Honestly, I never expected my first ever “book” would be about diminutive pseudo-horse abominations. Enjoy!
An entire civilization lay hidden beneath the surface of rural nature, purposely avoiding human proximity. It has been a year since this society’s golden age, and its technology and culture have developed exponentially over the months. This is the micro-fluffy megacolony empire, and for now, they are safe.
What were once sporadic primitive colonies have long been developed into a united community brimming with potential, all thanks to the existence of the mysterious golden-horned alicorn micro fluffies.
No one knows how the alicorns came to be, save for maybe the alicorns; nevertheless, every micro-fluffy recognizes their authority and wisdom, never once questioning their motives.
But why should they even question their peculiar leaders? To the micro-fluffies, the alicorns possess a charisma and perception that humbles even the most stubborn smarty. In a micro fluffy’s eyes, they are the zenith of a good ruler, and so far, they have proven so.
Under the alicorns’ rule, micro fluffies have lived in societal harmony, free from the whims of the feared humans, and able to defend themselves from the unforgiving elements of nature. Never before, have such hapless critters been able to live long prosperous lives.
At the crack of dawn, it’s a normal day for the fluffy megacolony. It takes place in a small concentrated part of the megacolony, akin to a city, but for micro fluffies instead. The subterranean community thrives beneath layers of dried leaves and twisting tree roots.
A blue earth pony micro fluffy awakened within his clay living quarters, having enjoyed a long night’s rest on his bed of soft moss. He is greeted by his wife and only daughter in the kitchen and gives both of them a warm smooch on the head.
After enjoying edible lichen for breakfast, the father leaves his shelter and heads off to work. He was a smarty, in the most positive connotation possible, being one of the top scientists working in the city’s research facility.
The streets were bustling with the scampering of mice, being ridden by fluffies, all of whom were on their way to their jobs. The domestication of field mice for cargo and transport has proven revolutionary to a micro-fluffy society since the olden days.
The smarty’s mouse was being repaired by apothecaries, having damaged its foot when a tunnel collapsed. Deciding he was in no hurry, the smarty gave some much-needed exercise to his stubby “weggies”, waddling his way toward the research facility. He even took the time to admire the many aspects of his city as he strolled by.
A shopkeeper arranges bags of various sizes, meticulously woven from twine fibers, through skillful use of mouth and hooves. Teenage foals playfully chase each other, unknowingly late for school. The smarty takes notice of buzzing beetles zipping above the streets.
Another impressive feat of micro fluffy biological engineering is transmission beetles. Attached to the bugs are crates filled with leaf scriptures, no doubt distributing the daily news of the megacolony. The beetles are navigated by fluffy-built spires scented with concocted pheromones, the structures being akin to telecommunication towers.
Lost in thought, the smarty almost bumps into a construction worker, who is coordinating with his crew to fix a cracked clay sewage aqueduct. The stink of the dripping sludge caused the smarty to gag in disgust. He recalled a history lesson back in his youth, about the olden days.
Apparently, in the past, fluffies would force poorly colored members to wallow in cesspits, digging out room for more fecal matter. The smarty grimaced at the idea, his daughter was brown for alicorn’s sake! He found it hard to believe that they were his ancestors, such barbaric behavior…
Almost reaching the research facility, the smarty picked up a news leaflet along the way. It described a typical fluffy, the micro fluffy’s larger cousin, choking to death from attempting to ingest hoomin wires, possibly mistaking it for “sketties”.
Once again, the smarty mentally facepalmed himself. He often read about his larger brethren, astounded countless times at how ridiculous they were. He chalked it up to their lack of education systems and reliance on hoomin interference, a true pity.
Shaking his head, the smarty dwelled on the idea of hoomins. It was outlawed to establish any sort of contact with the hoomins, with the golden-horned alicorns deeming them too much of a risk to their society, describing how they would exterminate the colony akin to how micro fluffies dealt with dust mite infestations.
He recognized the wisdom in their logic, but deep inside, ingrained within his fluffy physiology, something told him otherwise. A primal instinct, telling him that hoomins were meant to give “wuv” to a fluffy. The scientist inside him scoffed at the idea, what a foolish notion.
The smarty entered the research facility, a large chamber secluded a small distance away from his home. After greeting his fellow researchers, the fluffy reached his office and sat down to do “leaf” work, his job being to oversee documentation of many existing designs undergoing suggestions for improvement.
The reviews and schematics described many of the megacolony’s life-changing technologies. Without such inventions, the empire would’ve not been able to flourish so long ago in the past.
First off, was the “fun-gun”, a hoof-held weapon that turned the tide of battle against voracious insects and rodents. It was a selectively bred mushroom, filled with combustible spores that could be triggered with a squeeze.
A toughie guard would have the fungus strapped to their side, loaded with grains of sand. Using their natural acute vision, the toughie could aim and fire hypersonic projectiles with pinpoint accuracy, perforating the carapace of enemy arthropods.
The smarty scanned the scribbled notes on the leaf paper, thoughts ran through his small yet fast brain. The tip of his shovel-like hood diligently scraped symbols into the leaf. He approved of another design suggestion for the versatile “clay-crete”.
The building material was used to construct many important infrastructures in the megacolony, especially the miles of underground highways that connected the cities from one another.
The hours pass as the scientist wrote off one document after another, before finally reaching the last schematic. His eyes widened, breath froze as he flipped through the writings.
It described a variation of the “sickie-shootah”, a large subspecies of the aforementioned explosive fun-gun. It was designed to kill larger predators such as hawks or raccoons, with the weapon propelling a carved splinter drenched in potent mushroom toxin.
What made this already utilized killing device bewildering to the smarty scientist was its suggested target. “Hoomins”
In those few tense minutes, the smarty deemed the suggestion acceptable and signed it off. He exited the facility, meeting up with his buddies at the local bar.
Musicians filled the air with soft melodies, blowing their dried stem flutes in harmonic patterns. After enjoying sweet drops of aged nectar with his friends, the smarty called it a day and waddled back home, reuniting with his filly daughter.
But he couldn’t shake off the last schematic he examined. Could a micro fluffy ever hope to stand against a hoomin? The thought lingered in his head, even as he kissed his child goodnight and washed up in his personal aqueduct.
Being the scientist he is, the smarty laid in his moss bed, thinking all night about hoomins. He never saw one, only studied them in his academia. They were akin to eldritch entities, fickle and unpredictable, not to be trifled with, so says the golden-horned alicorns.
Snuggling with his wife, the smarty closed his eyes, hoping that they would never have to resort to using such a weapon. He silently murmured a faithful mantra, the closest thing that the micro fluffies have to a religious prayer.
“Fwuffy haf hewd. Hewd haf fwuffy. Fwuffy haf hewd. Hewd haf fwuffy….”