Whisper the Bad Daddy (Challenge No.02 entry)

ImmortalFluffyKiller, November 27, 2012; 22:52 / FB 7068
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Takenoko's Challenge:

Whisper the Bad Daddy.

>You are a Fluffy pony.
>The quietest Fluffy pony who has ever lived.
>You are a dark brown color with a light green mane. No horn or wingies for you.
>You're also a boy fluffy. You know that because a long time ago, you had a special friend with whom you had special huggies.
>Not anymore.
>As you push through the frigid cold wind of the white time, your chest fills with sadness.
>Memories fill your head.
>Of how your herd was torn apart by meannie woof monsters.
>Your special friend was full of babies at the time.
>You saw the smarty and his toughie friends - a good smarty, you can remember - try to fight the woof monsters.
>They were torn apart in no time at all.

>When you were young, like all foals, you believed in the immutable toughness and power of fluffies.
>Of course Fluffies were tough; you're Fluffies!
>You give owwies to anything, anytime.
>You believed that all through your life, up until that moment.
>At that moment, watching your smarty and his toughy friends - all of them bigger and stronger than you - being ripped to shreds as if they were nothing, you had what humans would have called a moment of clarity.
>Fluffies were not tough. They were not strong.
>You were a fluffy.
>By the power of the simple logic engine that is your brain, you came to the conclusion that you were neither strong nor tough.
>And so you ran and hid.
"NUUUU! Speshah fwen'! Nu weave Fwuffy! Fwuffy be mummeh! Haff babEEEEEEEEEEE--!"
>You didn't have to look back to know what was happening.
>You didn't want to look back.
>You just ran and hid under a bush.
>You hid your eyes behind your hooves and stayed as quiet as possible.
>After a while, you came out to find that your entire herd had been eaten.
>Nothing was left but some boo-boo juice and fluff.
>That's how you became a wandering fluffy, with no herd to call your own.

>That was many bright times ago. So many bright times ago that the memory has become muddled and jumbled.
>Sometimes your special friend is killed before the smarty, sometimes after. Sometimes they die at the same time.
>However you remember it, the lesson sticks better than anything you've ever learned.
>You're walking through a forest, back to your small den.
>You've just eaten, but the few grassies you could find were yellow and hard and didn't taste pretty.
>Still, it made your tummy owwies go away.
>You hear something off in the distance.
>Instantly you button up, rushing off toward the base of a tree.
>You huddle down between two large roots, trying to stay as still and silent as possible.
>The noise doesn't die down, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer.
>Slowly you inch out from between those roots, cocking your little ears out to get a better listen.
>It sounds like...
"Babbeh?"
>You whisper softly.
>Whispering is all you do these days, really. No loud babbling for you.
>Loud talking makes fluffies take the long sleep. You don't want that.
>So you whisper.
"Babbeh? Whewe babbeh?"
>It's a fluffy baby crying. You walk back out into the snow-covered landscape, trying your hardest to follow its keening call through the everpresent howl of the wind.

"Waaaaaah! Mummeh! Wakies! Fwuffy hungee! Nee' nummies! Miwkies! Waaaah!"
>The sound of the baby is getting stronger and stronger.
>Finally you come upon a sight that makes your small fluffy stomach roll over with disgust.
>Another fluffy, a mare, lies atop her baby.
>She's taken the long sleep; her fluff is covered with white stuff and she's not moving.
>Her baby, old enough to move and talk, seemed to have climbed off her back and tried to burrow under her in order to keep warm.
>Now it's trying to hug her back awake, crying its little eyes out in despair.
>You approach cautiously, whispering softly so as not to scare the poor foal.
"Babbeh. Mummeh nu ge' up nu mo'."
>The baby turns and looks at you, tears matting the fur of his face.
"*sniffle* N-Nyu fwen'?"
>You sit down close to the little foal, nodding.
"Am nyu fwen', babbeh."
>Reaching down, you press your hoof to the foal's mouth, shushing him before he can speak.
"Nee' whispah. Nu woud talkies. Dewe munstas aww 'wound. Dey heaw yuu, dey fin' yuu an' giff big owwies."
>The foal snuggles into his mother's fluff.
"Nuuuuu. Mummeh wakies, pwotec' babbeh. Giff dummeh munstahs biggest owwies!"
>You sigh deeply.
>Poor little baby. He doesn't know. You can't really blame him. You were like him once.
>Reaching down, you gently scoop the foal up into your arms.
>You give him a big hug, cooing softly at him.
"Sssssshhhh. It otay, babbeh. Whispah hewe."
>You've taken to calling yourself that. Whisper. Seems like an appropriate name.
>The foal is torn between returning your hug and crying out to its mother.
"Mummeh...nee' mummeh...so wawm...*yawn* babbeh sweepy."
>Soon the little foal is happily cuddled into your fluff, sleeping and gently suckling on its own hoof.

>You sit with the foal for a long time.
>A long time to you, anyway.
>You don't know what to do. You know you can't help this baby.
>You're a boy fluffy. Babies need mothers with milk. You don't have any milk.
>You're still a Fluffy, though; you really, really want a baby, despite knowing that you can't properly care for it.
>It's so cute! And now that its mother is dead, you're all it has.
>But...
>It will just take the long sleep.
>It will cry and beg for food.
>You've seen it before; you can vaguely remember a smarty leaving a baby outside of the herd because it was 'dumb'.
>You agreed; it smelled horrible.
>It cried and begged for food. It cried so loud that a big flying monster came down, picked it up, and carried it away.
>You look down at the little foal in your arms.
>It's smiling in its sleep, completely oblivious to the world around it.
>The beginnings of an idea are coalescing inside your tiny fluffy brain.

>You know what you have to do.
>Even before you begin to get to work, the tears begin to flow.
>Deep inside yourself, a part of your fluffy self - the part that still wishes to be a Daddy - screams in protest to your decision.
>Reaching down, you gently take the foal's neckfluff between your teeth.
>Waddling onto all fours, you carry it back to its mother, settling it down right where you found it.
>Already the foal is beginning to rouse, robbed of the warmth and comfort it so briefly experienced.
"Cowd...nee' wawm...Daddeh. Wan' Daddeh!"
>Your bottom lip quivers. It called you its Daddy.
>You shake those tears away as the foal looks up at you, its big eyes boring into yours.
"Daddeh! Nu weave babbeh! Am guud babbeh!"
>It tries to get up and waddle over to you.
>You reach down and press a hoof to its body, holding it down.
"It otay, babbeh. D...Whispah fin' nummies fo' babbeh. Fin' bestest nummies fo' bestest babbeh."
>That does the trick. The foal's face brightens up.
"B-Bestest babbeh? Am bestest babbeh?"
>You smile and nod, giving its head a gentle pet.
"Dat wite, yuu am bestest babbeh. Now be guud babbeh an' have sweepie times. Whi..."
>You close your eyes, tight.
"Daddeh be wite back wiff bestest nummies."
>The foal smiles and buries its face down between its stubby little legs, yawning deep.
"Go sweepies fo' Daddeh...Daddeh bestest daddeh...fin' bestest...nummies...fo' bestest..."
>And then the foal is asleep, smiling as it dreams of nummies to come.

>You can hardly breathe as you prepare yourself for what must be done.
>It will just take the long sleepies.
>You have to do this; it's the only way.
>Stepping closer, you reach up and press your hoof to the back of the foal's head.
>The tears are flowing again, but you fight back the deep sobs that threaten.
>You have to stay quiet. You can't make any noise. Noise means the long sleepies.
>With that thought in the back of your head, you raise up and press both hooves down on its head.
>With your weight bearing down, it doesn't take long before the foal begins to struggle.
"Mmmh! Mmmmmph!"
>You press down harder, your breathing growing quicker.
"Sowwy babbeh..."
>You whisper, trying to end things quickly.
>The foal makes scaredy poopies, little hooves pressing against you in a weak attempt to get away.
>You don't stop, pressing more and more of your weight onto its tiny skull.
>Closing your eyes tight, the tears still flowing, telling yourself that this is the right thing to do.
>It would just get you both killed if you took it in.
>This way, it takes the long sleep with its mother.
CRUNCH!
>Its little skull finally gives way underneath you, splattering boo-boo juice and weird grey stuff everywhere.
>The foal wiggles its hooves desperately, the final messages of its now-smashed brains still telling it to try and get away.
>Finally it falls still, venting the last of its bladder and bowels right next to its mother.
>You're breathing heavily when you finally pull away, sitting back on your haunches to observe your terrible work.
>The foal's head has been completely caved in. Its little eyes lay at odd angles, its tongue flopped out of its maw.
>You've got boo-boo juice all over your hooves, as well as some of that weird grey stuff.
>Your tears still haven't stopped, and now that it's over, you can barely hold it together.
"Sowwy babbeh...huuuu...su sowwy. Yu was bes' babbeh. Whispah su sowwy."
>You cry into your hooves, the foal's blood and grey stuff matting your fur.
>For the first time in your life, you're glad the woof munstas gave your special friend the long sleep.
>You're glad she couldn't see that you're a bad daddy.