It was a wicked night.

	Tensions in the tiny city-state had risen dramatically over the last few weeks. It started with a wave of migrants and refugees from the western plains, mostly of the equine variety. They towered over the city's feline and cervine citizens, and they consumed far more than their fare share of resources while committing nothing in return – or so the pamphlets read. There were rumours of coffers and storehouses stretched so thin that food-rationing or even starvation was a real possibility over the coming winter. Some even spread word of an invasion from within. Migrant equines were rounded up in the streets, often outnumbered by a dozen or more to ensure 'a fair fight'. The marquis responded viciously, enforcing curfews and doubling the guard. Crime skyrocketed: Storefronts were looted, riots erupted night after night, blood of all species pooled on the cobblestone streets and beneath it all, in the cavernous undercity, the Cabal smiled. 
	This was their utopia: Violence and death everywhere, fingers and hooves and claws pointed so eagerly at each other that no one stopped to realize who was pulling the strings. The Cabal was everywhere, starting the fights, cleaning up the mess, and watching with glee as their ranks swelled with each corpse to hit the cobblestone.

	Tonight was the worst of it yet – A bloody three-way clash had erupted between outraged citizens, oppressed equines and the marquis's personal army right near the gallows. Polearms cut through fur and flesh, hooves crashed against stone and shield, pitchforks and torches swung wildly through the air, and in the middle was Josquin.
	Well, not exactly in the middle. As usual, the rat was off to the side, crouched behind an impromptu barricade set up a few nights before. He watched from afar, peeking his head around the corner and holding his crossbow to his chest. He was told to wait here, that someone very important would be coming his way with a very important package. His orders were clear: intercept and dispatch the messenger, recover the package, re-wrap it to avoid suspicion, and deliver it to the waiting client. His orders came with a brief description of the messenger – one of the migrant mares with pale fur and a blonde mane. It seemed simple enough.

	He didn't have to wait long before a large, lone figure ducked out of the fray, shielded by a large blanket. Even though it was hunched over the rat could tell it was one of the equines, protecting something close to its chest. It had to be the messenger. As soon as it raised it's large head out of the blanket he could tell it was female – the chest gave it away. A blonde mane spilled out from under her cowl and large, soulful eyes gazed longingly into the fray. Perhaps someone she knew was fighting out there, Josquin mused, what a pity. The rest of the fighters didn't seem to know she was there, and she didn't seem to know she was being watched. Josquin watched her for several moments just to make sure she hadn't been seen by anyone else, then levelled his crossbow on top of the barricade and fired. 
	The bolt clipped the top of her skull without warning, carving a deep swath through her mane and sending her head bouncing off the stone wall. She wobbled for a moment, her chiseled body perfectly balanced before she tumbled onto her side with a grunt. Josquin scrambled to catch her before she hit the ground but was only partially successful – he managed to get her by the shoulders. His jaw dropped as he saw her fully-extended torso – she wasn't hunched over to protect a parcel, she was hunched over trying to protect a gargantuan pregnant belly!

	Josquin stared, lifting up the mare's robe and checking all the pockets. She wasn't carrying anything! There was no “package”, he thought to himself, and it was certainly no case of mistaken identity, so what was he supposed to – oh. 
	He swore he could hear breaks squealing as his train of thought ground to a halt. She was carrying a package, a big one, too! He just needed to look at her a little differently. It was going to be a little hard to unwrap, though. And he'd have to put some thought into how to disguise it, but he was sure it could be done. Shivers ran down his slinky little spine. He'd have done this job for free if he'd known!
	He ran his hand over the messenger's head. The bolt was clearly enough to disable the enormous mare, but the wound looked shallow – was she really dead? And what about the foal? Thoughts raced through his sick little head. He wondered if the foal knew what was happening. He wondered what it looked like, whether it was a colt like dad or a filly like mom. He wished he could stare all night, but there was work to be done. He grabbed the big mare under the arms and dragged her back behind the barricade, setting her down for a moment while he unlocked one of the many entryways to the catacombs beneath. He returned to grab her and dragged her down into the darkness, smiling to himself as he stopped his mental countdown. Less than a minute from start to finish – and what a catch!

	Deeper and deeper into the catacombs they went. Darkness surrounded them, only broken at points by spidery, flickering light from the sconces on the wall. The rat knew the way by feel – left, right, around the pit, left again, duck under the crossbeam, through the open door and lock it behind, just in case. This place used to be a root cellar, but the Cabal had long since caved in the surface entrance and stolen it for themselves. It was a simple hideaway, blocked by a lockable door for safety and furnished sparsely: a long table and two chairs for meetings, a wooden trough with a water pump for cleaning, and an oil lamp for light. There was also a few rags to cover oneself if a quick change of clothes was needed.
	Josquin lit the lamp with a tindertwig and tried to heave his catch onto the table without success. That wasn't going to work, he thought, not only was she far too heavy to lift but she was longer than the table by at least a foot. Looks like we're gonna have to do this on the floor, the rat thought, fine by him. He dropped the mare with a heavy thump and paused to catch his breath. He was exhausted. This equine was enormous, easily double – maybe even triple the rat's weight and bigger and every way. He looked like a child in comparison. 

	The mare's cloak was unravelled, spread beneath her body as an impromptu blanket. Josquin cut away the harness across her chest and the knee-length kilt around her legs before taking a step back and holding the lantern up to try and get a better view of her entire body. 	
	Blood shimmered in the dim light of the lantern. The crossbow bolt had made quick work of the hulking mare, fracturing the top of her skull and matting her well-kept mane with blood and grey matter. But now, in the silence of the catacombs, the rat realized that his trophy wasn't actually dead. Her heart was still beating. Her chest rose every few seconds and she gave a ragged, feeble gasp. Even though her eyes were dull and empty and her body limp as a rag, the automatic processes that kept her alive were still going strong. Her body hadn't caught up to her brain yet – but it was only a matter of time. 
	She was covered in short, neat fur, thin enough that the lean strength beneath showed through. Her entire body was pale gold in colour, accented by a long mane the colour of wheat. Her neck was long and thick, her shoulders were broad and her hands were large, capped with hoof-like protrusions on the end of each finger. Her chest was toned and muscular, her breasts wobbling slightly each time the rat lifted up a limb to examine it more closely. He set the oil lamp on the table and examined the girl's digits carefully. Were those stumps the equine's equivalent to claws, perhaps?  
	The belly of the mare was warm and firm, the foal occasionally shifting and moving inside. It was still alive, and would likely last several more minutes even after the mother finished expiring. Life within death.
	It was the mare's legs, however, that caught the brunt of the rat's attention. They were long and powerful, thick with muscle at the top but lean and bony at the bottom. When he watched them fight in the streets he noticed how often the equines relied on their legs. They always seemed to want to turn when cornered, spinning their bodies to build momentum before lashing out with a kick powerful enough to splinter shields and crack bone. It was strange to see these ones so still and harmless. He lifted one of those natural weapons and bent it in his hands, eager to see how all the joints moved and swivelled. 

	There was a sudden “ghhk” as the mare's titanic body shuddered. She stopped breathing for a moment before taking in a deep, wet gasp. Her body was beginning to give up.
	“Oh right,” the rat mumbled, remembering why he came down here in the first place. He kept her long leg elevated and slid his hand up her inner thigh until he reached her femininity – dark-skinned, plush, and nearly hairless. It was warm and soft when he touched it, wet and warmer still inside. “I knew it,” he smiled, withdrawing his finger and examining the wetness that shimmered in the light, “you like it. You were getting so excited just waiting for me out there, weren't you?”
	Thankfully, the mare didn't have to wait long. Josquin hastily disrobed and smeared some of her natural lubricant on his member and then began digging for more, slathering it along his length until he was hard and as ready to go as he imagined she was. He teased her a bit with his tapered tip before driving himself inside, pushing his hands down onto her broad shoulders for balance. She was still so warm inside, and her equine genitalia cradled his prick ever so perfectly.
	The mare shuddered and gasped again. She was a strong one, and even though the fight was already lost, she was refusing to go quietly. Josquin loved it. He pressed himself against her belly, laying on top of her in order to feel every shudder and shiver underneath as he pumped inside of her. He felt the taut walls of her abdomen begin to relax as system after system shut down, the big mare tensing up slightly with a choking sound and then relaxing again, starting to convulse as the foal inside sucked the oxygen away from her starving brain to sustain itself at any cost.
	The convulsions lasted only a matter of seconds before they stopped entirely. The rat stopped too, savouring the silence and stillness while still inside her. He could see the almost-bare skin at the base of her ears beginning to turn bluish. He peeled back her bottom lip, cool and plush in his hands,  and saw that the mare's gums were pale and cyanotic from lack of oxygen. The foal was taking it all, draining her life away like a parasite. But it was about to run out of time. He wondered if the foal knew what was happening – could it feel its mother's last breath?

	It was at least a minute of watching and waiting interspersed with innocent exploration before the package kicked again. The rat had pulled out and climbed up overtop of the mare's midsection, his legs straddled on either side. He was so busy feeling the mare's velvet ears, staring into her frozen eyes, pushing his fingers to her thick neck and listening to her pulse stutter to a stop that he almost didn't notice the first kick. He imagined the kick to be like a question, a knock on the door to the big wide world in a vain hope that someone else was out there.
	A frantic gasp echoed off the stone walls as the mare's mouth suddenly opened wide in a desperate reflex gasp. Her great neck contracted violently, lifting her head off the table for a moment before it slammed back down. Yellowish colostrum began leaking from her big, pale nipples and Josquin could hear the sound of her bladder voiding, pooling on the ground and staining her fur. She wasn't going to last much longer. Josquin shushed her, running his hand over her blood-soaked mane and giving her fractured skull a soft kiss. 
	Eagerly he slid back down between her legs, straddling her wide hips. Even with her legs closed it was no trouble at all to slip back inside, rocking gently back and forth inside her wet snatch while her unborn foal began to panic, finally getting the message that something might be wrong. He imagined it suddenly starting to drown, the blood coursing through its veins no longer rich and sustaining but stale and stagnant. In desperation it opened its mouth and tried to draw breath, only to be answered with sticky, cloying amniotic fluid that clogged its lungs and contributed exactly nothing to the dead blood already saturating its system, pumped by a heart that hasn't yet learned that the battle was already lost. “Get used to it, kid,” Josquin purred, stroking the mare's drum-tight belly as it rocked back and forth, “This is all you get.”

	It was only two, maybe three minutes before her belly stopped moving entirely. He tried to provoke the little foal inside by flicking the mare's belly, then pushing it with his elbow. It wobbled like it was filled with nothing but water, certainly not containing anything that could push back. Still, he didn't want to get ahead of himself. He rested his head on the curve of her motionless belly and rolled his hips leisurely against the mare's wide pelvis, grabbing her short hair by the fistful to keep himself from slipping off as he upped the tempo, bucking his hips faster and faster until he came with a squeal, flooding the mare's birth canal with warm, sticky fluid – the seed of life that would find only barren soil.
	Josquin took a deep breath and pulled out, watching a few strands of ejaculate drip from the mare's slack snatch, adding to the puddle between her legs. It was time for the next step. The naked rat dug through his discarded tunic until he found his blade; a dagger with a distinctive wavy edge. It was designed for slashing and stabbing, but it could serve as a precision tool if needed.
	Grabbing the handle with one hand and carefully holding the tip with his thumb and forefinger, Josquin began to slice an incision along the mare's lower belly, navel to pelvis as if he were sawing a log. Back and forth, back and forth as fur gave way to pale flesh, yellow fat, and bloody viscera. It didn't take long to reach the large, fibrous bundle of muscle beneath, coated with a pallid layer of tissue. One cut later the air was befouled as dark, sticky fluid gushed from the open wound and stained the mare's pale fur a sickly yellow-brown. Josquin winced as he fished around inside the gash with his left hand, thankful that he wasn't the one swimming in it.

	Everything inside was so jumbled and close together, so wet and slimy it was hard to tell exactly what his fingers were rubbing against. He felt a limb – was it an arm or a leg? He followed the limb and felt something bony – was that a hip, a knee or a head? It slipped away when he tried to pull it, and the rat had to lean over and push with his elbow from the other side just to get whatever it was to stay in place long enough to grab. He traced his hand along the appendage and found . . . fingers. Slack and half-curled. No, he thought, that wouldn't do. He followed the limb the other way, finding the foal's elbow, then shoulder, then spine, tracing over the curve of its rump and down its thigh until he found a hoof, still wrapped in a slimy slipper. Where there was one hoof, there was another, and soon enough the rat had both the foal's ankles in hand, one crossed over the other with his middle finger between them for a better grip.
	Getting them out, however, was a challenge. Those hooves were nowhere near the incision he made, and there was no room to swing them around. He vastly underestimated the size of this foal. Still, he somehow made it work, pushing from the outside, pulling from the inside, warping the mother's stomach in unnatural ways that would be almost impossible if she were still alive. There was a sloppy pop as the legs slid into place, and then a wet slurping sound as the foal was dragged out upside-down into the dim light by its hooves. He dropped the foal on its mother's belly and felt for a pulse, holding his fingers against warm, wet fur. No heartbeat. He picked it up again by the hooves and rubbed the foal's back roughly with his fingers in a halfhearted attempt to resuscitate it. When that didn't work, he spanked it roughly like a disobedient child. He didn't actually expect it to have an effect, but it was fun watching its body dangle all the same. He opened his hand and the foal's body dropped like a wet rag doll back onto the mare's deflated belly. Dead and gone, the rat thought, A perfect catch.
	
	The foal was a mess: pale, straw-coloured fur and a sticky blonde mane stained by blood and meconium, head and arms dangling like wet noodles alongside a flaccid umbilical cord, a cyanotic tongue hanging from a slack jaw drooling the same brackish fluid that coated its entire body. It was also a she, Josquin discovered after lifting a leg and peeling the wet tail away from her groin. Her slightly-swollen genitals were easy to miss underneath the matted fur, but there they were, engorged with stale blood and maternal hormones. He pressed a finger to her labia and found the lips still quite warm and pliable, sticky with birth-fluid, or, as the rat imagined, angel lust. She was beautiful in her own way, glistening in the light. But she was in no shape to be handed off to the client. She needed to be cleaned up. 
	He rolled the stillborn onto her back and squeezed the umbilical cord between his fingers, pushing the stale blood back towards the placenta. He made a loop of cord with his hands and sliced through it with the dagger, leaving it long to prove that he hadn't skimped on quality. He picked up the foal again, now free of its mother, and swung her upside-down by the ankles in a crude attempt to drain some of the fluid from her lungs. On the third swing he caught her upper body and blew into her nose, scooping out the mucus that collected in her mouth in his bare hand and flicking it away. He cleaned the rest of the filly's mouth out with a scrap of the mare's own robe, not like she'd be needing it, he justified as he pushed the fabric against her cheeks, the roof of her mouth, under her tongue and as far as his fingers could reach down her throat. No gag reflex there, he thought with a grin, tossing the scrap back where he found it, hope the client makes use of that.
	The rest of the filly's stained body wouldn't be so easy to clean. It was almost as if she defiled herself deliberately after figuring out what was going to happen to her just to make it that much more work for whoever found her – a first and final act of defiance. But it was an extra step this rat didn't mind taking. It would be a good bonding experience for the two of them before he passed her along, he thought as he laid her out on the bare table, one hand limply over her chest and her head flopped to the side. She looked almost peaceful. “I'm going to make you the prettiest filly,” Josquin promised the foal's corpse as he stroked her cheek, “Just you wait.” 
	
	The old metal water pump squeaked noisily and in a few moments the trough began to fill with water. Josquin stopped it after a few inches and reached again for the mare's robe, tearing away a relatively unblemished section and soaking it in the lukewarm bath. He wrung it out then unfolded it and whipped it through the dark air, spraying droplets everywhere. He then hopped up onto the top of the table and pulled the dead foal into his lap before cradling her head and beginning to wipe the slime and blood off her face. Her nose was a very faint shade of pink, like the start of a summer sunset. Her ears had a similarly pleasing tint once he cleaned the muck off them. 
	Cleaning the filly was a long and laborious process. Once the foal's head was presentable Josquin moved on to her arms, lifting them up with one hand and scouring the worst spots with the wet rag. From there it was on to her chest, her flat little chest that would never blossom into womanhood, nor rise and fall with the sweet breath of life. He had to comb through the wet fur for the filly's nipples. They were so flat they were almost inverted. He teased one, rubbing across it with his thumb and knowing that it wouldn't perk with with arousal for his touch nor anyone else's. She made a strange gagging noise when he pushed inwards with his thumb, a postmortem echo from the fluid being squeezed forcefully out from her deflated lungs. He wiped from top to bottom, taking extreme care around the base of her umbilical cord. He didn't want to damage the foal's “authenticity” or else his payment – and the Cabal's reputation – would suffer. 
	Once her lower belly was relatively clean, Josquin flipped the filly over his arm and started scrubbing her back, smiling to himself as her little arms dangled limply below. He scoured everywhere from her neck to the base of her tail, refreshing the rag in the well-water as needed and paying special attention under her arms and along her matted golden mane. He caught himself humming as he groomed her, the rat's meek and untrained voice bouncing apologetically off the stone walls. Half-remembered sea shanties, bawdy tavern songs, even a lullaby or two escaped his lips as he gave her upper body a once-over.

	But the most difficult part was yet to come. The staining was worst between the filly's legs and under her tail. Using just the rag would take forever and a day, especially without access to soap, so he scooped the dead filly under his arm and took her to the trough. He dipped her in up to her waist and the water darkened almost instantly. Clouds of oily meconium plumed from her lower body. Josquin leaned over and pushed her back against the wall of the trough and wiped her front down with a rag, not wanting to be too aggressive. He then folded her over the edge and did the same with her back, holding her short, soggy tail up out of the way as he wiped her behind.

	The trough looked like was was full of swamp water. Josquin lifted the soaked foal over his shoulder and kicked the trough over, waiting for it to drain before righting it with his foot and pumping the well to re-fill it about halfway. It was time to polish her up. 
	He held the filly against his chest and stepped gingerly into the tepid water, wincing as it soaked into his fur. He sat down against one edge and let the filly drift, her empty lungs neutrally buoyant. She looked almost angelic, her wheat-coloured mane drifting in the clear water and a serene, peaceful expression on her face. Her mother would be so proud – she looked just like her! 
	Picking her up again, Josquin used another scrap of the mare's robe to wipe the filly off underneath the clean water, brushing the last flecks of murky fetal matter away. He was most concerned about her nooks and crannies – under her arms, the corners of her eyes and ears, the roots of her mane and under her soft nails. Down her body he wandered, supporting her back and giving her genitalia a firm wipe from front to back. Her fleshy labia almost blended into her fur. If she were alive he was certain they'd have a most appealing rosy hue instead of the lifeless, pallid tone that dominated the rest of her exposed flesh. He delicately spread her pale lips and dabbed away the grime that held fast against her inner walls. He was careful not to probe too far, though – the client requested specifically that the package remain entirely undamaged, and that included her hymen. Still, the rat considered it. It would almost be worth it. If the threat of punishment from his superiors wasn't hanging over his head, he wouldn't hesitate to have his way with her. But he forced himself to be content – the filly's mother was a fine prize in her own right.

	“Almost done,” he reassured her – or her mother, he wasn't sure which – as he lifted up the filly's legs and wiped under her tail, like he was changing a diaper. He was drawn to her long legs, just like he was to her mother's. Lean and limber, they were almost as long as the entire rest of her body when stretched out. The rat had no doubt she'd have eventually grown into them to become a towering, matronly mare like her mother. The hooves on the end were perfectly formed, covered by a protective, gooey 'slipper' to keep her from kicking her mom apart from the inside. 

	He beheld her for quite some time, alone in a frigid bath with only the lantern for company. The filly's strong legs held high up, the rest of her body submerged in his lap, and her puffy, pale pussy peeking out from between her powerful thighs. Josquin caved. One last goodbye, he told himself, leaning in to give the filly's nethers a soft kiss, then a gentle taste with his tongue. He dropped one of her legs and probed a bit deeper, tongue gliding around her lips, against her clit and just barely gracing her hymen before he pulled away and gave her a slow, intimate lick from back to front, closing his mouth around her clit with a final kiss. The filly didn't make a sound. He knew she was ready for more, and oh how he would have loved to satisfy her imagined desires. But no, he reminded himself, that was what the client was promised. With a sigh, he lifted her out of the trough and laid her out on the bench face-up, carefully positioning her arms over her chest. He shook the water from his pelt and rolled the dead mare over with his foot, dragging the rest of the cloak away from underneath her and rolling the mare's dead daughter onto it, swaddling her tight. In the pale light, she may as well have been merely asleep. He grabbed the spare tunic – a bit roomier than he preferred – and delicately plucked the swaddled filly from the table, cradling her in his arms like she was his own. There was one final touch: a shard of onyx placed lightly under the tongue, to ward off decay. A temporary measure, to be sure, but the client was always welcome to seek out the Cabal for a more . . . permanent solution.

	“I'll be back for you,” he reassured the mare with a wink as he snuffed the lantern and stole her daughter away deeper into the catacombs and out of sight, planning to reappear near the estates away from the body of the fighting. With the guards all drawn into the melee, no one would bat an eye if he just strolled through the gates of the client's manor with the package in hand. And after grooming her up so nicely, he wasn't afraid of showing her off, either. All swaddled up snug as could be, she was just asleep after a rough night. Best not to disturb her, right?
	The rat grinned and gave the little filly a kiss on the nose, stroking her face to make sure her eyes were properly closed. He's invested so much into getting her this far, he almost didn't want to pass her along. But he could always find another, he reminded himself. After all, these was no shortage of recruits tonight.