HOME | DD

Description

Featuring Ugunaka and an eerie new owner.

Continues in Outnumbered Two to One

_____

"I mean, yes, yes, okay. When I was twelve, I really wanted a fawnling. But it's like a rite of passage for a kid to ask for a pony for their birthday, and it's been over a decade! Seriously, it's not my fault that Grams decided a fawnling would be a great present. She knows - knew that I live in a no-pets building. And now, I have to get everything cleaned out of her house by Monday, and that means this thing has got to go. Away. Somewhere. Where it isn't pooping all over the backyard."

_____

"Oh wow! Pretty one, too, isn't she? Look at those cute widdle ears... OW! Oof, she's a biter. That's not gonna sell well. And let me guess, doesn't have any papers, does she? Now that is a shame. It's obvious she's from some fine stock, but I've got to write 'Unknown' all over her label like any mutt fawn. Poor thing. Decent markings, not too old, healthy, good teeth, no scars - but no lineage. I'm not gonna tag her; maybe someone'll pick her up for showing. You think? Mm. Yeah, me too. Too bad. Alright, can you grab her halter for a second while i band her?

_____

"And coming up next, a real lovely number! I'm told this here is a bonafide kudu fawnling, a real rare specimen! Ouch - and a fiesty little one too, as you can see right there folks. One fawnling pony doe in excellent condition, special markings, lovely horn, do I have any takers for this spicy little unicorn? Starting at five hundred, can I get someone to start off at five hundred? An absolute steal folks, a deal like this comes once in a blue moon!"

_____

"Interesting. They don't dabble much in fawnlings, here, do they? No, she'd know they're called classics, not ponies. Oh, hush, you. It's very much my perogative to be annoyed by linguistic misdemeanors in fields I've hardly glanced at. Absolutely not, I'm not going to buy her, cute as she is. I've already got what I wanted out of today. Now it's about seeing the sights, eating popcorn while watching the bidding wars unfold, you know how this goes, dear. I'm sure someone else will bid. Like I say, she's cute."

_____

The auctioneer crowed, goaded, and heckled for a solid three minutes. Fawnlings were not the usual purview of this locale, and it was reflected in the audience. Nobody had come today with the intention of buying a fawnling.

An orange-stained hand rose so slowly that the auctioneer was seriously uncertain if they were bidding. And they had no sign - but the auctioneer had a duty to keep things rolling, keep the audience engaged, keep the money flowing.

"And sold! to tall, dark, and mysterious in the back there! Come on round to the side, sir, and my pal Johnny'll sort you out!" The auctioneer always made it a point to keep the procedure nice and clear so new arrivals wouldn't get cold-footed with their cash before the purchase was set - and boy, was this ever a new arrival. Tall and thin and wearing a weird mask and a puffy scarf, celebrating halloween way too early - but the auctioneer was here to gobble wallets, not judge.

The auctioneer turned, passed off the trembling little spitfire, and mouthed, 'good luck' to Johnny before capering back across the stage to roll on to number 47, a fine young gelding with a pep in his step who was sure to sell better than the fawnling had.

Johnny, for his part, was fourteen and needed cash to feed his biking addiction. The job wasn't hard - mostly involved picking up after the horses, sometimes involved holding a freshly-sold animal while Terry handled the ledger and pocketed the cash, to be deposited in the register kept safely locked in a sideroom. Today, Terry was out sick, which meant Johnny got to handle the money while holding the animal, which was entirely too difficult with only two hands. And Johnny was reasonably sure that Terry had actually just taken the day to go offroading with his new girlfriend, and left Johnny high and dry and juggling a live animal and precious money and trying to be disarmingly charming at the same time.

The 'good luck' gave Johnny warning that something was up. So, when the latest buyer slowly walked 'round the auctioning stage and meandered up, Johnny very carefully didn't look surprised. Or disgusted. But man, he remarked interally as he whipped out the ledger and started a new entry, this was one weird guy. Looked like he was walking on eggshells. The cloak didn't help, hiding everything but the weird boots gingerly scuffing across the dirt floor, and the weird mask under the dark hood.

"Good afternoon, sir!" Johnny recited with a beaming smile. "Five hundred and she's all yours. Name for the sale, sir?"

The figure stood extremely still and said nothing.

"I need a -" Johnny found his mouth dry, and swallowed thickly. "A name for the, um, in the ledger. Sir."

The figure tapped a hand against the flat chin where lips weren't. The hand dropped back under the cloak before Johnny could confirm is this guy missing a finger?

"You're uh, you're mute? Oh. Uhh." There was not a protocol for this. But what was this? The hand returned, delicately holding a business card in, yes, only three orange-paint-stained fingers and thumb. Johnny squinted and read aloud, "Doctor Samuel Roberts, Child Psychiatrist..."

Johnny had some doubts.

But the card disappeared, and the hand emerged again, holding a wad of cash, and Johnny's job was to take the cash and follow orders, not ask questions. Terry had refused sales before, but, well, this was uncharted territory - and the whole interaction was giving Johnny the heebiest of jeebies. He wanted this to be over, quick.

"Right. Yep. Just gonna," He plucked the wad from the hand, tucked the ledger under his chin, counted, counted one more time because this was one mad hodgepodge mix of bills, and held out eighty-four in change, all without dropping anything. "Here's your change sir. And your horse, uh, pony. Great doing business with you."

The figure slowly, slowly took the change. Cold fingers brushed Johnny's and sent shudders up his spine. Some primal voice in his hindbrain set to screeching, that's not right, that's not right. The figure took the leadrope with the same agonzing slowness, turned, and ambled silently off with a small, very reluctant, very tired unicorn in tow.

It was only after Johnny pocketed the cash and got the ledger out from under his chin to finish the entry that he realized he was shaking. Scribbling down 46 / 500 / Samuel Roberts, he felt a sudden rush of guilt. Something extremely dubious had gone down just now, and he'd been a part of it. He stole one final glance up, and noticed that the figure had picked up speed, heading out the door, the little unicorn dragging behind. Something about the gait, even hidden under the cloak, was much too bendy.

Johnny swallowed and finished the entry. "Sorry, little lady," he mumbled.

The auctioneer's triumphant crow - "And sold! to number 23, Ms. Anderson, eighteen thousand on the cross gelding!" - brought him back to reality, and Johnny scampered to the stage to hold the most recently-bought animal and collect a whopping eighteen thousand. That much wouldn't be by cash, it'd be by check or note, and he'd have to make sure to grab an address, but oh, Ms. Anderson was a fairly regular face here, always paid up well on time -

He wouldn't think about number 46 again until the next evening, when he got an earful from Terry for 'selling to an un-numbered rando' and 'this was clearly some kind of scam' and 'a child psychiatrist? seriously?'. But nothing ever came of it. After all, they'd gotten their money, and anything beyond that wasn't their problem. Even if Johnny was seriously concerned that he'd sold a tiny, hapless fawnling to an absolute psycho.

Johnny ended up quitting a few weeks later, and went to work at a fast food place instead. Fast food places didn't get visits from pony-sniping boogeymen, he was reasonably certain.

It wouldn't've been any consolation for Johnny to know, that Ugunaka both remembered and despised every callous hand that'd dragged her, unasked and unwilling, through the lights and shouts and dust of the auction house that sold her to despair.

_____

Description

Featuring Ugunaka and an eerie new owner.

Continues in Outnumbered Two to One

_____

"I mean, yes, yes, okay. When I was twelve, I really wanted a fawnling. But it's like a rite of passage for a kid to ask for a pony for their birthday, and it's been over a decade! Seriously, it's not my fault that Grams decided a fawnling would be a great present. She knows - knew that I live in a no-pets building. And now, I have to get everything cleaned out of her house by Monday, and that means this thing has got to go. Away. Somewhere. Where it isn't pooping all over the backyard."

_____

"Oh wow! Pretty one, too, isn't she? Look at those cute widdle ears... OW! Oof, she's a biter. That's not gonna sell well. And let me guess, doesn't have any papers, does she? Now that is a shame. It's obvious she's from some fine stock, but I've got to write 'Unknown' all over her label like any mutt fawn. Poor thing. Decent markings, not too old, healthy, good teeth, no scars - but no lineage. I'm not gonna tag her; maybe someone'll pick her up for showing. You think? Mm. Yeah, me too. Too bad. Alright, can you grab her halter for a second while i band her?

_____

"And coming up next, a real lovely number! I'm told this here is a bonafide kudu fawnling, a real rare specimen! Ouch - and a fiesty little one too, as you can see right there folks. One fawnling pony doe in excellent condition, special markings, lovely horn, do I have any takers for this spicy little unicorn? Starting at five hundred, can I get someone to start off at five hundred? An absolute steal folks, a deal like this comes once in a blue moon!"

_____

"Interesting. They don't dabble much in fawnlings, here, do they? No, she'd know they're called classics, not ponies. Oh, hush, you. It's very much my perogative to be annoyed by linguistic misdemeanors in fields I've hardly glanced at. Absolutely not, I'm not going to buy her, cute as she is. I've already got what I wanted out of today. Now it's about seeing the sights, eating popcorn while watching the bidding wars unfold, you know how this goes, dear. I'm sure someone else will bid. Like I say, she's cute."

_____

The auctioneer crowed, goaded, and heckled for a solid three minutes. Fawnlings were not the usual purview of this locale, and it was reflected in the audience. Nobody had come today with the intention of buying a fawnling.

An orange-stained hand rose so slowly that the auctioneer was seriously uncertain if they were bidding. And they had no sign - but the auctioneer had a duty to keep things rolling, keep the audience engaged, keep the money flowing.

"And sold! to tall, dark, and mysterious in the back there! Come on round to the side, sir, and my pal Johnny'll sort you out!" The auctioneer always made it a point to keep the procedure nice and clear so new arrivals wouldn't get cold-footed with their cash before the purchase was set - and boy, was this ever a new arrival. Tall and thin and wearing a weird mask and a puffy scarf, celebrating halloween way too early - but the auctioneer was here to gobble wallets, not judge.

The auctioneer turned, passed off the trembling little spitfire, and mouthed, 'good luck' to Johnny before capering back across the stage to roll on to number 47, a fine young gelding with a pep in his step who was sure to sell better than the fawnling had.

Johnny, for his part, was fourteen and needed cash to feed his biking addiction. The job wasn't hard - mostly involved picking up after the horses, sometimes involved holding a freshly-sold animal while Terry handled the ledger and pocketed the cash, to be deposited in the register kept safely locked in a sideroom. Today, Terry was out sick, which meant Johnny got to handle the money while holding the animal, which was entirely too difficult with only two hands. And Johnny was reasonably sure that Terry had actually just taken the day to go offroading with his new girlfriend, and left Johnny high and dry and juggling a live animal and precious money and trying to be disarmingly charming at the same time.

The 'good luck' gave Johnny warning that something was up. So, when the latest buyer slowly walked 'round the auctioning stage and meandered up, Johnny very carefully didn't look surprised. Or disgusted. But man, he remarked interally as he whipped out the ledger and started a new entry, this was one weird guy. Looked like he was walking on eggshells. The cloak didn't help, hiding everything but the weird boots gingerly scuffing across the dirt floor, and the weird mask under the dark hood.

"Good afternoon, sir!" Johnny recited with a beaming smile. "Five hundred and she's all yours. Name for the sale, sir?"

The figure stood extremely still and said nothing.

"I need a -" Johnny found his mouth dry, and swallowed thickly. "A name for the, um, in the ledger. Sir."

The figure tapped a hand against the flat chin where lips weren't. The hand dropped back under the cloak before Johnny could confirm is this guy missing a finger?

"You're uh, you're mute? Oh. Uhh." There was not a protocol for this. But what was this? The hand returned, delicately holding a business card in, yes, only three orange-paint-stained fingers and thumb. Johnny squinted and read aloud, "Doctor Samuel Roberts, Child Psychiatrist..."

Johnny had some doubts.

But the card disappeared, and the hand emerged again, holding a wad of cash, and Johnny's job was to take the cash and follow orders, not ask questions. Terry had refused sales before, but, well, this was uncharted territory - and the whole interaction was giving Johnny the heebiest of jeebies. He wanted this to be over, quick.

"Right. Yep. Just gonna," He plucked the wad from the hand, tucked the ledger under his chin, counted, counted one more time because this was one mad hodgepodge mix of bills, and held out eighty-four in change, all without dropping anything. "Here's your change sir. And your horse, uh, pony. Great doing business with you."

The figure slowly, slowly took the change. Cold fingers brushed Johnny's and sent shudders up his spine. Some primal voice in his hindbrain set to screeching, that's not right, that's not right. The figure took the leadrope with the same agonzing slowness, turned, and ambled silently off with a small, very reluctant, very tired unicorn in tow.

It was only after Johnny pocketed the cash and got the ledger out from under his chin to finish the entry that he realized he was shaking. Scribbling down 46 / 500 / Samuel Roberts, he felt a sudden rush of guilt. Something extremely dubious had gone down just now, and he'd been a part of it. He stole one final glance up, and noticed that the figure had picked up speed, heading out the door, the little unicorn dragging behind. Something about the gait, even hidden under the cloak, was much too bendy.

Johnny swallowed and finished the entry. "Sorry, little lady," he mumbled.

The auctioneer's triumphant crow - "And sold! to number 23, Ms. Anderson, eighteen thousand on the cross gelding!" - brought him back to reality, and Johnny scampered to the stage to hold the most recently-bought animal and collect a whopping eighteen thousand. That much wouldn't be by cash, it'd be by check or note, and he'd have to make sure to grab an address, but oh, Ms. Anderson was a fairly regular face here, always paid up well on time -

He wouldn't think about number 46 again until the next evening, when he got an earful from Terry for 'selling to an un-numbered rando' and 'this was clearly some kind of scam' and 'a child psychiatrist? seriously?'. But nothing ever came of it. After all, they'd gotten their money, and anything beyond that wasn't their problem. Even if Johnny was seriously concerned that he'd sold a tiny, hapless fawnling to an absolute psycho.

Johnny ended up quitting a few weeks later, and went to work at a fast food place instead. Fast food places didn't get visits from pony-sniping boogeymen, he was reasonably certain.

It wouldn't've been any consolation for Johnny to know, that Ugunaka both remembered and despised every callous hand that'd dragged her, unasked and unwilling, through the lights and shouts and dust of the auction house that sold her to despair.

_____