“And this is the last one. Poor filly doesn’t even have a name yet. Per the manifest, her parents were lost in the Foaledo uprising, but nopony knows what side they were on.” A gruff looking mercenary read off a list. The look on his face betrayed the fact he wouldn’t see any difference between trafficking slaves and delivering war orphans. He was a hardened soldier, practically more scars and exposed skin than fur in many places. Where the fur wasn’t scarred or burned away, it was jet black with streaks of dark red in his mane. Really, he looked like a foal’s idea of a “cool antihero” character. 
The contrast between him and the residents he was speaking with was night and day. Everypony that wasn’t in the mercenary’s corporation was rather soft, in more ways than one. Surpassing the rest of them was a wealthy earth pony, fitted in a very expensive, custom-tailored blue suit with a red tie. Despite the meticulous attention paid in making his jet-black mane look stylish and clean and to get a suit properly fitted, the top half of the suit was missing all the buttons past the knee joints of his forelegs, allowing his floor-touching gray belly to be visible to the world. His looks and demeanor looked as prim, proper, and professional as could be for a businessman of his stature, yet he seemingly met with a client after finishing three meals at once.
“And here,” the businesspony paused to hand over a large bag of bits, enough to buy a two-bedroom apartment here in Manehattan. “Is your fee. I can’t begin to tell ya how pleased I am ya got my order. So fast, and even bigger than I expected! I’ll have the bonus I promised shipped to your headquarters within the hour.” The businesspony took a puff of his cigar, big enough to turn three quarters of it into ash, before exhaling a cloud of smoke big enough it could pass as an actual cloud. The mercenary cracked a smile. It was a genuine smile of happiness, but his damaged face made it look menacing. “Much obliged. The Crimson Spear is always open for business.”
As the mercenary and his only slightly less menacing looking companions took their leave, the businesspony maneuvered his way into his seat, taking care to fit his flanks into the gaps between the seat and the foreleg rest. He tried to roll up to his desk, but found his belly pressing into it rather than sliding into the space intended for rear legs to rest. He sighed, turning toward the dozen orphans he had just bought from the borderlands, far from the peaceful and prosperous mainland of Equestria. While much of the culture of corpulence had managed to spread itself to most of the borderlands, not all of the peaceful nature had made it there. Other nations still had tensions that led to small skirmishes with Equestria. With the royal guard primarily focusing on securing the north, mercenary companies like the Crimson Spear thrived in the south, west, and east. 
The newly acquired orphans belonged to families that were killed in these skirmishes. Generally speaking, the small settlements and villages were not capable of adequately supporting anypony that wasn’t old and fit enough to work the fields. Foaledo, where the last orphan of the set originated from, had more than enough resources to support what may be called a freeloader, but the citizenry are too selfish to take care of anypony that isn’t their own kin or customer, and the workforce could hardly support itself. That discrepancy is precisely what caused the conflict that orphaned the young unicorn.
The workers staged an armed uprising and convinced pirates to join their side, tired of being given scraps to do all the work while Foaledo residents grew fat off the riches. Foaledo residents, even unicorns who had focused their magic studies on hedonistic spells rather than utilitarian, had no way of fighting back. Being so large they never moved more than to the other side of a street, they relied on hiring mercenaries to fight on their behalf. Their greed and attitude, seen as despicable even by the most gluttonous and hedonistic members of Canterlot, left them feeling very lucky that a mercenary’s morals begin and end at “how much will you pay me for this?”
The businesspony furrowed his brow, and lit another cigar. “Thank Celestia,” he muttered, letting out a cloud of smoke. “It’s been a while since I got a new shipment. Maybe now my wife can occupy herself with you foals instead of me, and I can stop looking like a fat slob at business meetings.”  He took another long puff of his cigar, finishing it off so fast the ashes dropped on the intact part of his suitcoat. With a little struggle, his belly causing the desk to push away as he tried to reach, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Miss Grace, I’m gonna need ya to come up and adjust my desk again. And tell the wifey we got a new shipment for her.” 
He rolled himself back away from the desk, and turned toward the orphans. None had dared to move or make a sound the entire time. They seemed rather well behaved, but truthfully they were terrified. Who could blame them? Their parents and siblings were dead, they were pulled from their homes by scary looking soldiers for hire, shipped to a brick building in a city they never even heard of, and sold to an extra corpulent money handler who referred to them as if they were a product to distract his wife with. “Hey, ah, listen foals. Fugeddaboutit. Whatever shi-crap ya gone through, ya won’t even remember it. My wifey, she takes a little too good care’a me,” he jiggled his belly to emphasize the point. “But she’ll treat ya just fine. Here, uh, have some candy. Have as much as ya want.” He tried to push the bowl toward the foals, but couldn’t get it that far. He looked flustered as he realized his belly protruded further than his hoof could reach.
After a few awkward minutes, a young mare entered through the door. Tanned fur, orange and yellow mane, bright blue eyes, and a smile that could calm even a rampaging dragon. Much like her boss, she looked as if she put significant effort into looking presentable, but outgrew her attire so much she’d only maintain that professional appearance in a video call, with the camera set far enough up. She was not only shorter than her boss, she was much fatter. Her flanks brushed against the sides of the double doorway as she entered. Her belly not only touched the floor, it spread across it and spread out her four legs. Her shirt not only had lost all of its buttons, it had a tear in the forelegs and looked unlike it would have even been possible to button back up in months. She had given up on wearing an actual skirt, and was just wearing the panties that went under it. Despite her size and considerable weight, which was enough to make the floorboards creak, the only burden she seemed to feel was when her flanks touched the sides of the doorway.
Blushing a little at the sight of the collection of skinny foals she just walked in on, she sheepishly passed the candy dish over to them. “Go on, no need to be afraid.” Miss Grace didn’t appear bothered nor embarrassed by her weight, but she had a tendency to get a little self-conscious on the rare occasion she saw anypony who wasn’t on the heavy side. “Mister Moneybags,” she turned to face her boss. “I told you before, the height adjustment is right here.  I shouldn’t have to remind you. You told me when I started working here I’d need to memorize how to look presentable if I was to keep gaining weight while working here, well that goes to you too.  Do you know how much of a pain it’s getting to be, going down these small hallways and tiny doors to take care of trivial things like this?”
The scathing criticism continued from secretary to CEO, all wrapped in the nicest voice possible. Miss Grace sounded like she was complimenting a young student on their masterfully crafted painting while berating the stallion who signed her ample paychecks. “That’s the fifth suit you’ve ruined this week too. If you’re going to stuff your fat face so much, you should start putting some of that money into renovations. If my illustrious rear end is filling a doorway on its own, the building’s layout is too small! The clientele always grumble about the inconvenience.” While their view was blocked by said “illustrious rear end”, the way Miss Grace was moving suggested she wasn’t being rude or cruel. In fact, her forelegs were playing with Mister Moneybags’ belly, while her own belly kept her upright.  “Flow, please, my wife is going to be here soon. Also, I’m kind of stuck in my chair.”
Mrs. Moneybags was in the room mere seconds later. Despite the duo’s size, Miss Grace and Mister Moneybags were posed entirely differently: Mister Moneybags on all fours, Miss Grace on her prominent rear trying to pull the chair off her boss’s less prominent, yet still quite large posterior. With a loud crack, the foreleg rests snapped off and Miss Grace was sent onto her back, her belly bulging toward the ceiling. The Mrs. put a forehoof to her chin and smugly smiled. “My, my. My handiwork must be paying off, dear husband.” By contrast, Mrs. Moneybags was rather thin – at least, in the context of a major population center in the northern lands of Equestria. By old world or borderlander standards she would be considered quite fat. Her flanks and rear were not large, but shapely and padded. Her belly was padded with enough pudge to be considered more than a potbelly, but she resembled a pro athlete compared to the other two adults in the room. Her face didn’t even have a double chin or chubby cheeks, only a trace amount of pudginess that wasn’t noticeable unless she wore a large smile or frown. The silk dress she wore was even fitted properly: tight enough to not look like a tarp or tent was thrown on her, but also loose enough her chubby belly didn’t even press against the belt in the center. Being the only unicorn in the room, besides one of the orphans, she practically looked like royalty.
“These must be my new orphans. Two gifts in one day, you really do spoil me, Magnificent. Good, good! You’ve all taken some candy. Come little children, I’ll take thee awaaaay…” As she continued the old song, the fillies and colts stood up and followed her as if in a trance. After they all left, the door slammed behind them. “What do you say, Mister Moneybags? Do you think your fat ass can still get it in?” The businesspony glanced at the calendar on the wall. His next meeting was in two hours, and with new play toys his wife wasn’t going to so much as be on the same floor as him for months.  With speed and flexibility thought impossible, he dropped his pants, and went to work removing his secretary’s panties. “As long as your fat ass hasn’t gained too much blubber!”

Everything is a blurry daze. Each of the foals is led to their individual rooms down a long hallway. The unicorn filly’s room was at the end of the hall. She only caught a glance at the other rooms, but hers seemed bigger. “I sense something special about you, little one. Perhaps it’s just that you’re a unicorn like me. You get my special room. It’s just a little bigger, but you get your own little kitchen. I see a bright future for you. Now you just need a name. I’ll think of one soon. Ta-ta!”
The filly takes a seat on her bed. It’s the comfiest thing she’s ever felt. That’s not a difficult comparison to make. Foaledo… what even is Foaledo? The farthest back she can even think of is being in that room upstairs with the really fat businesspony and the really, really fat secretary. Compared to the wooden floor, anything would be comfortable. As she laid back on the bed, the filly caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. There was a mirror on the ceiling. What a strange thing. Or was it normal? That room didn’t have one; the halls she walked didn’t have one. Maybe ceiling mirrors are normal in bedrooms. Judging by the sad, tired look she saw, perhaps not remembering more than 20 minutes ago was a good thing.
After some rest, the filly felt like going to the common room. The rest of the foals had gotten the same idea. Talking among themselves, they all had the same feeling. Nothing prior to the room upstairs seemed to exist in their memories. Even the mercenary and their fear and sorrow had gone. In its place was a blank slate of nothingness. A nervous little colt, shorter than the rest yet the oldest of the group, started shaking. “Why can’t I remember anything?” Sweat dripped from his forehead while his expression twisted into that glossy-eyed grimace of despair a traumatic flashback brings on. Mrs. Moneybags peeked around the corner, seeming to stare right into the nameless filly’s eyes. “Calm down foals, dinner’s on the way. I’ll explain everything after you’ve had a hot meal. It’s been so long!”

“Table for a Magnificent Moneybags and a Flowing Grace?” The waiter waved over the couple and led them to their table. With great effort, Miss Grace squeezed herself into the booth seat and adjusted the table to her comfort. Mister Moneybags too no smaller amount of effort to squeeze into the opposing booth. The elephantine young mare had shed her business attire for a casual croptop and a different colored pair of panties. Her older companion, by just a few years, had swapped out his own business attire for a buckball jersey that used to fit and a matching pair of shorts. Miss Grace’s outfit was designed to show off her rather prominent belly, as well as her assets further back. Mister Moneybag’s, on the other hoof, was meant to be full coverage, but his wife’s “attention” had plumped him up so much that the jersey could hardly cover his navel. It hardly mattered in the end. Clothing was just a fashion accessory, and Manehattan was one of the fattest cities in the world. The only ponies living here that weighed less than five hundred pounds were either youth, the poor, or rare statistical outliers like Mrs. Moneybags. The only ponies in the restaurant that both wore clothes and had those clothes fit properly… well their clothes certainly didn’t fit properly by the time their meal was finished. 
“For all your complaining about your weight, Mags, it sure didn’t take convincing to bring you here.” Miss Grace teased, dropping all pretense of professionalism. “Yes, well, I’d do anything for my mare,” Mister Moneybags bashfully responded. It failed to dawn on anypony how ironic the statement was, considering he was cheating on “his mare” by having an affair with his secretary. A rather open affair, at that. “Oh for the love of- Come on Flo, two nights in a row? Oh, your boyfriend’s here.” The waitress quickly shifted from annoyed to understanding. Mister Moneybags glanced over at her. “They’re making you work? Aren’t you expecting?” The waitress tilted her head with a smug expression, as if to call him a moron. “Yeah, I’m expecting they’ll give me a raise if I put on a couple hundred pounds. Fatten myself up and go from waiting tables to a cushy office job like Flo did.” She patted her bulging stomach. “Look at this shit Flo. I’m so stuffed my gut’s all red, and they still won’t let me go on break.” 
Miss Grace rolled her eyes. It was a tremendously shitty joke. Yes, the waitress had stuffed herself so full it was painful and exhausting to waddle around taking orders, but her belly was always red. Her coat was red. “The usual?” She asked. “Everything on the menu, three of each, supersize it. Get Mags the same thing.” Miss Grace took the liberty of ordering for her rich boyfriend. Before he could even respond, she put up her hoof. “Hey hey hey, you decided to cheat on your 300 pound wife with your 900 pound girlfriend. If you thought you could plump me up and just slim down yourself, you’ve got another thing coming.” “B-but Flo-” “But nothing Magsie. I have gained literally eight hundred pounds or more since I moved here from down south, and my past three coltfriends had to break up with me because I made them too fat to leave their houses. Joke’s on them, ‘cause I hear they all just got fatter without me and had to move to the bottom floor so they wouldn’t fall through. There’s no way you couldn’t see this happening.” Mister Moneybags tried to protest, but the waitress hoisted herself up the way you would trying to lean on a wall behind a person while standing in front of them, only with her belly doing the leaning. “Don’t try to fight it. Flo’s gonna be stuffing her face, but I’ll stuff yours if you weasel out ‘cause you think your dick’s too small.” The defeated, and hungry, businesspony could only whimper. “But I just got new suits fitted!”

The nameless filly found herself back in her room. The story then sat, untouched, for eight months with no further inspiration or progress.