Hi @Mr_Owl , this is my submission for what happens to Unity #6
Author’s note: I know that Unity mark 6 was the fluffy community mascot, but it’s way funnier to make her say she was the ‘fluffybooru’ mascot
Dr. Frank Redacted was having a good day.
He’d slept well, having drifted off to sleep serenaded by the perpetual anguish of a fluffy mummah who, due to some ‘light’ brain surgery, was unable to form new memories. Mourning Sisyphus spent all of her waking hours rotating between being unsure why she was sobbing her eyes out, wandering over to eat some kibble, take a poo, but on the way to the play room she found ‘her’ dead foals. Over and over she experienced the dizzying heights of grief that only a mummah can feel for having let her foals die. She’d cry, wail, and beg the foals to get up and ‘nu mowe hab fowebah sweepies’ and when that didn’t work, she would switch to anger, screaming at and trying to murder the small yarn toys that she was convinced were her dead children, for they had the arrogance to not only die, but insist on staying that way.
Dr. Redacted kept Mourning Sisyphus in a climate controlled storage unit well away from where he lived, but when he was having a rough time getting to sleep, sometimes he would stream the live footage of her misery fugue. It always gave him the sweetest of dreams.
Frank had actually forgotten what he was up to due to his reflection on how well the day was going, when the other foot dropped… off of the smarty he was slowly grinding to dust on a belt sander.
It was at this point that Dr. Phetamines kicked the door to Dr. Redacted’s laboratory off its hinges with enough force to kill at least 396 fluffies, assuming that Dr. Redacted’s mental arithmetic was correct.
“The door was open. It’s always open. There wasn’t even a lock on it.” Dr. Redacted said before looking back to the fluffy he was sanding, who was by this point was having an orgasm as his internal organs were being ground away. “Pavlovian conditioning is fun, and forcing a fluffy orgasm from pain as it dies is just the icing on the cake.” He said before tossing what was left of the fluffy into the ‘sorry bin’ which was nearly full, holding around three dozen mostly dead fluffies.
“What do you want Dr. Phetamines? Or is it simply that my laboratory’s door has somehow managed to offend you?” He said as he straightened himself up and brushed bits of fluffy innards from his lab coat.
“I got a package from the big boss! It’s addressed to both of us and Troppus too! So I ran from sobriety until I was here.” Dr. Phetamines bellowed, offensively mimicking his own accent.
“So you’re telling me that @grim actually not only remembered that we exist, but also went so far as to actually send us something?” Dr. Redacted asked. Dr. Phetamines assumed that Frank was being rhetorical, but in reality, Dr. Redacted had posed his question to a fluffy strapped to one of the lab tables.
Unfortunately for the fluffy, it no longer had vocal chords as of that morning, and as such was unable to answer. Per his earlier promise, Dr. Redacted hit the power button on a tiny winch which, over the course of the next two days, would slowly but surely pull the fluffy’s front legs across the lab table. Unfortunately for the fluffy, his rear legs were firmly tied to the other side of the table. Per Dr. Redacted’s promise, all the fluffy had to do was say that he wanted it to stop, or really say anything at all, and a servo would cut the power. “Touch break buddy” Dr. Redacted told the fluffy as he went over to a cupboard to get the salt so they could go talk to Troppus Motus.
One unholy sacrifice over a salt rune later, and Dr. Redacted was knocking on what was once a person, now cursed to spend eternity as Troppus’s answering service. A fitting fate for a CEO who tormented his secretaries until the last of them nearly took her own life.
“Kill me” the door begged as the wood warped into the shape of a human face, before magic forced it to add “Welcome to Domum Troppus Motus. Troppus is out back doing her emotional support demon thing.” The door paused for a moment before further adding, “Troppus’s normal portal rune brings visitors right to her, why have you come here this way?”
“Because I’m polite and don’t barge in without invitation.” Dr. Redacted said, only briefly glowering at Dr. Phetamines. “It is for that same reason that I shall, yet again, refrain from putting you out of your misery, as Troppus is my friend and I don’t like breaking my friends’ things.” This time he turned his whole body to face Dr. Phetamines, crossing his arms and glaring at him unblinkingly for precisely one minute before turning back to the door.
Before Dr. Redacted could say anything, however, Dr. Phetamines smashed what had been a very pregnant fluffy into the door before telling it, “Look, just tell Troppus that Frank and Hank are here”
Promptly, Frank and Hank appeared in a puff of smoke at the entrance to Troppus’s courtyard which, as it often did, contained Troppus reclining in boredom on one of several comfy couches. The three foot nine inch demon lady in her crisp three-piece suit had been playing with her long, pitch black hair, but jumped to her feet to greet her visitors.
“Dr. Redacted! Dr. Phetamines! What brings you here?” Troppus asked as she warmly embraced them both.
“I got a package from the big boss, it’s addressed to the three of us” Dr. Phetamines said as he pulled it out from his hit-a-fluffy-with-a hammer space. He shook the box gently and they all heard muffled fluffy talk from within.
Troppus took the box from him and set it down before slicing it open with an impossibly sharp fingernail. Inside was a fluffy unicorn with blue fur and purple mane and tail, with an envelope taped to its back. The fluffy’s legs were duct taped together, and another strip of tape held its mouth shut. While Troppus picked the fluffy up and used her magic to remove the duct tape without de-fluffing it, Dr. Redacted took and read the letter.
“It asks me to read it out loud for narrative purposes” Dr. Redacted says before continuing.
To Dr. Redacted, Dr. Phetamines, and Dr. Troppus,
Please find, taped to this letter, a fluffy. This is Unity. I have grown bored of Unity, and seeing as how I cannot summon Discord to take care of her, due to John de Lancie’s very limited availability, I need you three to take care of her. In the mafia sense of ‘I need you to take care of this problem’. I don’t really care what you do to her, but it needs to be spectacular, and I need you to record it, so that I may use the footage as I see fit. Please find also each of your usual payments inside the box. For Dr. Redacted, a paper detailing the complete pathway for organic chemical synthesis of a novel fluffy toxin that convinces fluffies that the magical finest of sketties is found in the middle of the testicles of other fluffies. For Dr. Phetamines, the Title of Ownership for Dr. Redacted’s laboratory’s toilet’s lid, with the caveat that it must be left in situ. For Dr. Troppus, a dirty joke- what is brown and sticky? A fluffy covered in shit, superglue, and what’s left of its foals.
“Well then” Troppus says, looking at Unity, “Whatever did you manage to do to piss off @grim that much?”
“Fwuffy nu no.” Unity said morosely, “Fwuffy was da mas-kot fow da fwuffy-boo-woo. Was da bestest mas-kot an onwy went poopies on da web sewvew dat wun time.”
Troppus and Dr. Phetamines shrugged at each other before Dr. Redacted spoke up. “Ah, on the back of the letter it says- Unity knows damn well what it did, and if it calls itself fluffy while talking it’s lying. Just slap it about for a bit and it’ll eventually come clean.”
“I got this, let me handle it guys.” Troppus said with a smirk before holding the fluffy at arms length and staring into its eyes.
After a few seconds, Unity’s mouth opened as it groaned, softly at first but rapidly increasing in volume and decreasing in pitch until it was barely audible to the one human present. Unity’s eyes flashed pitch black and it vomited out its own soul, a translucent and incorporeal but otherwise identical fluffy, which started to float away.
“Oh no you don’t!” Troppus said as she plucked the soul from the air and slapped it across the face. “What did you do to piss off @grim?”
Unity’s soul, sounding like every instant spent not fading into the ether was the perfect torture, managed to sputter out, “UNITY WAS MAKIN A WIST AN FOWGOT TU PUT A COMMA BEFOW DA ‘AND’!”
“Yeah, that sounds like @grim” Dr. Phetamines remarked.
Mystery solved, Troppus shoved Unity’s soul back into its fluffy prison, and when it opened its eyes all it could do was scream in unfocused terror. Troppus let it go on like that for several seconds before slapping the space-time continuum out of it, reverting it to exactly how it was when she had first opened its box. Unity was still very scared, but now didn’t even remember why, and violently shook as the others talked.
“So, ‘spectacular’ fluffy disposal, eh? Ideas?” Dr. Phetamines asked.
“I could dissolve her DNA so that her cells are unable to multiply or make new proteins. Over the course of maybe a week she’d go from mild gastrointestinal discomfort to feeling like she chugged mustard gas as her stomach and intestinal lining dissolve, leaving second and third degree internal burns where cells died instead of replicating, and eventually her stomach acid would slowly, agonizingly finish her off.”
“Ooh! That’s pretty good.” Troppus said, adding, “I was just going to suggest pulling out and replacing her soul until it shatters. Funny thing about fluffies is that you really have to go spelunking to find their soul. With humans it’s right there the instant you go inside you slam into it, but with fluffies, it’s either in their urethra, or it’s in their tiny nipples.”
“That’s also pretty good.” Dr. Phetamines concurred, “But I think we should get her pregnant and once she gives birth, we get a hundred or so newborn foals and let her think they’re all hers, and watch as she tries to breastfeed them all, and every time one dies, we shoot it at her with a potato cannon.”
Troppus held out a hand with finger raised “Ya know, we don’t have to choose just one. I have the power to bring her back to the state she’s in right now as many times as we wan-” Troppus was interrupted by, surprisingly enough, Dr. Redacted.
“Which means we can do all of these and many more. When we’re done, we send @grim the footage from everything we do to Unity. He’s bound to like at least one.”
By this point, all three of them are beaming, becoming rapidly lost in their own heads among scores of different plans for Unity.
“I haven’t been this excited since I got into medical school!” Dr. Phetamines said, rubbing his hands with glee.
“Hang on, you didn’t get into med school” Dr. Redacted said, raising an eyebrow, “You just showed up and it took them a week to kick you out after they found out you didn’t get accepted.”
“If I got kicked out of med school, then why am I a doctor? Checkmate Fred!”
“You have a Phd in Finnish Literature, Hank.”
“Right,” Dr. Phetamines said, recognition on his face, “I do a lot of drugs.”
“So, ready to get started?” Troppus asked, trying to get the boys back on track.
“Those two can be a handful,” she thought, “but at least they don’t stare at my tits.”
The initial three plans of Unity abuse went without a hitch. As predicted, fluffy souls shatter easily, although it turned out to be much more fun to just tell her that she lost her soul and watch her panic rise as she tried, and failed, to find her soul, looking first behind the litter box, then behind her bed, then behind the litter box again. After a fourth trip to the litter box, Unity concluded that she had searched every conceivable hiding place in the universe and that her soul was irretrievably lost, and wailed pathetically until Troppus did the whole ‘what’s that behind your ear’ thing and yanked her soul out that way before flushing it down a toilet as Unity’s now comatose body watched.
Happily, this trauma was not wasted, as the first thing Troppus had done was make a perfect copy of Unity, keeping the original in a saferoom, and then copying the copy for each subsequent ‘event’ at the end of which, the memories, trauma and pain were transferred to the original Unity, usually at the instant the copies died. Of course, between the actual trauma transfers, Unity was entertained by live footage of the ‘events’ showing on screens that made up every wall, the floor, and the ceiling of the saferoom.
Operation DNopeA was also a success, with the Unity copy surviving an astonishing, and agonizing, two whole weeks before succumbing.
Another convenience of creating Unity copies was that ‘events’ could be run in parallel, with several of the longer lasting ones going at once. This was useful in cutting the downtime of her gestation period before she tried almost valiantly, for a fluffy, to breastfeed one hundred foals. Interestingly enough, she died of exsanguination from that one, as the skin on her nipples chaffed and eventually entirely sloughed off, by which point she was feeding the foals mostly blood, having long since run out of milk, so as she slowly ran out of blood to keep herself alive, the foals were not only ungrateful, but actively upset with her for feeding them that disgusting not-milk. To her credit, thirty of them were still alive when she finally stopped breathing.
It comes as little surprise that Troppus’s reality bending powers were dramatically useful for all of the proceedings, such as when they ‘altered’ the Large Hadron Collider to fire a Unity at a Unity at relativistic speeds. No new particles were observed, but on the off chance that some were observed, the team was ready to call the new particles fluffions.
Then there was the Fukushima ‘event’ which quickly evolved into the ‘second Fukushima incident’ when a Unity was told that ‘bestest sketties’ could be found in the remains of the melted reactor. The problem here is that Japan plus radiation plus harmless animal equals Godzilla, and as such a fifty story Unity promptly destroyed most of Tokyo before drowning in Tokyo Bay.
On a suggestion from Dr. Phetamines, Troppus created a small box where the flow of time was such that inside the box time moved a million times faster than outside the box. A few dozen Unity copies were thrown in the box, wherein they aged to dust, but each of their protracted boredom-suffering experiences was automatically transferred back to the original Unity.
The penultimate event was the Unity-lympics sporting events, where athletes from around the world gathered to participate in sports that all at least obliquely involved the torment and or death of one or many Unitys. The games were opened with a gargantuan salvo of huge rockets launching into the sky, but delivering comparatively small firework explosions for their size.
Ten Unity bowling went very well, as much fun was had watching ten unities beg the ‘meanie-owwie-baww’ to hurt the other Unities instead of themselves.
Unity shooting, an offshoot of trap shooting, was actually much more exciting the the original as the Unitys rarely went in a straight line when launched, and begged the shooter to ‘nu twy su hawd, yu make da west ob the hoomans wook bad’, in the hope that they would be spared. None were.
Unity-glove boxing was very popular, but took forever as every time one of the gloves died, the round had to be stopped so it could be replaced.
The Judo event pitted Unity against the finest Judo practitioners humanity had to offer. Amazingly the Unitys failed to score even a single win against skilled human Judo wrestlers.
Unity-foal-ball, played with age regressed Unitys was somewhat problematic as the ad-hoc rules stipulated that the runners could only be tagged out by someone holding at least half of the Unity-foal-ball, measured by weight. As such, there was only one actually fieldable ball, from when a batter bunted, although instead of running to first, he initially just stayed where he was and used the bat to obliterate the Unity-foal-ball before casually walking the bases as he could not be declared out due to the now blood covered bat being covered in more than half of the foal by weight, and the umpires declaring that the batter may not be tagged out by someone holding a blood-soaked baseball bat.
The final event was the Unity 100 meter freestyle race. Twelve Unitys wearing the colors of various nations lined up at the edge of the pool and as one jumped in with the starting whistle. Not one of them managed to come up for even a single breath, but what the audience described as their ‘drownie-dancies’ were incredibly popular on the dance floors of the world immediately afterwards.
As all good things must end, it was time for the closing ceremony, held just after sunset once the sky was dark. It was a nearly moonless night, with only the slightest crescent showing where the moon actually was.
“We would like to thank everyone for coming to these fantastically successful Unity-lympic games!” Dr. Phetamines told the cheering crowd. “However, there is one thing that we need to clear up, as we misled you. At the opening ceremony the one thousand giant firework rockets we launched were actually in fact not fireworks in the traditional black powder and pretty colors sense, we just launched some of those at the same time so people would ask fewer questions, but rest assured that the giant firework rockets have not been idle, and in fact their show is about to begin.” He lifted an arm to point at the sky.
“I’d like to ask all of you, both here at the stadium, and those of you watching at home, to take a good look at the moon, lest you miss the fireworks.”
For a moment, nothing happened, but then the moon flashed almost as bright as the sun for just an instant before it was dark again, and though nobody could see it as their night vision had just been ruined for the moment, there was a glowing yellow dot at the spot where the flash had come from. Then the moon flashed again, and again, with the subsequent spacing between flashes becoming shorter and shorter until there seemed to be a constant, blinding glow.
Dr. Redacted addressed the audience next, “Each of the one thousand rockets lofted one thousand live Unitys and a one thousand megaton thermonuclear device. Each flash vaporizes one thousand Unitys in an explosion that heats the surrounding lunar regolith to a glowing hot molten state. Once one million Unitys have been sprayed across the cosmos, and your night vision returns, you should be able to make out a rather particular glowing image. While the glow will slowly fade, the image will remain for any who gaze upon the moon, and it should stay there until the moon is swallowed by the sun as it swells before dying in four billion years.”
And what an image it was
“So I’m assuming the original Unity was either on the first or last rocket?” Dr. Phetamines asked Dr. Redacted.
“I’m not sure, where did you put the original, Troppus?” Dr. Redacted asked the demon.
“It was on the last rocket, but the 1001st rocket didn’t carry a bomb, it had a soft landing system.”
“HA!” Dr. Redacted shouted, laughing loudly for a moment before managing to say, “So did you set it down on the moon to slowly starve in the landing pod, or did you set up the pod to kick Unity out so it could explode in the vacuum?”
“Neither,” Troppus answered, taking her companions by surprise, “I have the power to bestow immortality. I took a look inside its mind, and the original Unity is now the most traumatized, most intensely suffering, most depravitedly tormented consciousness this universe has or, I suspect, will ever see. So I made it immortal, and now it can spend the rest of time trapped in its thoughts as it stares into the void.”