You’re a toughy, living in a street herd, and so is your bwuddah.
In your herd, babbehs become tuffies as soon as they don’t need miwkies anymore.
When the big fluffies protest this, the smarty just says, “Da udda hewd gut babbehs tuu, dun dey?”
So yeah. This is your life. Your herd lives on the streets, moves around, and if you run into another herd, you, your bwuddah, and the other babbeh tuffies have to give the babbehs in the other herd owwies.
Even if they’re still chirpies.
Even if their mummahs and daddehs give you owwies to stop you.
And if you don’t, your smarty gives you owwies.
You’ve gotten a lot of owwies. So has your bwuddah.
You don’t know why you two haven’t gone forever sleepies yet.
The dawk time after you and your bwuddah stopped drinking miwkies and became toughies, you were standing guard as the herd was sleeping, and another fluffy showed up with a hoomin.
“Time to test out my new spell, I think. Ocre!”
There was a bright light, and when it stopped, they were gone, and you and your bwuddah had each lost a see-place.
But, between the two of you, you still have a working pair of see-places, and you make a good team.
Right now, the herd is spending the dawk time in a space between a bunch of housies. There’s entrances to different awwey-ways, and big boxies.
The smarty is sleeping in a fluffpile, with all the mares, and all the babbehs who still need miwkies.
Everyone else is standing guard.
And everyone knows what the smarty will do if he wakes up and catches anyone sleeping on duty.
You and your bwuddah hear hoomins coming.
“Jesus, the lil’ buggers stink of shit!”
“Calm down mate, in a few minutes they’ll be stinking of blood.”
You turn to your bwuddah.
You say, as quietly as you can, “Hide.”
And you both do so.
You see a bunch of hoomins come in from different awwey-ways. They’re all holding things that you know they’ll use to give fluffies owwies.
And you watch them do exactly that.
Eventually, you and your bwuddah are the only ones left.
And then the hoomins find you.
“Oi! There’s two more over 'ere!”
One of the hoomins moves to grab your brother, but you get in the way.
“Really? You wanna die first, mate? How sweet. Alright then.”
So the hoomin grabs you.
He holds you up.
And cuts off one of your weggies.
“Haha, lookit all that blo–”
And then your weggie comes back.
“…You what, mate?”
“Why! Does! This! Keep! Happening?!?”
There’s a big pile of weggies now. A big pile of little brown weggies, just like your fluff.
All of the other hoomins, and your bwuddah, are all looking at you, and the hoomin who keeps having to cut the same weggie off over and over again. Nobody else is saying a word.
Eventually, he finally gives up.
“Bugger this for a game of soldiers!”
He throws you at a wall.
A lot of things inside you just broke.
But, as you fall to the ground, you can feel all of those things somehow fixing themselves.
Soon, it’s like it didn’t even happen.
“Right. Let’s see if the other one’s legs grow back.”
Just before he can grab your bwuddah, two other hoomins jump down from a woof.
“Varyas. Alleyways are blocked off, lads. Nobody will believe you if you tell them this happened, I can tell you that.”
“Drop the tools or I’ll make you drop 'em.”
One of them is a owd wady. She’s wearing all black, and she’s got a black pointy thing on her head, what do hoomins call it, oh yeah, a hat, and she’s, um… round.
The other is a mistah. He’s got brown not-fluff on his head, and he looks like he’s had as many owwies as you’ve had. Maybe even more. He’s wearing all black as well, but he doesn’t have a hat.
He looks at the pile of weggies. Then he looks at you. He picks up a weggie.
“…Someone like me? A fluffy like me?”
What does he mean?
He walks up to you, pushing some of the bad hoomins away, and kneels down.
He holds up the weggie he picked up.
“Did you know that you can do this?”
You shake your head.
One of the other bad hoomins tries to move over to your bwuddah, but the nice mistah pulls out a bang-bang and points it at him, not even looking at him.
“Nobody will ever find your bodies if any of you even touches one more fluffy.”
The bad hoomins back as far away from you and your bwuddah as possible, as fast as they can. They can’t seem to leave, though. You don’t know why. The nice mistah puts the bang-bang away.
The owd wady walks over and picks up your bwuddah.
“They didn’t hurt you, did they dearie?”
Your bwuddah shakes his head.
The nice mistah picks you up.
He turns to the bad hoomins.
“We’re going to drop the barrier. You leave, you never touch a fluffy again, unless you’re giving them a warm, gentle hug. You never say a word about this to anyone. If you fuck up, and ignore this warning, I’ll hunt you down and crush you all like the cockroaches you are. Nobody will ever find out what happened to any of you. And you will never, ever see me coming. Got it?”
The bad hoomins all nod frantically.
“Good. Now get lost, boys. June?”
“On it, Vic. Dysp. Scram, lads.”
They all run away.
Then the hoomins both turn to each of you.
The nice mistah speaks up.
“We’re getting you two out of here. You don’t have to live in a filthy alleyway anymore. This is a bad part of London, little dude.”
He turns to the owd wady.
“June, you got one more teleport in you? Think you can take us to the School?”
“Two humans, two fluffies? Across the pond? I think so, but I’m gonna need to lie down afterwards, and I’ll probably need Annie to come and take me home.”
“God, I hope Pierre finishes those teleporter doohickeys soon.”
“If he does, it’ll be brilliant. I’d love to see that. For someone without a drop of magical power, he sure does alright.”
“That he does. Take it away, you feisty minx.”
“Oh, shush. You’re such a cad, Vicky.”
She snaps her fingews.
And you’re all gone.