I'm wheeling my darling Octobingy down the street in his mobile aquarium/stroller. I see my neighbor approaching holding a Foalhe. Its little body can be held like a football. Its neck winds around its parent again and again like a happy little anaconda. There's blood on its face and it's chewing something that produces a horrible crackling sound.
"Did someone just find himself a snack?" I ask.
My neighbor laughs and bounces the little binghorse body in their arms a bit. "Yep! Learned how to hunt last week and now we can't make it a block without him making a kill!"
"Ahh, I was wondering where the neighborhood birds had gone." I reach my hand into my little rolling tank so Octobingy's pale, squishy little arms can play with my fingers, He's blowing happy bubbles. I birthed him from my own body.
"You hear that, baby?" my neighbor says to their little darling. "If you keep going at this rate, the neighborhood will be all out of birds soon!"
Little Foalhe pouts around its feathery mouthful and makes a low, mournful sound. My neighbor and I laugh at his precious little face. She reassures him with some headpats. We both know that later tonight I'll sneak out after dark to release a few dozen more birds into the area. The kiddos need enrichment, and they just get so sad without small prey to hunt.
We both continue on our separate walks. A few doors down, I see a lovely Skinzun laid out on the porch, nursing half a dozen little bingcreatures. What a sweet mama. The neighbor living in that house clearly intends to have a big family. I'll probably need to start releasing more birds, soon.
Oh, well. A small price for seeing the neighborhood come to life like it has. I scoop Octobingy out of his tank to smooch his head, and then each little nubby tentacle. He is my most precious baby boy. It's been so nice to find a neighborhood without so many torches and pitchforks.
Octobingy must have seen that skinzun, too. He blows a series of bubbles asking me how babies are made. I suppose he is about that age, so I tell him about the Heavenly Bingpillar at the center of our town. All you have to do is go there, ask for a bingbaby of your own, and then sleep under it for the night. In the morning, you'll be bregnant (bingpregnant.) Once the baby is big enough, it comes out of your stomach, and a wrinkly little skinzun with big, loving eyes and abundant teats will show up in your home to help you. I remind Octobingy of his own Skinzun, waiting for us at home, probably spread out like a puddle of soft wrinkles in the sunlight.
Octobingy nods a little. Then his eyes slide to the left. My gaze follows his. Oh no. Oh god. I thought we had time before THAT conversation. Across the street, wheeling a stroller, are another couple from the neighborhood. In THEIR stroller lies a stunted gremlin of a homunculus. It is hairless. No tiny, bouncy ponytail. Its little forehead is naked. No hooves or tentacles are in sight.
Octobingy burbles out the fatal question. I force a smile at the neighbors and their creature. "No, that one didn't come from the Heavenly Bingpillar. There is, uh, another way to have a baby. That's why that family doesn't have a skinzun." Of course, every Skinzun in the neighborhood is happy to lend a teat, but judging from Octobingy's expression he finds it hard to imagine being born into a world without one's own Skinzun. Deep down, I agree with him.
"You'll be able to ask that one about it someday. It can't talk. Or understand us when we talk. It'll need a few years for that."
Two of Octobingy's tiny perfect tentacles come up to cover his shocked gasp. I keep my expression cheerful. "That's normal for the other kind of baby. I can't imagine waiting years to hear your sweet voice, though." I tickle him, and Octobingy shrieks with laughter so loudly that a forest of long necks appear as nearby Binghorses peer down at us. We wave.
I take another step, then hop to the side. "My apologies," I say, making eye contact with the Bingcrete.
"Don't worry," it says from dozens of mouths. "Happens all the time."
