The Experiment

	Another day at work.

	Ever since you decided to intern at the Fluffycorp Genetic Engineering department, things have been very routine and normal. Write a report here, watch some people draw strands of DNA there, just basically what you’d expect from people trying to create an new animal – or toy, depending on what side of the fence you’re on, that can learn to speak and understand human language.

	Today’s different, though. You were chosen to do a sort of hands-on test with the “fluffy ponies”, as they came to be called. Since both yourself and your boss knew that you had little to no idea what was going on, you’re essentially doing a field test, seeing as how a fluffy will react to various stimuli.

	You head into your office/supply closet and grab some materials for the testing: a tape recorder, a bottle of water, your lab coat, gloves, the works. While you have a slight feeling in the back of your head that something’s expected to go wrong today, you’d rather not be unprepared for anything.

	The testing lab that you’re going to be working in is white-washed. The walls, oddly, are curved at the corners. Instead of the room being a perfect cube, the edges are rounded. Florescent light bulbs cover the ceiling, shining down on what looks to be bleached tiles. You drag your shoe over them, and it feels like rubber: lots of friction. You set your supplies down on a long table; presumably where the testing is going down; and march over to the breeding facility.

	The breeding facility is a lot different. It reminds you more of a pet store, or a zoo of some sort. It’s only slightly bigger than your “office”, but it has a very lived-in feel to it. Almost like a family’s house. Sure enough, CEO of Fluffycorp and owner of the most generic name in the world, Joe Johnson, is ready to greet you as soon as you walk in.

	“Morning, Anon! Or, should I say, Dr. Anon,” Joe greets you, flashing his “so-white-they’re-almost-blue” teeth.

	“Oh, uh, just ‘Anon’ is fine, Mr. Johnson.”

	Joe, a man that you would describe as “short and old” laughs loudly and pokes you in the chest.

	“Please, Anon! Mr. Johnson is my father. Just call me Joe, everyone does.”

	“Of course, Mr. Johnson. I mean, uh-“

	Joe lets out another hearty laugh, and wraps an arm around your shoulder, sticking his hand out in front of him and waving it about.

	“Genetic engineering is a big job, Anon. A world of possibilities! And these fluffy ponies, as idiotic as they may be, need to be tested for any faults. Today, that outcome relies on you. Are you ready?”

	You nod.

	“Excellent! Well, you’d better get started, then. I’m not payin’ you to stand around the water cooler, if you catch my drift!”

	As he walks back to his building, you decide to head over to the pens. Instantly, your nostrils are reminded of why you compared this place to a zoo.

	A desk clerk greets you with a friendly smile, and asks what you’re here for.

	You reach into your pocket and pull out a sticky note. You decided to do a little poll of who you should do the test on, and an overwhelming amount of workers said “a male earth”. So that’s what you ask for.

	“Alrighty, one male earth fluffy coming right up!”

	She reaches into one of the cages behind her, and fluffies in the other cages begin to clamor for attention. Cries of “hewp fwuffy”, “wuv ‘oo”, and “hewwo” flood the air, in an annoying but equally adorable chorus. The clerk spins around and lays a fluffy pony on the desk. He’s certainly vibrant; his coat is a baby blue, whereas his mane is an electric blue. It’s obvious from the get-go that these things weren’t meant to live in the wild, seeing as how easy they’d be to spot.

	“There ya go! I, uh, named him “Chuck”, if that makes any difference.”

	“Chuck, huh? Not a bad name for ya, pal.”

	You scratch his head, but pull back. You’re not in a controlled environment, and you’re certainly not documenting this right now. You’ll have to wait until you’re back in the lab to get started.

	“Well, I’d better be going. Catch you later.”

	You pick up “Chuck”, and start going back to the lab. In your head, you’re already thinking up an initial diagnosis: “Subject is a dual-hued blue, male earth fluffy. Weight is about 2.36 kilograms, height is about 19 centimeters tall, 32 centimeters long.” You’ve gotten good at eyeballing things in the past month or so, so your estimates certainly seem accurate. Of course, it all has to be in metric (global regulations and all), so you can’t be entirely sure.

	“Whewe Chuh?”

	“You’re on the grounds of the Fluffycorp Central Hub, headed for the genetic engineering lab for further testing based on various stimuli.”

	“…Buh…?”

	You sigh loudly.

	“You’ll get spaghetti at the end of it.”

	You feel your eardrums slightly explode at Chuck’s sudden, high-pitched outburst of “SKETTIEEEEEEEEEEEES!”



”Experiment Log FL37E571-2B. Subject is a dual-hued blue, male earth fluffy. Weight is exactly 2.57 kilograms, height is 18.4 centimeters tall and 32.1 centimeters long. Today’s experiment is based around reactions to various stimuli.”

”Fwuffy am expuh…eff…fiy…too?”

This is going to go swimmingly.

“Test Number One: Conversation with humans.”

You set the recorder down on the desk, next to Chuck, and pull a set of cue cards out of your front pocket that you bought on a particular lonely speed dating night. Each card has a conversation starter on it, and you’ve cherry picked the ones that a fluffy pony might care about, such as food and entertainment. You decide to start off small.

“Hi, Chuck.”

His head snaps to yours, and smile spreads across his face.

“Hewwo, daddeh!”

“Note: subject believes me to be its father. Our goal to have emotional attachment between owner and fluffy was successful. Subject appears to be thinking freely despite earlier expectations.”

You go to pull up a chair and sit down, but the room is otherwise barren except for the table. Opting not to sit on the floor or your working space, you decide to keep it formal and stand. Shame. You probably seem a lot more imposing standing up, but Chuck doesn’t seem to be too affected by it. You quickly jot it down and ready your cue cards.

“Chuck, what is your favorite food?”

Chuck gets a glazed look in his eyes and stares off into space.

“Chuck? I asked, ‘what is your favorite food?”

“Chuh…Chuh numm…uh…”

“Subject seems unable to answer questions with several answers. I’ll now attempt to narrow it down to ‘yes-and-no’s.”

You clap your hands twice, sharply, to get Chuck’s attention. His eyes immediately refocus, and he looks around the room before locking eyes with you again.

“Hewwo, daddeh!”

“Short-term memory loss. Great.”

“Wuh showh tuh mem-“

Chuck is quickly cut off by the sound of your palm slapping into your forehead and a loud groan.

“Chuck.”

“Hewwo!”

“Do you like to eat Fluffy Chow?”

He sticks his tongue out and makes a noise akin to a “no” and a “bleh” ‘s horrible, mutilated lovechild. If the entire idea of implementing this was to try to make kids buy top of the line Fluffycorp food for their new pets, then by God did they succeed in making you never want to hear that sound again.

“Uh, moving on. What do you think of “spaghetti?” As if you didn’t already know the answer.

Chuck’s eyes begin to widen to the point that you’re worried they’ll pop out of his head. His nostrils flare, and you see the beginnings of salivation. He already had a freakout on the way over to the lab when you promised him you’d get him spaghetti after the experiment, but you didn’t get a good look at his face. You grab your notepad in a split second and frantically write down what you see before he lets out another ear-piercing shri-

“SKETTIEEEEEEEEEES!”

The curved walls of the room are perfect for reverberating sound. You didn’t really notice until now, but there’s a goddamn loud echo coming back at you. Couple that with the fact that the walls are padded with…something, and you get the perfect storm of crystal-clear, eardrum-destroying fluffy screech. The recorder didn’t seem to get too much distortion, so the higher-ups get the excellent privilege of listening to the same thing you just heard. Good for them.

“Subject has…urgh, my ears. Ahem, subject has shown a distinct enjoyment of a substance he refers to as “sketties”. To go a bit off of the grid here and offer my opinions, while I understand the ‘baby talk’, I think we should cut down on the dopamine production upon mention of the…substance.”

Turning back to Chuck, you see a massive grin on his face and a slight wagging of his stub of a tail. Forget dopamine, this thing looks almost high.

“Moving on from conversations, I will now observe the subject’s dietary habits. Subject will be fed three, FDA-approved Fluffycorp foods; said foods will be “Fluffy Chow Deluxe, Fluffy Feast, and Fluffycorp Brand Spaghetti.”

Yet another massive shriek from Chuck causes you to fling the tape recorder up into the air. It tumbles end over end, rising and falling, not unlike your patience at the moment. You fumble to catch it, and miraculously manage to do so.

“I will now step out for a brief moment to gather the food. This is also a good chance to observe how the subject will act and react unattended.”

As you begin a very hasty walk out of the room, Chuck waves goodbye and giggles, calling out “Bye, daddeh!”

Okay, that almost makes up for the screeches.

You stroll through the grounds yet again, this time headed for the manufacturing plant. The area is a large, typical factory, complete with smokestacks and oversized pipes on top of, and wrapping around the building, respectively. For a place producing things for such a happy product, it certainly looks gloomy.

A massive garage door is open, and an eighteen-wheeler is unloading a shipment of Fluffy Feast. Both sides of the truck are emblazoned with a fluffy, laughing. He (or she, it’s kind of hard to tell in pictures) has bits of Fluffy Feast in his fluff: around his mouth, on his nose, his cheeks, and, somehow, some just above his eyes. An overly happy owner is guiding a spoonful of Fluffy Feast towards the fluffy, who, if he notices it, certainly seems a bit too happy to care. The words “Fluffy Feast” adorn the pictures, making for the perfect combination of adorable and family-friendly; a marketer’s wet dream, really.

“Hey, there,” You call out.
“Oh, hey Anon! What can I do ya for?”

“Mind if I take some food?”

The guy unloading the truck, Jerry, begins to laugh.

“If you’re THAT hungry, Anon, there’s a cafeteria just south of here.”

You let out a chuckle. “No, not exactly. See, I’m doing an experiment with the fluffy ponies, and I need some food to test. See how they react to each type, you know?”

“Say no more. Let me give that clipboard a look, and I’ll getcha what you need.”

You hand him the clipboard and thank him before checking your watch. 2:47 PM. You’ve been gone about six minutes. Hopefully Chuck hasn’t managed to kill himself or break something yet.

Jerry returns a few seconds later, and hands you a small plastic box, with a Fluffy Feast logo slapped across the front. The second item is a dime bag full of cat food-esque pellets, Fluffy Chow Deluxe. The third and final object, Fluffycorp Spaghetti, looks like an MRE; a stiff square wrapped in plain brown paper.

Thanking Jerry once again, you rush back to the testing lab. If Chuck broke something-the tape recorder, his neck-it won’t exactly be pretty for you.

You barge through the doors, and see Chuck, staring at the wall closest to him. Nothing seems broken, he’s fine, and everything is still as pristine as ever. Picking up the tape recorder, you begin to record when Chuck shrieks again.

“Jesus!”

Chuck whirls around with terror in his eyes, but instantly calms down and smiles at you.

“Chuck, what was that about?”

“Daddeh scawe Chuh! Chuh no heaw daddeh, den daddeh wigh dere! Scawy!”

	You take a second to catch your breath, and apologize to Chuck, who seems to have forgotten about it before you could even get the words out of your mouth.

	“Okay, let’s try this again. I’ve brought the food to the subject. First, we’ll try the ‘Fluffy Chow Deluxe”.”

	Upon opening the dime bag, an unpleasant smell hits you. Almost exactly like the scent of cat food. Hell, maybe this really is just glorified cat food. Regardless, you dump a small pile onto the table in front of Chuck, and he scowls at it.

	“Ewww! Chuh no wike!”

	“Aw, come on, Chuck. Just try it. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

	Chuck lets out a “hmph”, and turns his back to the food. He stands up, bends his knees a bit, as if he’s going to jump, lifts his tail-

	“Don’t even think about it.”

	Chuck decides to sit down.

	“From the looks of it, Fluffy Chow Deluxe is a massive flop. Subject refuses to even taste it due to unknown reasons. Now, we’ll try the ‘Fluffy Feast’”.

	The container of Fluffy Feast fits in your palm easily. It has a peel-off top, with the same happy Fluffy that you saw on the truck splashed across of it. In a swift motion, you tear it off, revealing a gelatinous, meaty blob. The packaging advertises it as a “healthy, vegan meal made of the finest tofu for the most pampered fluffy pony”, but from the looks alone, you’re not sure how much is tofu, and how much is meat scraps off the cutting room floor.

	You slide it over to Chuck, still in the container, opting not to slather the desk in Fluffy Feast juice. This time, Chuck decides to take a bite.

	“I’m going to let the subject describe the taste. Chuck, how do you feel about Fluffy Feast?”

	Chuck smacks his lips and takes a couple more bites before answering. He’s almost like a tiny, fluffier, more idiotic food critic that you’d see on a reality cooking show.

	“Is siwwy. Feew funneh in mouwf, buh good nummies. Chuh wike, buh no wike. Fwuffy head hewt.”

	“To reiterate, subject seems to think that Fluffy Feast has an odd texture, but a decent taste. Actions could be taken to convert Fluffy Feast to more of a dry food, while keeping the flavor. The final food to be tested will be Fluffycorp’s very own spagh-“

	Chuck’s instant shriek reminds you that you really need to stop using the term “spaghetti” around him. Maybe if you got to use a camera instead of a tape recorder, you could spare yourself and everyone else blood loss from the ears.
	The package is held together with scotch tape, and a few simple tugs manages to free the food, which is then wrapped in an airtight plastic bag. That takes a bit longer to rip through, but you manage. What you find is very much like dollar store ramen; a solid brick of noodles with a flavor packet inside of it.

	“Cooking instructions: boil water, and insert…ohhh, okay. I shall return shortly with the completed, erm, ‘meal’, is the term I’m going to use, to spare us the screams.”

	You head into the staff kitchen only a few doors down, and prepare the spaghetti. It only takes a minute or two to complete, and you stir in the packet’s contents. You take a deep whiff, and instantly you’re reminded of ‘home’. You’re not sure exactly what your nose is connecting to here, but it smells like a good, hearty meal. You’d try some yourself, but you’re trying to keep up a professional attitude.

	The final product is only a bowl’s worth of orange spaghetti, but it certainly seems like Chuck will enjoy it. As soon as you carry it into the room, Chuck leaps to his feet, his ears perk up, and his mouth goes slack.

	“Sketties?”

	Remaining silent, you set the bowl in front of Chuck, who immediately begins to wolf it down. It’s gone in about as long as it took to make it, and you’re surprised he didn’t manage to choke on it.

	“Moaw sketties faw Chuh? Pwease?”

	“Maybe later. Subject shows an intense love of the ‘meal’, as if we hadn’t yet heard. Food testing is complete. Subject will now have a drink, and dietary testing will be completed.”

	You pull a bottle of water from one of the many pockets in your lab coat, unscrew the top, and point the mouth at Chuck’s mouth.

	“Open wide, please.”

	Chuck does as he’s asked, and you stick the bottle in his mouth. His tongue flits about before finding the water, and he guzzles it down. Unlike the spaghetti, though, he begins to cough and sputter after the first few sips.

	“Chuck?”

	Chuck is letting loose a maelstrom of wheezes, obviously trying to catch his breath and failing to do so.

	Leaping into action, you give him a hard slap on his back. Not bone-breaking, of course, but enough to make him vomit all over the table.
	“Chuck, are you alright?”

	He coughs one last time, and looks up at you.

	“Mm-hmm.”

	“Are you sure? I kinda made you…you know, sick.”

	“Chuh otay.”

	“Good. That’s good. Subject began to choke on some water, but seems to be in good shape at this point. Since we’re going to need a janitor in here, I say we conclude testing in the lab. I will return Chuck to the breeding facility with my tape recorder to get some information on a fluffy’s reaction to other fluffies.”

	With a click, you eject the tape and shove it into your front pocket. You insert a cassette with more memory on it, and shut it tightly. Moving some of Chuck’s fluff out of the way until you find skin, you place the tape recorder there and secure it with a single piece of scotch tape.

	“Let’s take you back now, Chuck.” You say, holding him under one arm.

	“Chuh no wan’ go! Chuh wan’ stay an’ eat sketties and pway an-“

	“Relax, Chuck. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, but right now you need to be my special helper.”

	“Speshaw hewpah?”

	“That’s right. I need to you be my secret agent. You hold on to this tape recorder. Make sure no other fluffy knows about it but you. I need you to talk to all your fluffy friends so I can help everyone learn more about you.”

	Chuck gets a look of determination on his face and stares up at you.

	“Otay! Chuh be secweh speshaw hewpah!”

	“That’s the spirit.”

	-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Collecting the tape the next day didn’t really reveal anything too important, aside from the fact that Chuck gets incredibly socially awkward when he tries to hide things from his fluffy friends. Regardless, he managed to hide it, and the higher-ups love it.

	“Anon!” You hear Mr. Johnson call out. “Excellent work out there, son! Your research and comments are going to help us a lot with marketing and genetic strategies!”

	He gets a little closer and begins to speak in a low whisper.

	“And I have to personally congratulate you on not choking the little bastard out after all the mentions of spaghetti, ya know?”

	Mr. Johnson gives you a friendly punch on the shoulder.

	“So, as a reward, we’ve decided to fully welcome you into the Fluffycorp offices as a Genetic Tester! And, for good measure, we decided to throw Chuck in as well. The little fluffball seems to be fond of you. You can keep him as a pet, a test subject, give him back, whatever sounds good to you. How’s that sound?”

	“Pretty good, sir. I, uh, think I’ll take Chuck as a pet, if that’s alright.”

	“Anon, if it wasn’t alright, I wouldn’t have offered. Keep up the good work, kid!”

	“Thank you, sir.”

	You grab yourself a pet carrier and go pick up Chuck, who’s more than happy to go with you. The woman running the place threw in a few packs of Fluffycorp Spaghetti and a new, revised edition of Fluffy Feast Deluxe, which was a very welcome bonus.

	As you drive home with Chuck in the back seat, he pipes up.

	“Daddeh?”

	You begin to correct him, but you realize he’s now technically correct.

	“Yeah?”

	“Yuu gif Chuh moaw sketties now?”

	“Sure thing, Chuck. We’ll celebrate with some spaghett-“

	“SKETTIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!”

	You really, really, need to stop mentioning spaghetti.