Here for Them

FractalFluff, May 13, 2014; 07:16 / FB 21557
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(Just some thoughts on fluffy satyrs. How I imagine them, how their development as a product might go down. Might do more with them, might not. Not hugboxy but not really violent or anything. Implied abuse, but nothing actual. Sorry* 'bout that.)
*no actual sorrow is implied or should be construed.

Here for Them

The neonate is perfect. Pale lashes pick up the gold from a sunbeam where they lie against the soft cheeks; the lips curve into a slight smile, as if she's dreaming happily of the new life awaiting her. She's dressed in primrose-yellow, a helpful indicator of the shade of fluff that will soon overtake much of her rosy skin.

On either side of her, ranks of similar cribs stretch away. In each one nestles a similar tiny dreamer, clad in similar pastel onesies. Candy pink, baby blue, soft lilac, mint green, warm peach. Lying in their nests of crisp white linen, they look like fondant candies in a great big box — until the eye picks up the discreet tubes rising up from the bed-bases, removing waste, delivering nourishment and drugs and dreams.

Over and around the dreamers, hidden speakers waft a soft voice, murmuring the words that will shape their dreaming and the minds that dream. It is the voice of the Ur-Mummah, the great supernal mother mare, the dream-dam known in the hearts and bones of all the fluffy ponies, and now inherited by their strange new kin.

...Mummah wuvs gud babbehs... Mummah wan aww babbehs tu be gud... Mummah gif huggies to gud babbehs... gud babbehs du wat nyu Mummah teww... gud babbehs du wat nyu Daddah teww... gud babbehs wook aftah hoomin babbehes wen gud babbehs du wat hoomin teww, Mummah am suu pwoud... wen gud babbehs make hoomins happi, den Mummah am suuu happi... gud babbehs knoh dat hoomins nu hewe fow oo... gud babbehs knoh dat oo am hewe fow dem...

The dreamers smile and coo, basking in the love of the phantasmal dam. They experience the bliss of approval; the bliss of obedience.

Sometimes the dream becomes a nightmare.

...huuhuuuhuuu... Mummah haf saddies... bad babbehs huwt Mummah's heawt... huuhuuhuu... pwease nu be bad, babbehs... huuhuuhuu... bad babbehs du wat wan, an nu wisten tu hoomins... bad babbehs huwt Mummah... huuhuuhuu... nu huwt Mummah, pwease be gud babbehs... du wat hoomin teww... huuhuuhuu...

The dreamers writhe and moan. Some toss tiny heads, some kick digitigrade legs that are still bare of fluff. Some whimper; some chirp. Some, the most precocious, can already wail "nuuu!" in their sleep.

(These are set aside. They may yet be salvageable, with proper conditioning.)

They will sleep until someone wants them.

***

There was some debate about the name. Satyrs... weren't they those ancient Roman things? Or were they Greek? Maybe they were Egyptian. Anyway, weren't kind of horndogs? Do we really want people thinking "mythical fuckmonster" when they look at these... uh... these...

And anyway, weren't they half sheep? Or something.

There's an information-gathering exercise. The general public is polled on their associations with the word "satyr". Big Data is mined for meaning. It turns out that few people nowadays have come across the term. Even those who venture a guess are mostly asking, not telling. Is it a planet? A root vegetable? Some kind of electric thing? A weather condition? They don't have an association; they want you to give them one.

Later, someone remembers the term "faun", but by then the product is already being rolled out. It doesn't matter. A satyr is whatever HasBio II says it is.

***

There was some debate about the fluff. Thick and curly or straight and silky? Covering the face, stopping at the neck, at the waist, the thighs..? What about the girls – mares, fillies, whatever; wouldn't it just suggest... unshaven legs? Granola chicks with happy trails? The meeting ripples with laughter.

It is determined that soft pastel fluff is not the same as granola chick fleece. If people want to remove it, you'll make a line of HasBio de-fluffing creams for them to buy. Simple.

***

There was some debate about the voice. Did people really want their new babies stuck talking in fluffspeak, even with the expanded capacity for language? Couldn't they just talk normally?

"Put it this way, gents," says one developer. "Just imagine what would happen down the line if these things tried to rebel, or unionize, or whatever. Right. Now imagine the same scene, but in fluffspeak. and they still talked like fluffies. 'Shahp stewawd am cawwin meetin tu owdah! We wan mowe nummehs an wess hawd wowkies! We nee' a gewenaw stwike!"

There is laughter.

Reprogramming would be made available, it was determined. A dormant secondary set of linguistic abilities would be added, only to be activated by specific triggers.

***

There was some debate about growth rates, maturity, physical development. Some people might want their satyrs to stay small and cute, but some might need them to do yard work or even farm chores. Maybe heavy lifting — especially since one of the selling points was that the sats would stay on as caregivers when your punk kids left you high and dry. The default, it was determined, was to age at a normal human rate for the first ten years, and then suspend. If people wanted their fluffies to go on growing, supplements would be provided.

"What about... you know... puberty?" asks one man. He has a fake tan and a ponytail.

"The current generation of prototypes are capable of maturing much like humans, but only if they're given the right hormones. You know, for those who want to enter the market themselves. For breeders."

"Oh, okay," says Ponytail. "For breeders."

The projected maximum lifespan is 40, which all present understand to mean: 20, 25 with a following wind and a nod from God.

***

There was some debate about whether any of it should be done. It was easily quashed. Genetic Luddites, the news media blared. DNA deniers. Satyr justice warriors, sneered bloggers and networkers. People who opposed the development of fluffy satyrs were variously branded anti-fluffy, anti-human, ablist and ageist (think of all those people who could use a helping hoof!), anti-technology and anti-business. Think of the markets that satyrs would open up! Think of all those low-paid jobs that could be done by fluffy labour!

Those who expressed fears that the satyrs might be at risk of sexual abuse — something already happening to fluffy ponies with monotonous regularity — were shouted down so fiercely that their heads spun. Nobody would do that! Why would they even THINK of that? What was WRONG with the protestors? Obviously they were splorchers themselves. Or maybe massive right-wing prudes. Or feminazis. Yeah! Jealous, hairy-legged, castrating feminazis! Where did these sex freaks think they were anyway, Soviet China? The puberty feature was for breeders.

Yeah. breeders.

Obviously.

***

There was no real debate about intelligence. Everyone knew that fluffies were dumb. Satyrs would be less dumb, but not people-smart. And if along the way one group had been asked to add the capacity for foreign language learning, and another had been told to carve out enough room for some kind of basic medical training, and a third had been told to enhance the facial recognition and related memory, and that one guy who only touched things with alcohol wipes had been told to give them a grasp of basic maths without anyone realizing that his idea of basic maths patted differential calculus on the head in passing and gave it a condescending smile...

...well, so what? All of those things were optional extras. Sure, they were inbuilt; but they could only be brought live with the right codes, the right stimuli, the right nutrients — all of which would cost extra. And none of those traits were the same as smart. Not smart-smart. Not people-smart.

Everyone knew that fluffies were dumb.

***

The baby in the yellow onesie is still a neonate. She's been a neonate for the past six months. She is nearing the end of her shelf-life; more than another trimester, and the growth-suppressants will start to damage her. Either she'll have to be allowed to progress to toddlerhood, making her less saleable, or she'll be "re-streamed". This is accomplished by a needleful of opiates, sending the unwanted infant off down a river of dreams and into those deeper waters from which none ever emerge.

But today a handsome couple is looking down at her. The man's arm is clasped about his wife's shoulders. "Ohh, look at that little girl," the wife is cooing. "She's just precious.."

"Isn't she, though?"

"You're sure you wouldn't prefer a boy — a colt?"

"Sweetie, you've given me two lovely boys already." He muses. "I think..." he says, and his voice sounds kind and wise, "I think she looks like a Hestia."

"She does!" agrees the wife. "She really does look like a Hestia."

She smiles carefully. The bruises under her expert makeup are still tender, but she doesn't want to look like she's not pleased.

And she is pleased. Things will be different in future; a future where Hestia is here for them.

His fingers tighten on her upper arm, just a little. Those bruises are tender too, but she doesn't flinch or wince. She turns her smiling face up to his kiss.

[end]