AN: I will not apologise for writing this.

The Island of Lost Dakotas (some called it The Island, or just The) was a peaceful place. The sun was bright, the clouds smiled down, and a hundred and thirty-four different Vinnie Dakotas lived in harmony. Mostly harmony.

As it turned out, not even Dakota could get along with Dakota for too long.

Either way, occasional knock-down-drag-out fights aside, the society Dakota had built with the assistance of... himself... was rather peaceful, all things considered.

One day, on a day just like any other day except it soon wouldn't be, a voice rang out from the direction of the island's sole appearifier. "Hey, Pregnant Dakota, come over here!"

"I told you, stop calling me that!" the aptly-named Pregnant Dakota grumbled, moving over to the appearifier anyway.

None of this was out of the ordinary in any way, not even Pregnant Dakota's pregnancy. For, you see, this island, despite the crude appearance of the sole sign of civilisation, was extremely technologically advanced. At least by the standards of the surrounding time.

...Look. It's future technology. It doesn't have to make sense, they're all from the future. Sometimes a less-future future that would be called the past if they hadn't been time travellers, but a future all the same. Sometimes, of course, they came from a future entirely unlike the current future. Except most of those hadn't arrived yet because there was only one time vehicle to go around and that was with Prime Dakota and Cavendish. And yet some of them had made it already despite their turns happening in a time that hadn't yet happened.

Anyway. Pregnant Dakota wrapped his hands around his large pregnant belly and waddled to the appearifier. He, unlike some Dakotas on The Island, was wearing clothing. Torn and tattered clothing, because not every Dakota could be as dapper as Classy Dakota, but clothing all the same. "This had better be good," he complained, in a tone that made it clear that the complaint was for the sake of appearances. After all, there wasn't much that genuinely bothered him, or any other Dakota. Not on The Island anyway.

What little did bother him, well, refer back to the aforementioned knock-down-drag-out fights.

He rounded the corner to find Fursuit Dakota standing by the appearifier, in all his fursuited glory. For some reason, rather than the bear or hamster other Dakotas had expected, Fursuit Dakota chose to appear as a startlingly green bovine. On the plus side, this meant he could always stand out in a crowd.

"I got you some corn dogs," Fursuit Dakota said, holding a tray of corn dogs in a fur-gloved hand-hoof-hand. The corn dogs were fresh and steaming, with dainty patterns swirled onto the golden brown cornmeal shell like it was a plate at a fancy restaurant where the portions are minuscule and the decoration takes up all the space and you leave hungrier than you went in because of all the food smell. Except with more food.

Speaking of which, the unmistakable smell of corn dogs was attracting more Dakotas. They staggered close like a horde of zombies out for brains, except the brains are corn dogs that smell nothing like brains and look nothing like brains and may or may not taste like brains. Only Zombie Dakota knew the answer to that last one, and he wasn't talking. Hadn't talked, in fact, since that time his head had fallen off during a vigorous game of Football X-7 and ended up kicked over the wall of their little civilisation.

They can still hear his voice to this day.

Fursuit Dakota rolled his eyes under his suit, completely unnoticed by any of the other Dakotas shambling around. Then he spoke, and his tone carried the message quite clearly so they all got the point anyway. "I got some for all of you too, now back up and let Pregnant Dakota go."

There was much grumbling, but it wasn't long before the horde of Dakotas dispersed, each happily munching on a corn dog.

Pregnant Dakota leaned against a wall nearby, watching them go. "Thanks," he said through a mouthful of corn dog, right before he fell to his knees, clutching his pregnant belly.

Three hours of panic later, Cannibal Dakota burst through the doors of The Island's makeshift hospital, dressed in his usual slovenly grease-stained outfit. "Pregnant Dakota promised me his firstborn," he said to the Dakota at the receptionist's desk, who pointed silently to a hallway.

This was, surprisingly, the truth. It all started - insert ripple effect - with a bet. Of course, it's not actually a ripple effect, this is prose and thus has completely different narrative conventions. It's metaphorical, just roll with it.

Anyways. Bet.

One regular tradition on The Island was a competition to see which Dakota could eat the most food. At least, that was what the official rules said. In practice, it was more which Dakota had the sharpest elbows in the race for the twenty available seats. Once the participants had been decided (by elbow), the other hundred or so Dakotas would sit back to watch, occasionally making wagers on the results.

One such wager occurred between Cannibal Dakota and Pregnant Dakota.

"Peg Leg Dakota's going to win," Pregnant Dakota said, cheerfully munching on popcorn. Except he wasn't Pregnant Dakota at the time, but Unremarkable Dakota, as he had failed to distinguish himself appropriately thus far. "I'd bet my firstborn on it."

And so the deal was done.

Of course, as could be expected from this flashback's existence, Peg Leg Dakota did not, in fact, win. His table had had far too many smoothies for his preferences, and he'd bowed out early to make use of the provided, uh, facilities. If he had won that day, this would be an entirely different story. Maybe even one where Unremarkable Dakota had become Gambler Dakota or something.

But no, this story deals with Pregnant Dakota, and the hours after he'd been rushed to The Island's hospital, and Cannibal Dakota's quest to collect on his debt.

That there could be a debt to collect at all had been a surprise. Or, it would have, had Pregnant Dakota not been visibly pregnant for the last six months, and not with a (metaphorical) food baby. But at the time, despite the bet, neither of them had thought there was any hope of a firstborn at all, as The Island was full of Dakotas and only Dakotas. And yet, one mystery food later, Pregnant Dakota had found himself, well, pregnant.

Cannibal Dakota may or may not have celebrated that discovery. It was hard to tell, through the celebrations (plural) the rest of the Dakotas had thrown at the announcement. Dakotas loved a good excuse to party and eat a ton of food. Many (metaphorical) food babies were had.

Back in the present, Cannibal Dakota had pulled aside the nearest doctor, Doctor Dakota, as he'd come out of the only occupied room in The Hospital. "How is he?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

"He's fine, but-"

"What about the baby?"

Doctor Dakota bowed his head, avoiding Cannibal Dakota's eyes. "I'm sorry-"

"Can I see it?"

In the face of such earnestness, Doctor Dakota relented. He led Cannibal Dakota to another room, past Formerly Pregnant Dakota curled up on the hospital bed, to a small crib. The baby, henceforth Baby Dakota as every inhabitant of The Island was a Dakota one way or another, lay inside, unnaturally still.

Expression grave, Cannibal Dakota turned back to Doctor Dakota. "I don't know what to say, Doc, except... Look! A distraction!"

As Doctor Dakota turned to look, for who could resist a distraction, Cannibal Dakota scooped the dead baby into his arms and ran for the doors. No one stopped him. After all, this wasn't the first time this had happened. And, they reasoned, at least the baby wouldn't suffer. It was beyond suffering.

Back in the hospital, Formerly Pregnant Dakota groaned, clutching his belly. "Glad that's over," he mumbled to himself, about both his pregnancy and his participation in this tale.

That evening, Classy Dakota knocked on the door to a small hut on the outskirts of The Village, clad in his fanciest suit. This was somehow even fancier than his other suits, all of which were already vastly more fancy than anything any of the other Dakotas owned. He'd earned his designation as Classy Dakota.

Besides, it was only right to wear one's fanciest clothes on a date.

As for how he'd ended up on the date in the first place, well...

Flashback to a week earlier. Classy Dakota had just finished his shift serving at The Diner, providing absolutely top-notch service, and as he'd walked home he'd heard another Dakota calling out to him.

"Hey, Classy Dakota!" Cannibal Dakota said, jogging up to him. "I'd like to have you for dinner. Uh... over for dinner. As a date. How about it?"

Classy Dakota, who should have had higher standards but, as there was no one else on The Island, somehow did not, blushed. And said yes. "Yes," he said, because what's the use in paraphrasing a single word? Then, because he's Classy Dakota, he continued in the classiest voice he could. "I reckon so."

Now, all dressed up for a Donner- dinner party, Classy Dakota waited outside the door. He could smell roast pork - at least, he assumed it was pork - and his stomach rumbled approvingly. Mostly because he'd skipped his afternoon snack to prepare for the date. The Dakotas on The Island had developed a culture of multiple meals in a day due to their shared coping mechanisms, and it was regrettably common to find a Dakota sobbing into his garlic bread. Living under the threat of losing one's best friend to a freak accident tended to do that.

Anyway. Unfortunately for Classy Dakota, the smell in question was not pork... As he found out when Cannibal Dakota opened the door, showing him inside to where a roast baby adorned the table.

What else was Cannibal Dakota supposed to do with a stolen stillborn?

Classy Dakota didn't let it faze him. After all, he'd seen Birthday Suit Dakota. This was nothing. He sat down at the table, which had been set with silverware and a surprisingly clean tablecloth, smiling warmly at Cannibal Dakota who had obviously gone to a lot of effort.

The effect was somewhat spoiled by the mysterious brown stain on Cannibal Dakota's shirt, alas, but he'd tried and that was what mattered. And it wasn't like Classy Dakota minded, he'd accepted that any date he went on while on The Island would involve weird stains in weirder places, with people who would make him look classier in comparison. That was, after all, why he was Classy Dakota. That and the suits. Mostly the suits.

"I reckon that smells good," Classy Dakota said as Cannibal Dakota began to carve up the baby, "accidentally" brushing his hand against Cannibal Dakota's arm-

"Lying to the newbies again, Chronic Liar Dakota?" Fursuit Dakota asked, interrupting the tale. He leaned against the hut by which they were all huddled, his bright green ninja cow fursuit giving off the impression of disdain. This wasn't entirely unlike the impression he wanted to give off. To cap it all off, he folded his arms too.

The assembled crowd of Dakotas, who'd been waiting with bated breath to hear the tale, now eagerly awaited the response to this accusation like the gossip-hungry men they were.

"I'm not a liar," Chronic Liar Dakota lied. For of course it must be a lie, Cannibal Dakota wouldn't do that... would he? No, of course not. They all, aside from the latest arrival for obvious reasons, knew Cannibal Dakota, and there was no way.

Suspension of disbelief broken, the Dakotas dispersed - mostly wandering to the appearifier for food - and Chronic Liar Dakota was left alone, not for the first time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cannibal Dakota watching. Waiting. Withdrawing... for now.

Thoroughly spooked, the unwillingly-named Chronic Liar Dakota fled for the safety of his hut, leaning against the door. As he caught his breath, his gaze fell upon a shape on his bed. It looked like a human leg bone, with scraps of flesh still attached, but... smaller. Like a baby.

It was to be the last thing he saw.

The Island of Lost Dakotas was a peaceful place. The sun was bright, the clouds smiled down, and a hundred and thirty-three different Vinnie Dakotas lived in harmony.

AN:Crossposted from ao3, bc ao3 gets my fics first (and more of them).

The name of The Island is shamelessly borrowed from cresselia8themoon's fanfic "His World". The title of this abomination is even more shamelessly swiped from Linkin Park's best song, "26 Lettaz In Da Alphabet". My only regret is not finding a way to reference A Modest Proposal.

Loved it? Hated it? Wish you'd never read it? I'd love to hear what you all think!