it’s tiny legs flailing about as you held it in your palm. It’s eyes were going wild, darting to you, then away, down to your breast, then back up at you, and each time it’s eyes locked on your face it chirped and peeped even louder. “Oi, oi, what’s goin’ on?” you asked it, the sound making you annoyed. That had been your catchphrase it seemed, for the past two weeks; every time it made a new sound or acted a new way, you’d gotten it’s attention with two Oi’s, and asked it straight up what was going on. Not that it could answer; you’d found out pretty quick you’d have to intuit what it was needing, and then taken care of it.
Suddenly, the cheeping stopped, and it looked up at you again. It stared, with confusion and fear in it’s eyes; you’d seen the look before. So, carefully, your finger brushed against it’s head again, curling in to gently pet over that little charcoal-colored stripe that had come in on it’s head. “You open yer eyes, and the first thing ya do is get scared, huh?” you asked it, keeping your voice low as you typically did when it was this close to you. “Well don’t worry bout it, little guy. I guess i am pretty frightening, eh?” You smiled, showing those teeth off again, and you felt it tense up in your hand, chirping once more. “Ah jeeze, this’ll take a while.”
You are a fluffy, and you need your MUMMAH! The scary green munstah above was looking down at you, ready to num you, and you cried and called out to be saved! Just then, however, you heard something come straight FROM that munstah: “Oi, oi, what’s goin’ on?” You froze and looked up at the scary munstah; that was mummah’s voice! Had the thing nummed your mummah already?? Were you just listening to her words as she ended up somewhere in the munstah’s tummy??
“You open yer eyes, and the first thing ya do is get scared, huh?” the green munstah asked, but this time was different; somehow, you realized that this thing was the one saying it. That was it’s voice! This was…your mummah? You felt the finger on your head; that relaxing feeling once more, the one that stroked your little mane that let you know mummah was here, and you slowly relaxed, finally realizing that yes, this WAS mummah.
“Well don’t worry bout it, little guy. I guess i am pretty frightening, eh?” mummah asked, and those sharp teeth came into view once more; instinct and panic overwrote your realization, and you cheeped and chirped and called for mummah again. “Ah jeeze, this’ll take a while.” she said, and your mind came back to you again. THIS was mummah! And even tho her teefies were sharp and scary, there was no way she’d num you or hurt you with them, right?
You took your best gamble; there was something else you needed to do. Slowly you look up at your munstah-mummah again, and your tiny little forelegs lift up towards her face. Your little mouth works, and carefully, you squeak out your very first words.
“M…muh…mah? Mummah? W-wub…mummah!”
You are Surge. The little foal in your hand is crying, fear coursing through it, until you speak again about how difficult this is going to be.
Slowly it stops cheeping, and looks up at you. It’s little muzzle twitches, and suddenly, you hear something definitely not a cheep. A mumble, perhaps?
“M…muh…mah?” it squeaks, and your eyes widen. No, not like this, you think. Not like this, don’t do this little guy, don’t you-
“Mummah? W-wub…mummah!”
You cup the foal with both hands, and hold him close to your chest; softly, carefully, for the first time in your life holding something with all the care you can muster in your life.
You are a fluffy, and your green munstah-mummah is giving you the BESTEST huggies. You love your mummah.