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Spaghettification


swahilimonkfish

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18 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said:

So we kind of figured out the mystery of hyper weight gain, but not why Gwen is the only one experiencing it (or why she never seems to feel full). Our only hints are that her time-hiccups happen when she's eating and (usually) when she's traveling fast. 

Yep, exactly. I'm so glad you're following the plot and not lost, it's very reassuring. Also, might borrow your use of the term time-hiccups...

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On 2/24/2019 at 3:40 PM, Batman76 said:

Its an interesting setting, the end of the world isn't exactly erotic, but the idea of the swirling alternate realities/timelines colliding together, and making our heroine increasingly fluffy, is done pretty well.

When you're realizing that according her calculations, there lasts six weeks before the end of the world is coming, but that she experiences every single of those periodical time-hiccups as if she'd lived the same day over and over again, whilst still regardless keeping to store every single meal she'd ate whenever within or into which alternate timeline/reality she are involving. 

At this "pace" , she gotta have gained at least one or two hundred more pounds in a matter of fornights. And that's the issue and why the plot is growing as much captivating as flustering: there seemingly have no longer such thing like a "pace" accordingly our terrestrial standards. Grendel is already worming out its way to and betwist the gateways of our world in ways the common of mortals couldn't not apprehend yet. We are gradually shifting from a well-written sci-fi fat erotica short story to an erotic prose of soft cosmic horror.

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16 minutes ago, John Smith said:

When you're realizing that according her calculations, there lasts six weeks before the end of the world is coming, but that she experiences every single of those periodical time-hiccups as if she'd lived the same day over and over again, whilst still regardless keeping to store every single meal she'd ate whenever within or into which alternate timeline/reality she are involving. 

At this "pace" , she gotta have gained at least one or two hundred more pounds in a matter of fornights. And that's the issue and why the plot is growing as much captivating as flustering: there seemingly have no longer such thing like a "pace" accordingly our terrestrial standards. Grendel is already worming out its way to and betwist the gateways of our world in ways the common of mortals couldn't not apprehend yet. We are gradually shifting from a well-written sci-fi fat erotica short story to an erotic prose of soft cosmic horror.

"Erotic prose of soft cosmic horror" should be the tag-line for this story. But you're spot on with your analysis, WG stories are beholden to "how much weight can a person gain in X amount of time", but when X isn't a constant, this shakes things up a bit. I have perhaps underplayed the horror aspect of this story, focusing on the local and domestic stuff and away from the world at large, but there is some really exciting stuff coming where the threat of doom increases on many scales. Thanks for your comments and wisdom once again!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Sorry this has taken so long, as you can see it's a long one. So long that I had to split it into two chapters on DA, but curvage is more accommodating and you can have the chapter as it was intended. Sorry if this story is getting confusing, I'll try to tame it better in the future

 

Chapter 8

 

    “First, you meet the team. Then, you meet the president. Then, we save the world.” Chipo said as we prepared to leave the airport fast-food joint, with that famed grin of hers swooshing across her face

    “Oooo” I cooed with childish glee, while rubbing my hand over my enflamed stomach. The pinching around the trouser button was torturous, strangling my nerve endings around my little tummy. The Mega Box was slowly beginning its winding journey to digestion for maximum discomfort, preventing me from exhaling. Above this poor button clinging on for dear life was this new tummy discovery, tight and taut and pushing away from me. I hoped that the Flayva Wrap Mega Box that I’d just eaten was my only trip to Red Rooster and I hadn’t looped back to retread this path. But my pained midriff was distracted by the mention of the Australian President. “I get to meet that handsome president of yours, with all those sexy tattoos”.

    “Yes, our dictator-in-chief” Chips said with an eye-roll. That’s Australian politics for you. A hot mess. On one hand, they finally stopped chopping and changing political leaders and got a tall handsome one for the long-term. On the other hand, the first thing the handsome Mr Kyle Malcolm did was tear down the precarious political foundations of this former penal colony to ensure that he couldn’t be challenged as leader of the nation for an entire decade ‘to ensure stability’. So, that’s how he got the nickname The Hunky Despot, in case you were wondering.

    Chipo and I both got up with difficulty, though for very different reasons. She toiled against the frustrating limitations of her paraplegic body, and I toiled against bloating that railed against the button on my trousers. But, with a little time and effort, we both got to our feet and began the walk across the rest of the airport terminal to the exit/entrance so we could fully embark on our newly-established three point plan.

    But we didn’t get far because the Thor lookalike from Red Rooster was waiting for us. Or me, rather. He had a big goofy grin on his face, as he spotted us leaving, that gave his eyes the razzle-dazzle that juxtaposed against the rough masculinity of his physique. He strode along to us in his civvies now, shorn of the embarrassing colour-coordinated uniform that we’d seen him in previously and now draped in a clean vest that gave his biceps room to breathe and bright shorts that his tanned legs looked smashing in. He was bucket-list pretty and he seemed to think the same about me. And if there was ever a time to tick something off the old bucket list, 6 weeks before the end of the world is as good as any.

    “Hey, Rippa box girl!” he shouted through a grizzled larynx, whilst lightly jogging towards us. It wasn’t a nickname I was keen on, but I was plenty keen on the person giving me it.

    “Hey, Thor” I said back whilst waving in a dismally girly fashion. Come on Gwen, you can do better than that. If the guy looks like a fucking Norse God, the least you can do is not wilt like a flower in the shade. Come on, he finds you attractive, it’s etched across his granite-carved face. Despite the swollen tummy and the baggy eyes, despite the fact that it had been years since anyone, other than the student I was fucking, had looked at me like he did. This Adonis wanted to get some, and he was inquiring whether or not I had some for him to get. Oh fucking hell did I.

    “Sorry if this sounds weird or whatever, but fuck it, I just think you kinda hot and I thought you should know” he said with scampish delight.

    “It does sound weird, now you come to mention it, but you’re also kinda hot so I’ll let you off this once” I cheekily replied, vaguely grasping of flirting based on dimming memories of the activity.

    “I’ve only got a twenty minute break before my shift starts again, but I was wondering...” he began, blushing through his tanned cheeks as he spoke. Ah, the ol’ 20 minutes before my shift starts so fancy a fuck. Who said romance was dead?

    “Yes...”

    “If you fancied a quick root in the Rooster staff room while nobody else is in it?” he asked. I didn’t know what a ‘root’ was but I hoped it involved some degree of intercouse and so I agreed. I just want to be loved, you know. I like to think I’m pretty when I wake in the morning and see my faded and fatigued features staring back at me, but I too rarely got that confirmed by third-parties. But this hunkmaster had aspirations of having me, and I suddenly felt less flat and less old and less peripheral to the science I had devoted my life, and I suddenly felt fucking wonderful. And is that not too much to ask? I just wanted to feel fucking wonderful for twenty minutes before Thor’s shift re-started, and then get back to saving the world.

    This would, of course, leave Chips on her lonely lonesome, to stew and mill about further in the airport terminal to kill time, before time killed us. Maybe I was mis-prioritising, choosing to fritter the finite time I had fucking and not working with my hero and friend to stop the Apocalypse. But, it was too late, I was making my way to Red Rooster staff space to wriggle and writhe with my ripped Red Rooster ragamuffin.

    I wrestled his vest off and gasped as I took in the muscular undulations of which his lean and torn torso consisted. It was hewn spectacle of Gormley craft and scale, with a pulsating rib-cage and diaphragm that heaved with heavy breathing as we worked my shirt off. My torso, once defined like his, was now straining from the inflated food balloon under its skin. Its outward skyline curved gently like a flattened dome beneath the similarly flattened domes of my breasts, tucked away in a bra designed for function and not fetish.

    “Sorry I’m not as sexy as you might hope?” I said with deflated self-worth over my inflated self.

    “Hey, you know what I say?” he said. “YOLO. It’s an Australian term and it means...”

    “Everyone knows what YOLO means Thor. But thanks. It’s nice to feel appreciated” I said, with my flagging confidence getting a second wind.

    “Yeah, I’ll show you how we appreciate things in my country” he said with that giggly grin still being borne. And I finally unbuttoned my trousers and forced them down towards my knees to give him the room that he needed to work with, as he sheathed his sword in a scabbard for protection when penetrating. And with my hunger seemingly insatiable, I bet into his shoulder blade as Thor aggressively thrust his almighty hammer into me. His biceps tightened as he gripped me and did so, his back arched, his chest widened, and his breathing tensed. Suddenly we were on the staff room sofa by the vending machine, and he leant down with his awesome self draping me in his shadow, and Thor took me across the Bifrost bridge and, with our gasps strengthening and slowing, into Valhalla.

    Once he’d finished what he was doing and achieved all that he had hoped to achieve with me, he hopped up.

    “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He said with a squeakier tone while looking up at the clock in the staff room wall and rushedly bundling his staff uniform back on. I guessed my 20 minutes were up. “Sorry Rippa box girl, but hope you enjoyed that. I am pretty awesome. But I have to go, Janet will kill me if she catches me fucking another customer”

    And, in a flash, he was dressed and leaving.

    “Before you go Thor, do you think I’m pretty?” I said, my eyebrows tilting back and my face opening.

    “Yeah, you’re pretty decent. I don’t fuck ugly women” he said with a smile.

    I got my pretty decent self up and decided I’d have to pull these trousers up once more, and try valiantly to button them up once more. But I was turned around and toying with yanking them up my less lithe thighs when an older woman, presumably Janet, opened the staff room door looking for her hunky staff member with the chunky staff member.

    “You haven’t seen Charl… Oh for fuck sake, not another customer! I swear I’ll kill that kid” she said as she was confronted with my bare bum in its more plush and cushioned shape. I turned around in embarrassment and yanked my trousers up hard, apologising profusely. But Janet had harsh words for me too.

    “Oh you should know better, you must be old enough to be that kid’s mother. A woman of your age screwing an 18 year old like that – disgraceful” she chuntered as she took in my mature face. She then just shook her head and left, closing the door behind her as she wondered off to see to where the scampish Thor had scampered.

    Guiltily, I then put my shirt back on and dragged myself out of the staff room with an air of disgrace. Screwing a teenager like that, even one as sexy as him. I shouldn’t have let that happen, to debase myself in such a humiliating way. But, frankly, I just needed the ego hit and it fixed a lot of the frustrations and insecurities that I had been bottling up for years. I needed the thrill of being desired and the release of being over-powered. I wanted to feel wanted and needed to feel needed and for a twenty minute window, I felt like I was.

    The problem was, I was also needed elsewhere. And when I finally caught back up to Chipo, I could see that perma-smile of hers that normally shone like a lighthouse during stormy weather disintegrate into something sterner. Her eyes slit into a bitter glare as I hurried towards her whilst trying to frizz my hair with my hands to give it a little life and volume. She liked me, Chipo did, but she could be matriarchally firm and unforgiving with me at times too. I was the daughter that she never had just as she was the mother that I barely knew, and no mother/daughter relationship got away without ever descending into condescension. I had left her stranded in the airport to wait for me so she could get back to saving the world from annihilation, while I got my teenage kicks.

    “Gwen. Don’t do that again. OK?” She said with monosyllabic disdain. Short, curt answers as she bristled with discontent. She didn't rant or rave, that wasn't her style. No, cold disapproval, which was worse because it felt like I had let her down. And, I guess I had, but it hurts to have that thought pressed upon you so obviously. Nobody likes to think of themselves as somebody who lets down other people. So Chipo's terseness was an arrow to the heart.

    “Aww… don’t be like that Chips, it wasn’t like that...” I pleaded. Let's be honest about this though, could she really blame me? Really? My self-confidence was starting to fray and this guy, well kid I suppose, was so damn fine. I mean, did she not see him. His pectorals were more pronounced than my breasts and his smile could melt enough ice to restart climate change. “The kid was bucket-list beautiful. I mean, you’re the one who asked him if he thought I was pretty…”

    “No I didn’t. Don’t lie Gwen!” she snapped. I hate being accused of lying. Especially when I'm telling the truth.

    “I’m not lying. You did say… no wait, you didn’t, did you? I could have sworn… oh, it’s this deja vu, it’s fucking with my head.” I back-tracked. Maybe she didn't say that then. I could have sworn she did. We walked up to him to order a Rooster meal, I'd never had one before so she suggested a... no, wait, that didn't happen, did it? I walked up to the counter and knew exactly what to order, like I had eaten here before. Was it these fucking time hiccups, that meant I was losing track of what was what.

    “Don’t you dare lie to me, and then cover it up with another lie. Using the time-loops as an excuse. Shame on you.” she snarled, curling her normally splayed wide lips up into something repulsed, like I was shit on the bottom of her shoe.

    “I’m not lying!” I begged, stomping my feet petulantly against the floor in frustration. I genuinely believed that. It wasn't a lie, it was just a mistake. And if she knew what it was like to be ragdolled across my own timeline, she'd maybe be a bit more sympathetic.

    “I went to such great lengths for you and you just lie Gwen. You screw up and then you lie” Chips said, her eyes still needling in on me.

    I flapped my arms in the air in despair. Letting myself down, that I’m used to. It’s something I’ve done all my life, and by fucking a teenager on his lunch break at Red Rooster is just the latest fuck up in a life littered with them. But I didn’t like being called a liar. No, that stung. I’m not a liar. I genuinely believed that she said that to him. That she asked him to compliment me because I was feeling low. For a brief second or two, it felt so real. It must have been the time hiccups that did it. You guys believe me, right? I’m not a liar. Please don’t think of me as a liar.

    “Whatever, if you’re not going to believe me, then whatever. Let’s go.” I said, full-on sulking with my facial muscles tightening and my eyes rolling as I began walking to the exit. Chips grabbed her crutches and followed me, and we walked towards the car-park in an aggressive silence.


 

    Just before we left the building, and I got to experience some more Australian sun on my glum face, Chipo called out to me. I turned around sharply, ready for Round 2 of our argument.

    “There’ll be press out there. OK? Don’t say anything and I’ll field the questions. And if you do say anything, don’t say anything that will cause panic or worry. All right?” she said, fairly. I couldn’t argue, even though I wanted to. I had only done one interview, and, although people seemed to like it, it wasn’t exactly a clinic in keeping my cards close to my chest. The eyes of the world were watching Chipo with hope and fear, and it was probably for the best that she took charge once more on this one. This was the end of the world after all. It was a begrudging realisation that I had come to but she had been doing these unofficial press conferences non-stop since the discovery of Grendel and I’d only done it once from a hotel in New York. So I nodded without making eye-contact with her.

    We stepped out into the glorious sun once more and the heat bounced off of us since we had acclimatised in the climate controlled airport earlier. And, sure enough, there were throngs of busybody journalists with their camera teams and their microphones and their yabber-yabbering of questions. Chipo was a mini-celebrity across the world, but here she was something approximate to a god. They clamoured and hollered at her for updates on when Grendel would arrive to turn us all into spaghetti.

    “We have been investigating the data with all the intensity and attention to detail you would expect, given the severity of the situation at hand, and would not want to impart inaccurate detail by giving you the answer before it met the scientific threshold for veracity. But the data has now been confirmed by separate scientific teams across the globe and we now feel that we have enough confidence to give the prediction as to when we would expect the arrival of a supermassive black hole into our solar system.” Chipo said, her voice as calm and authoritative as ever, completely detached from our petty bickering earlier. I stood tangential to her and watched in admiration as she exuded the manner and composure of a diplomat or world leader, but with the fierce intelligence of the greatest scientist of her generation. She continued.

    “The data tells us that, without prevention or solution, it will be 30 to 31 days before we start experiencing the first phenomena associated with our comparative proximity to the supermassive black hole. These phenomena would, at first, be seen in minor fluctuations in solar patterns and an increase of solar activity such as solar flares. The effects on this planet would be minimal although their may be some meteorological disturbance such as atypically harsh storms and winds. However, it is not until near day 40 that we will see more considerable effects being exerted on the planet by the supermassive black hole such as destructive tidal patterns and supermassive tsunamis, and possible tectonic effects that may cause earthquakes and disturbances of that nature. It is around this point that we also start to experience temporal inconsistencies across the planet, as time will no longer be consistent for every citizen of Earth. Depending on the rotation of the Earth at the time, areas nearest the supermassive black hole will experience time moving more slowly, a phenomenon that will increase as we move to day 42. At that point, the sun and the Earth will find themselves in the jaws of this supermassive blackhole and will fall over the precipice of its event horizon.”

       

    Fuck.


 

    That sounded serious.


 

    Normally, when a shocking revelation like that is unveiled, there would be a flurry of furious questions and probings. You know the drill, you've seen it on the telly. The quiet while the answer is given, gives way to a tsunami of press despatchees tryng to out-yell one another for a question of their own. But, after this answer, there was just silence. A blanket of silence that fell over the and smothered them. It felt like all of the journalists in question were less concerned with the further ramifications of Chipo's comments and, instead, just wanted to duck and take shelter from the bombshell that Chipo had dropped on their laps. But, untilted and unfazed, she continued.

    “However, we now have a working hypothesis that we will test once back at the lab as to how this supermassive black hole has made its way to our doorstep, and if we succeed in verifying it, then we will have a considerable step towards solving the conundrum with which we are presented. If we can find out the cause of its proximity, we are far better equipped to find a solution to it, and that is what we intend to do now.” Chipo continued, her voice still strident and unwavering as her material got darker and more desperate.

    “So, our message is one of positivity. We believe we are better equipped to find the solution to this problem and ensure that this potential nightmare instead becomes a story we tell our kids about. That one time our planet was nearly swallowed up. Because the intrepid human condition has always thrived off such challenges and risen to each and every obstacle thus far. And this challenge is just the latest that we will conquer, of that I have absolutely no doubt. And have you ever known me to be wrong about anything?”

    A gentle murmur in the shape of a laugh scattered across the press corps at her rhetorical question as Chipo attempted to puncture the tightly wound skittishness of the people in front of her with something light-hearted but also reassuring. Because, let’s face it, she really is never wrong about anything.

    “And as part of this endeavour I am proud to announce that we have Dr. Gwendolyn Hughes of the University of Brighton joining our talented cast of scientific minds as we work towards finding the solutions required. She has over a decade of experience in astro-physics and, in deed, is the scientist who has studied this particular black hole in the most detail over the years. In fact, it is Dr. Gwendolyn Hughes that actually coined the moniker Grendel, a term you lot seem to have taken to quite keenly. It is also her hypothesis we will be testing and, that we hope, holds the key to unlocking the problem before us.”

    I blushed at all the attention and waved the same girly wave that Thor had seen earlier. It was readily clear to me that the eyes of the world were now pinned on me. I was oblivious to it when Chipo conducted the orchestra of journalists with such aplomb, but suddenly I could feel my cheeks heat up with nerves. At least I was still feeling pretty from my… ahem… encounter in the fast food place’s staffroom earlier. The cameras were all glaring at me but at least I felt pretty. Fortunately Chipo didn’t let them linger and opened the floor for questions.

    “How severe might these storms be and should people be stockpiling goods?”

    “Absolutely not, we are talking about weather inconsistency and storm unpredictability, but not about severity.” She answered dismissively at the hack’s hackneyed attempt at whipping up yet more frenzy. They believed her and so did I.

    “What about claims of Black Hole migraines sweeping across the planet? Do your findings explain this?”

    Black hole migraines? Other people were experiencing these too? I mean, I should have seen that coming I suppose. It was a bit narcissistic to assume that I was the only one to suffer the wrath of these headaches, but it was somehow more intimidating to know that the issue was rife. Like our sanity was spilling out and falling over the edge of the world. If other people were jumping across the time hiccups, who knows what the ramifications could be. And what if they realised that was what was happening. Suddenly, these black hole migraines sounded like a serious issue.

    Chips took a beat longer than she had been taking, and for obvious reasons. I had just explained to her why I thought these headaches were occurring for me, time hiccups and all. But, of course, the hypothesis was untested so Chipo couldn’t, in all good conscience, comment on the story even if it would allay some fears.

    “I’m afraid I cannot comment on any medical experiences and must cede to the various world experts in that field. Our focus lies now solely on preventing the supermassive black hole known as Grendel from colliding with our solar system.”

    “If you could put a number on it, how confident are you that you can stop this?”

    “You know full well that I don’t want to hazard haphazard guesses, it is not in my scientific nature, however I, in this case will stick my neck out and say that I have the utmost confidence that we will do this” she said, not breaking a stride or a sweat. The glacial bitch.

    “And you Dr Gwendolyn?”

    Uh, what? The journalist was asking me now? That wasn’t part of the script. What do I say now? I was down from my fight with Chipo, but buoyed with my misadventure with Thor. I had to be reassuring as Chipo had sternly insisted, but I couldn’t lie either. I told you, I don’t lie. Not when it matters and not to my friends.

    “You can faith in us, but it doesn’t do any harm to tick something off the bucket list either” I compromised. Chipo’s face darkened the very moment I let those words tumble out of my mouth.

    “And finally, do you have any view on the imminent release of the serial killer...”

    “We do not and will not discuss anything not pertinent to the task in hand” Chipo said without emotive inflection. “No, if you excuse us, we have plenty to do.”


 

    Chipo seethed once we got in the taxi and her hands began to shake in anger once she sat down and pulled the seat belt across her.

    “Fucking bucket list!” She raged. I had never, in all my years, heard Chipo swear. It was always like she was above the pettiness of expletives. She was always in control, always on top of things and never had to resort to such base expressions when a more composed term would do. But here I was seeing a side of Chipo I had never seen before. A side I’m not sure had ever surfaced before. I was seeing boiling fury. The fussed blows careening from her caldera as she finally erupted.

    “Sorry, I didn’t...”

    “I asked you one thing, just one godammn thing. I just asked you not to say anything that will cause panic and worry, that was all, and the one answer you give is that they should be ticking things off a fucking bucket list!”

    Before I could get a word in edgeways, Chipo’s phone sparked up.

    “Oh, I wonder what this could be about” she said with uncharacteristic malice. “It’s the Australian Prime Minister by the way”

    I put my head in my hands, as Chipo contorted to underplay the devastation and destruction my throw-away line had wreaked upon the press gathering. Somehow I had become the main takeaway from the announcement of the end date of the world. Chipo was begging on the phone to the Australian Prime Minister for me to remain on the team as I could hear him hammer down on her for my loose lips. This Apocalypse was getting too much for me, I wasn’t cut out for the limelight and I just wanted to curl up into the foetal position and wait for the whole thing to blow over. What made me think I was ‘special’. How arrogant of me to think I could save the world. And I’d ruined it the very moment I landed, firstly with Thor and then with the press. I’d fucked up everything and poor Chipo was getting the blame. And the rush of emotions that I felt in my father’s field two days ago when I just sat down in the wet grass and cried, came rushing back again. The same looping thoughts of frustration and guilt and despair and shame and an inability to turn the clock back on past fuck ups. Today should have been a good day and I had ruined it all. And that was when the Hoover Dam over tears burst again.

    Chipo didn’t console me like my father did. She was a mother figure to me, but she wasn’t my mum. She had just been given a royal rollicking from the most important man in the country and also a man who had jailed dissidents before, to the chagrin of the rule of law. So she kept her conversation to a terse bare minimum. I was still on the team. Meet-up tomorrow morning was at 7am. I should take my stuff up to the hotel and sleep off my jetlag. Room 34. See you tomorrow. And that was that.


 

    I stepped into the hotel room with a frown splattered across my face. I had all this anger and rage and nowhere to direct it, since the person I was angry with was myself. This was an issue I had growing up, that my anger didn’t explode, it imploded. When I was 15, I would actually pull my literal hair out as an attempt to make potent my impotent rage with myself. And here I was feeling the same thoughts again.

    I wasn’t pulling my hair out though. And, as I stood before the mirror in front of me, I was glad. I was pretty still. I was still pretty. Thor thought so anyway. My hair looked bouncy and without the scabs and bold patches of my teenage years. My face, while weathered, had softened with a micro-layer of padding that curtailed my pallid pallet and actually made me look younger. I took my shirt off and saw my humble breasts developing a cause for braggadocio by looking less like a splat egg thrown at my chest and more like regular breasts. My waist was soft at the side as its hourglass contained more sand than could be found on my hips, and so puckered out in a slight lovehandled shape. A little shadow appeared below the belly button where my stomach toyed with having a permanent outward bent. My bum had chunked up pleasantly magnificently with cushioned depth to each buttock, and my legs harnessed heft, particularly around the upper thigh. I barely recognised myself, but I recognised a young woman hot enough to pull a Norse God. I pulled out the scales to see how far removed from the girl I remembered taking a phone call from Chipo to tell me that Grendel was coming to get me.

    I stood on it in all my naked glory and read the digits below.

    139lbs.

    I stood off and took a breath. And stepped on again.

    139lbs.

    And one final time, for scientifically rigorous confirmation.

    139lbs still.

    Fuck.

    I mean, I was still closer to slim than I was to fat. I was just curvier than before, softer than before, and maybe even squidgier than before. But I had proven that I was still pretty. A fuck up who hated herself as the world kept getting nigher, but pretty nonetheless. I was a further 18lbs heavier in the past couple of days and I felt so chunky. But I also looked really cute. The world was going to end but at least I was still pretty.

    I squeezed comfortably into my soft nightie and pulled the duvet over my head.

    “Hey Google, lights off”

    And I fell asleep as my room filled with darkness.


 


 

33 days later.


 

    That person again. That name again. She kept popping up more and more in the news and on social media. Repeating, recurring like they were caught in a timeloop. Too much to be a coincidence. No, this was the key. This person was how to stop Grendel.

    No. I needed to get out. I needed to get away. I pulled away from the masses of people that had congregated to hear my speech and headed for the cemetery gates. Yes, it would have seemed utterly disrespectful but I had to get out. I needed to get out.

    Eve tried to cut me off with kind words, warm messages and sincere condolences but her words meant nothing. They just bounced off me like rain on a roof. She tried to tell me how heroic I was being by putting on a brave face but I didn’t care what that whore had to say. And anyway, I knew how to stop Grendel, that was the important thing. I knew that now. I understand that this didn’t matter. The funeral, the storms, the scandal. None of it. Not really. What I was about to do made it all for naught. I was about to be the hero that saved the day, but there would be no headlines to thank me, no awards to acknowledge me and no recognition to celebrate me. However I could at least ensure there was a world waiting for everyone in ten days time. Whatever time meant these days. But I needed to speak to Chipo. She wasn't speaking to me these days but I needed to speak to her desperately. I needed every favour in the world, every string she could pull. I needed to save the world and I needed her help to do it.

    “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know you think I’m a frivolous waste of space and you don’t even think of a friend any more. But if you can do the following, I think I can stop Grendel” I yelled into the phone over the howling conditions. The wind was whipping my hair and the rain was sideways and bludgeoning me. My hair was now waterlogged and flying like a flag as an ocean of wind battered me.

    “I’m listening”

    “I need certain data. Certain fluctuations. Future ones and past ones. You can calculate that right, with Starmap?” My voice was raised to a bellow now as the wind shrieked and howled like a banshee at all of us at the funeral.

    “Yes”

    “I need the biggest fluctuations. I need marker pens. And I need a private jet with lots of fuel” I listed.

    “I’m not sure I can get you that so quickly, and not without knowing your plan.”

    “And food. I need a fuck-ton of fatty food”


 

    I didn’t wait for an answer from Chipo. I may have fucked up, I may have broken her heart, but she knew I had the potential to crack this. And I had done. I glanced at my phone and prayed for a 5G signal. The storms were causing major communication issues across the planet and it was a difficulty to rely on anything other than landline these days. I walked out of the cemetery entrance with pointed urgency and towards one of the highest hills in the local area to see if I could get a better signal as data intermittently flickered in a bid to download the web searches that I needed.

    I would need numbers and I would need addresses and I would need to trace this person right back to their beginning to see how they tied into all this. I would need to get hold of them back in Scotland, before they were arrested. So, Lord give me a 5G signal and then I could stop this damned thing from ever happening. I climbed up the hill, valiantly fighting against the swirling conditions and trying to keep my feet on the ground as the wind whipped into me with merciless strength. I climbed over a fallen tree that had been uprooted by these fierce conditions and up on to the highest tor in the area and gripped the ground in desperation as the gale forces surged.

    Come on! Download you fucker!

    I looked around as the page refused to load. And that’s when I saw it. Hiding back so far away it was almost behind the horizon, but so tall that it towered above it. It seemed like some bizarre topological feature, like a flat mountain that coated the entire landscape. But it wasn’t anything so benign. It wasn’t anything so safe. I saw before me, towering over the horizon a wall of water as wide as the eye could see and as tall as Everest. It was a supermassive tsunami and it looked like it was about to wipe out an entire continent. The continent that I was on.

    I dropped my phone and just stared at this hellscape of water rising up and surging towards me. This monolithic death knell wrecking ball of ocean that rose and rose as it got closer to me, surging at a physics defying pace. Other people below the hill were noticing now, and frenzying frantically as the water climbed further and further upwards and pushed further and further towards us. The poor people were running away from the direction ofthis hurtling monstrosity of water as if they could outrun it but it was futile. I knew that. This was how my world would end. Not with a whimper but the crushing bang as the Atlantic erected above me, looking as if it was the Greek god Poseidon himself. And rise up it did until it was the backdrop of the sky. Rise and rise as it grew closer to us. Rise and rise until it towered so monumentally high that this wall of ocean blotted out the sun in the sky. I was going to die. I had solved the Grendel conundrum, I had actually cracked the case, only to be crushed by this Goliath of water that blistered towards me. Words and thoughts ran dry as I tried to comprehend the gargantuan size of this sweeping wave of death.

    It was so close now that I could almost feel the spray. The cold flickers of water splashing on my face as the temperature plummeted in the shadow of this beast of water. It was so close to me now that it sheltered me from the wind. My personal apocalypse felt surprisingly calm. This colossus of water was swallowing up the land before me and I just watched in the cold windless spot on top of the hill, counting the diminishing seconds before I ceased to be.


 


 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


 


 

    And then a firework of pain erupted in my head. An explosion of dynamite that ruptured the insides of my skull. Pain like nothing I had ever experienced before. Howling pain, that rippled through the bones of my skull. A marching band of juggernaut energy crushing my brain as it set fire to my neurons and synapses with pyromaniacal glee. The worst pain I had ever felt, one that made my eyes scream in pain and suffering. I was getting a migraine!

    I hurried for my trusty pen and began sprawling on my arm. I needed to tell myself I had a plan and what the plan was, and I needed to hope that the headache took me back in time before the tsunami took me to my grave. I was in its shadow now, and I could see it if I looked directly upwards. It seemed tall enough to claw out the satellites in our planet's orbit and the shade it cast me in sent the temperatures plummeting and my hand started to shake.

    But I didn’t have time to shake. I needed to write on my arm. But the pulsing surges of caterwauling pain from within my fragile and creaking head was making it difficult to concentrate. And then water, as tall as the eye could see, hit me like a wall of cement and my bones crushed and my breath stifled. And I never finished writing the name of the girl before my world turned to black.


    “First, you meet the team. Then, you meet the president. Then, we save the world.” Chipo said as we prepared to leave the airport fast-food joint, with that famed grin of hers swooshing across her face.

    But that grin turned to shock as she took in the image of me as I gasped for breath in a mad panic. My breath constantly evading me as I sat in my chair before her, hyperventilating and spinning my head around in a mad panic of confusion and bewilderment.. And a rip-roaring headache coarsely abating. “Wait, are you okay Gwen?”

    I couldn’t get my breath back to tell her that I was. Or to tell her that I wasn’t. I didn’t know. Everything seemed so bright in the room suddenly, like when your eyes are having to adjust to the burning light when you open the blackout curtains on a bright summer’s day and your pupils can’t shrivel up in time. Suddenly, I coughed up some water and now the breathing came more easily.

    “Did you… did you do that time loop thing?” she asked with a startled and concerned expression, trying to calculate what had just happened before her very eyes as they intensely glared at me like I was some foreign body.

    Or as if I had some foreign body. Because, in my dazed state, I looked down and took fuzzy glance at the me that she was staring at, and I didn’t recognise it. I didn’t recognise my own body.

    I was naked. Butt naked. Stark naked. Utterly as undressed as the day I was born. My clothes were around me but they were shredded, and my naked self covered them. Shredded by my bigger body as it grew in an instant.

    I was bigger, quite a bit bigger. Big enough for my clothes to rip as it failed to accommodate my expansion. My tummy, my legs, even my chest. All enlarged. Engorged. And it was alien. I looked about 30lbs or 40lbs heavier.

    I ran my hair through my ringletted hair and it was damp, like I had showered and not fully dried it. And the arms that I ran through my hair ached and felt bruised. I felt like I had gone through a car wash. And that was when I noticed pen ink on my arm.


 

You got dis

CHAR


 

    What the actual fuck Gwen? What the fuck does that mean?

    You got dis? Well, that was reassuring me about something. But about what? No fucking clue. And the Char? What did that mean?

    Char can be a cup of tea but why would I need to know that, and besides, I would have just written tea. More likely, char can mean to burn. With all this talk of the Apocalypses, burning felt like a possible message, though a frustratingly abstract and elliptical one. Maybe the message was cut off? Chard? The vegetable. Could that be my vital message? I doubt it. What about a name? That seems more likely. Charlotte probably, but Charlie or Charles possibly. How about Charon? The ferryman of the dead from Greek mythology. That sounded like the sort of thing I would call something, given my love of mythology. I just needed to find out what the dis was that I had got, and who was Charon and why did I need to know that.

    But first I needed clothes.

    “Gwen, Gwen, can you hear me?”

    I looked up at a deeply concerned Chipo grabbing my arm and shaking it.

    “Gwen, are you OK?”

    I wasn’t sure if I was OK or not.

    “Umm… I think so. Errr… where are we? When are we?” I looked around, deeply conscientious of my excessively naked condition to see friendly family faces eating giant cooked chickens. “Is this Red Rooster?”

    Chipo’s eyes welled up as she saw just how dazed I was and just how lost I was. She had seen it before her very eyes, as the slim girl exploded in weight and ripped her clothes right in front of her. But the real damage was to my wherewithal. My eyes kept darting around the place, unable to settle on any one thing. My head hung slightly to the side is a disoriented torpor. I needed to get my bearings.

    “Yes, you’ve just landed in Australia, and we’ve just eaten at Red Rooster” she said with maternal affection.

    “With the sexy Thor man behind the counter?” my glazed over eyes suddenly found themselves and burst into awareness. That was right. I had just flirted with the Thor doppelgänger and, maybe, if I played my cards right, we could fuck.

    Then I remembered what I looked like. Nobody was going to want to fuck this. He flirted with a pretty scientist not someone cosplaying as a beached whale. Oh, I needed to get some clothes, stat.

    “Yes, with the sexy Thor lookalike” Chipo smiled a tender but worried smile, like the type you smile when you visit an unwell aunt at the hospital and she says she’s doing fine, but the doctors say otherwise. That kind of smile.

    Or maybe I did stand a chance with Thor? After all, I did have a message on my arm saying “U got dis”. Maybe this was what I was referring to. My chance to bag myself a hunky Norse deity.

    In fact, he was walking by and taking off his uniform. Presumably off on a break or finished his shift perhaps. But he was leaving the fast-food place and he was going to have to walk by our table. Swaggering and swinging with macho masculinity, he breezed towards us. Remember, I told myself, U got dis.

    As he walked by, I could see angelic face contort into devilish disdain as he spotted ol’ flubber over here without a thread of clothes on her person. He marched past us with a reviled look before redirecting his walk past a table with some blonde bimbo in enough make-up to drown a cat. He whispered into her ear as if it was no big deal and then the two of them wandered into the staff area, presumably for some Norse nooky. I didn’t have dis at all.

    “Haha, that was ambitious Gwen. I’ll put that down to you being dazed” Chipo giggled girlishly as she saw my hopes rise and then fall on the rollercoaster of yearning that I had for the strapping Red Rooster employee. “Now, I think there’s a clothes store just round the corner if you fancy wearing some actual clothes”

    Chipo and I both got up with difficulty, though for very different reasons. She toiled against the frustrating limitations of her paraplegic body, and I toiled against my newfound enormity and the carcrash headache that was tintinnabulating around my skull. But, with a little time and effort, we both got to our feet.

    I gingerly traipsed, without a stitch to wear upon my person and just my hands for dignity, through the airport towards the clothes store that fortunately the airport housed. It was a surprisingly upmarket place with a range of respectable brands in sizes 0 – 16. Which should suffice even my enlarged frame. Surely.

    My cheeks were red as I darted between the clothes racks, red from embarrassment from lugging around all this surfeit without the dignity of clothing and red from being out of breath. I was walking very hastily and very anxiously, but should I really be getting rosy-cheeked with oxygenated blood from just walking? Over a decade of fanatical devotion to the gym and four or five days later I’m repaid with speed-walking feeling like anaerobic exercise. I grabbed some size 10s, some size 12s, and, with dread, some size 14s and 16s for emergency, and hurried in a flurry to the clothing stalls to change.

    Once I closed the curtain behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart was pounding in my chest from the blatant humiliation of my naked situation. At least, with the curtain closed, I was alone and safe to take my time. So, I looked in the mirror and consumed the image that the reflection presented. It was an inglorious sight. My face looked better, I guess that was nice. Smoother and less jagged, with discernible cheeks and delicate features, I looked less intense and more friendly. As my eyes crawled down the mirror to confront the rest of my image, I encountered my more substantial breasts. This was nice too, another upgrade from the god of fatty deposits. They were a literal handful now, worthy things that deserved a feminine chest, so it was no wonder that my bra snapped. Still going down and now we found the stuff that I wasn’t so keen on. A paunch. A veritable bona fide paunch just chilling below the chest that had been enrobed in fat itself. It wobbled when I jumped up and down, did this paunch. Hell, it wobbled when I didn’t. There was a lip below the belly button that it seemed to have sprouted from, a gelatinous form that a hand could sink into and that reached away from my body as far as my novel breasts. It muffined to the side with infolds and outrolls to give the approximate shape of a bell, and the skin seemed strained thin with the recent expanse. I was clearly an apple, though I looked like I had never eaten an apple in my life.

    Or maybe a pear, though I had clearly never eaten one of those either. But I definitely had stuff going on to the side and behind me. I twirled around to check my own rear out, and was conflictedly impressed with its bulk and sway. My butt no longer had indents, like cheekbones, where the bone on my hips and there was no padding to fill them out. Now, my cheeks seemed so much more… circular, yeah, I guess circular was the word to describe them. And pliable too, more like water-balloons than air-balloons, they seemed bigger and baggier. My legs weren’t baggy, they were stocky. That was the word, stocky and stout. They crossed paths at the uppermost part of my thigh, and my speed walking and seen them graze into a slight rash. I bore the weight fairly well, but there was still a disconnect with my mirror image and my mental image. They just didn’t align. If I had seen this girl, I would have have said that she was pretty. Maybe, if I was being honest to myself, I would have caveated it as “she’s pretty for her size”, but that just felt so callouslyy sizeist now I was that pretty-for-her-size girl. Previous me was such an arsehole.

    So, how big was I? Well, I was 111lbs and a size 2 at the beginning of the week, or a loose size 4. I’d gotten on the plane at 121lbs and a very tight size 4. One lang-haul flight and a Red Rooster meal later and I was how big? Big enough to shred my clothes, big enough change my body shape, big enough to close my thigh gap. Was I maybe 145lbs and size 10? Oh, I hoped so. Anything more, anything over 150lbs, was too much for me to stomach. Which was, it seems, saying something. Well, I couldn’t weigh myself here, but I could at least check my clothing size.

    First, my bra and panties, so I could finally cease being in the buff. The B-cup bra was not even remotely close to caging these recently formed boobs of mine, it just wasn’t fit for purpose. The straps around the back cut into my softer back and my cleavage flooded out of them like the bra was a plaster on a decapitation. The C-cup was a significant improvement, it hugged me rather than strangled me, and my breasts were tightly packed but not vacuum sealed. The underwear was another issue. I had gone for some plain jane navy knickers that were intentionally utilitarian and unglamorous. I just didn’t feel glamorous. I was previously an XX small, but this was not the ass and hips of a girl who was XX small any more. So I tried the medium size and hoped it was loose. Alas, it was far from loose. In fact, it chafed as I dragged it up my thighs, and it squeezed as I brought it to my hips. And then it stopped before it even got there, just crashing against the limitations that my wider and thicker size was inflicting upon the material. I cursed and decided to try the Large instead. Large. Now that sounded terrifying. I had always been particularly small, and now I had surpassed even Medium. Was I even me and more?

    As I pulled the knickers up, I realised that they were pretty unforgivingly tight themselves; they dug vindictively into my fleshy sides and clawed and fidgeted around my thighs. I sat down, despondent at the realisation that I was wearing large underwear and finding it a bit on the small side. Was this who I was now? Would my dad even recognise me? And why was this only happening to me and nobody else? It just didn’t seem fair. I sat down on the bench in the booth and sobbed as my pinched stomach bunched up above the knicker line in dismal fashion.

    Next was the dress that I had bought. It was free-flowing and informal, something that you could rock in a beach or a nice restaurant. It was black, so hopefully thinning and rather dashing. Let’s hope size 10 was the size that fit.

    Of course it didn’t. It didn’t take too long for me to realise, I had barely gotten it over my head and my arms into it when I noticed the limitations of the material. I strained to squeeze my arms in, but the rest of the dress just sat upon my noobie boobies and draped down over the rest of me amorphously. But despairingly was size 12 having the same issue, I couldn’t pull it fully over my breasts so that the tighter bit that’s meant to rest underneath them and give you shape instead wrapped like a band around them. So I readied myself for the grim reality of being a size 14, which meant I was probably over 150lbs. I wasn’t just no longer skinny, I was nearly no longer average either. The size fourteen at least covered my breasts, but it did me no favours. Where it was supposed to be tight, around my midriff, it was tight and showcased my middle bulge rather unsportingly. The bulge used up material reserved for my legs and thus made the dress on the short side, comfortably showing half my thigh when it should be covering my knees. I looked like a fat tramp, but at least I wasn’t a size 16. Size 16 was too big, it was a step too far and even though it would have probably fit perfectly, I needed the denial of not being a size 16 to keep my morale up.


 

    Chipo’s eyes widened at the size of my widened form as I walked down the airport self-consciously. The dress felt short in the cubicle, but walking around with strangers everywhere around me, it felt very short indeed. My chafing stride encouraged to ride even further up and I kept having to tug it back down with unladylike regularity. But, I couldn’t keep my loyal friend waiting any longer, we had a job to do, and so we began the walk across the rest of the airport terminal to the exit/entrance so we could fully embark on our newly-established three point plan:

    First, we meet the team. Then, we meet the president. Then, we save the world.

    And there was a fourth point to our three point plan:

    Who the fuck is Charon?


 

    Just before we left the building, and I got to experience some more Australian sun on my glum face and bared legs, Chipo called out warmly. I turned around sharply, hoping for some friendly support for my expanded body. But Chipo was typically all-business.

    “There’ll be press out there. OK? Don’t say anything and I’ll field the questions. And if you do say anything, don’t say anything that will cause panic or worry. All right?” she said, caringly. It was really considerate of her to take the lead on this one in my underdressed state, and also sparing me from blunders due to my relative inexperience. I had only done one interview, and, although people seemed to like it, it wasn’t exactly a clinic in keeping my cards close to my chest. The eyes of the world were watching Chipo with hope and fear, and it was probably for the best that she took charge once more on this one. It was a content realisation since she had been doing this non-stop since the discovery and I’d only done it once from a hotel in New York, and she could fend the difficult questions and I could just stand to the side of her and keep tugging at my dress. Maybe I should have gone size 16. I nodded in affirmation to her question.

    We stepped out into the glorious sun once more and the heat bounced off of us since we had acclimatised in the climate controlled airport earlier. And, sure enough, there were throngs of busybody journalists with their camera teams and their microphones and their yabber-yabbering of questions. Chipo was a celebrity across the world, but here she was something approximate to a god. They clamoured and hollered at her for updates on when Grendel would arrive to turn us all into spaghetti.

    “We have been investigating the data with all the intensity and attention to detail you would expect, given the severity of the situation at hand, and would not want to impart inaccurate detail by giving you the answer before it met the scientific threshold for veracity. But the data has now been confirmed by separate scientific teams across the globe and we now feel that we have enough confidence to give the prediction as to when we would expect the arrival of a supermassive black hole into our solar system.” Chipo said, her voice as calm and authoritative as ever, completely detached from my humiliation earlier. I stood tangential to her and watched in admiration as she exuded the manner and composure of a diplomat or world leader, but with the fierce intelligence of the greatest scientist of her generation. She continued.

    “The data tells us that, without prevention or solution, it will be 30 to 31 days before we start experiencing the first phenomena associated with our comparative proximity to the supermassive black hole. These phenomena would, at first, be seen in minor fluctuations in solar patterns and an increase of solar activity such as solar flares. The effects on this planet would be minimal although their may be some meteorological disturbance such as atypically harsh storms and winds. However, it is not until near day 40 that we will see more considerable effects being exerted on the planet by the supermassive black hole such as destructive tidal patterns and supermassive tsunamis, and possible tectonic effects that may cause earthquakes and disturbances of that nature. It is around this point that we also start to experience temporal inconsistencies across the planet, as time will no longer be consistent for every citizen of Earth. Depending on the rotation of the Earth at the time, areas nearest the supermassive black hole will experience time moving more slowly, a phenomenon that will increase as we move to day 42. At that point, the sun and the Earth will find themselves in the jaws of this supermassive blackhole and will fall over the precipice of its event horizon.”

    

     Fuck.


 

    That sounded serious.


 

    Normally, when a shocking revelation like that is unveiled, there would be a flurry of furious questions and probings. But, after this, there was just silence. A blanket of silence. It was like the journalists in question were less concerned with further ramifications and just wanted to take shelter from the bombshell that Chipo had dropped on their laps. But, unfazed, she continued.

    “However, we now have a working hypothesis that we are strongly confident with and we will test this to confirm once we are back at the lab as to how this supermassive black hole has made its way to our doorstep, and if we succeed in verifying it, then we will have a considerable step towards solving the conundrum with which we are presented. If we can find out the cause of its proximity, we are far better equipped to find a solution to it, and that is what we intend to do now.” Chipo continued, her voice still strident and unwavering as her material got darker and more desperate.

    “So, our message is one of positivity. We believe we are better equipped to find the solution to this problem and ensure that this potential nightmare instead becomes a story we tell our kids about. That one time our planet was nearly swallowed up. Because the intrepid human condition has always thrived off such challenges and risen to each and every obstacle thus far. And this challenge is just the latest that we will conquer, of that I have absolutely no doubt. And have you ever known me to be wrong about anything?”

    A gentle murmur in the shape of a laugh scattered across the press corps at her rhetorical question as Chipo attempted to puncture the tightly wound skittishness of the people in front of her with something light-hearted but also reassuring. Because, let’s face it, she really is never wrong about anything.

    “And as part of this endeavour I am proud to announce that we have my dear friend and the phenomenally intelligent Dr. Gwendolyn Hughes of the University of Brighton joining our talented cast of scientific minds as we work towards finding the solutions required. She has over a decade of experience in astro-physics and, indeed, is the scientist who has studied this particular black hole in the most detail over the years. In fact, it is Dr. Gwendolyn Hughes that actually coined the moniker Grendel, a term you lot seem to have taken to quite keenly. It is also her hypothesis we will be testing and, that we firmly believe, holds the key to unlocking the problem before us.”

    I blushed at all the attention and waved, hoping the wiggling hand would distract from the larger body and surfeit of leg. It was readily clear to me that the eyes of the world were now pinned on me and my pins. I was oblivious to it when Chipo conducted the orchestra of journalists with such aplomb, but suddenly I could feel my cheeks heat up with nerves. And worst of all, I was still feeling pretty fat from my… ahem… issues in the fast food place’s staffroom earlier. The cameras were all glaring at me and I felt fat and ugly. Fortunately Chipo didn’t let them linger and opened the floor for questions.

    “How severe might these storms be and should people be stockpiling goods?”

    “Absolutely not, we are talking about weather inconsistency and storm unpredictability, but not about severity.” She answered dismissively at the hack’s hackneyed attempt at whipping up yet more frenzy. They all believed her and so did I.

    “What about claims of Black Hole migraines sweeping across the planet? Do your findings explain this?”

    Black hole migraines? Other people were experiencing these too? I mean, I should have seen that coming I suppose. It was a bit narcissistic to assume that I was the only one to suffer the wrath of these headaches, but it was somehow more intimidating to know that the issue was rife. Like our sanity was spilling out and falling over the edge of the world.

    Chips took a beat longer than she had been taking, and for obvious reasons. She had just seen what these migraines could do to a person and it maybe she should be warning people in case it happens to them. But, of course, explaining the terrifying ramifications of jumping across ripples in spacetime would terrify everyone so she had to downplay it.

    “I’m afraid I cannot comment on any medical experiences and must cede to the various world experts in that field. Our focus lies now solely on preventing the black hole from colliding with our solar system.”

If you could put a number on it, how confident are you that you can stop this?”

    “You know full well that I don’t want to make haphazard guesses, it is not in my scientific nature, however I, in this case will stick my neck out and say that I have the utmost confidence that we will do this” she said, not breaking a stride or a sweat. The glacial genius, oh how I loved her.

    “And you Dr Gwendolyn?”

    Uh, what? The journalist was asking me now? That wasn’t part of the script. What do I say now? I was I wanted to hide from their lights forever in my current state and desperately didn’t want to be interrogated. I had to be reassuring as Chipo had sternly insisted, but I couldn’t lie either. Not that I ever would, of course. I’m a paragon of honesty.

    Then I remembered my arm. I had this. I had this.

    “We are scientists, so we see things through the lens of science. We don’t guess or have hunches or feelings. We deal with cold hard facts to keep things clear and uncompromised. I don’t want to stand in front of you and reassure you if I don’t believe the words that I’m saying. Not just because it would be dishonest, but because it would be unscientific. Facts mean something and sullying them hunches and inclinations muddies the waters that we are trying to swim through. So, the only things I can say here in my capacity as a scientist, an empiricist and a rationalist is things that I believe with certainty and conviction. I would not say anything lightly or just to placate you. I’m not hear to feed you platitudes, I’m here to give you facts. And this is the fact about Grendel...” and I took a deep breath as I got to my long-winded conclusion.

    “We got dis! Believe me when I say this because I say this as a scientist… we got dis”

    It felt triumphant to say that in front of those journalists just then. It felt triumphant because I was telling the truth. I could say what they wanted to hear and I didn’t have to lie to do so. I knew that we would slay Grendel because the ink on my arm said so. I just needed to know who Charon was.

    “And finally, do you have any view on the imminent release of the serial killer Mi...”

    “We do not and will not discuss anything not pertinent to the task in hand” Chipo said with a big grin on her face, I had done her proud. “No, if you excuse us, we have plenty to do.”


 

    When we got in the back of our chauffeured car, Chipo reached over and hugged me. And when she did so, my shoulder got wet.

    She was crying?

    Chipo didn’t cry. She was ruthlessly pragmatic and emotionally disciplined. Tears were weakness, and weakness would prevent her from smashing the glass ceiling above her to become the foremost thinker of her time. But, here, now, in the car on the way to the hotel, Chipo was crying.

    “I knew you wouldn’t let me down” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes and trying to restore her facial expression to something more composed and controlled.

    “Of course I wouldn’t. I know how important this is” I said, my eyebrows arching into something more tearful. Oh god, now I was getting emotional. I always cried when someone else cried, I just found the emotion that filled the air contagious and felt compelled to join in.

    “No, you have no idea Gwen” and the tears started flooding again. “Those bastards in government, they are not allowing my parents into this country. If I fuck up, they don’t let them in. If you fuck up, they don’t let them in. They’re holding them in an offshore detention facility in Nauru and they’ve been using them as leverage to get me to work on this project.”

    I stood in shock. Chipo, who was all smiles and warmth to me all day during my mini disaster, who was rising to the occasion with the national press, who was trying to save the world. Chipo’s family was being held hostage by the bastards in the Australian government. And I had no idea. And I was only thinking about myself.

    “Why?” I asked meekly, shell-shocked.

    “Because I refused to do it. I refused to solve the problem” she said, her voice quaking ever so slightly. “I’m tired. I’ve been working nonstop for too long and I’m tired. Someone else, someone younger, someone fresher should have taken over. Someone like you. But they needed to have their ‘famous celebrity scientist’ on the case” her contempt was scribbled all over her face and the way she sneered ‘famous celebrity scientist’ put her bitterness in full view.

    “Oh God, Chips… I had no idea”

    “Of course not. Nobody does. But if you win the public over, if you share the limelight with me, and you did so well earlier, but if you share the limelight with me and I stop being indispensible… they might let me visit my parents.” Chipo welled up again.

    Chipo rarely talked about her parents back in South Africa. I knew she would invite them over periodically for holidays and things, but Australian immigration was so harsh that they weren’t allowed to emigrate to the nation of her daughter. It was a cornerstone of their PM’s, Kyle Malcolm, populist electoral campaign, back when he ran campaigns before they too were outlawed. No immigration, no excuses, no exceptions. Racist wanker. Sexy, hunky, racist wanker.

    “I’ll help any and every way I can” I said with utter sincerity. “There is nothing more important than family”

    “Nothing more important than family” Chipo repeated back to me with a smile.

    We hugged kindly as the car pulled up to my hotel. She took the time to go through the itinerary for tomorrow. We would meet up with the team at 7am, and I would see their data, their progress and get a feel for the place, while they try go through my theory and see if it matches the data they’ve collected. Given the early start, the shock of my time loop and the chronic jetlag, Chipo suggested that I should take my stuff up to the hotel now and grab some much needed kip. I’d earned it, apparently. My room number was Room 34 and the mini bar was fully paid for. She would see me tomorrow, bright and early to get a head start on the day and hopefully save the world. And that was that.


 

    I stepped into the hotel room with such a mix of emotions swirling through my bludgeoned head. Anger at the way that Chipo had been treated by those dickheads in office, guilt for not realising and not being there for her, relief that I had actually helped possibly get Chipo to see them, pride that I had possibly busted the case of the supermassive black hole on our doorstep wide open, and shame at my expanded form. Because, I may have been kind, and I may have been clever. But I was still fat. Size 14 fat.

    It was hard not to feel shame about my appearance as I grunted to squeeze the toothpaste of blubber that was my body out of the over-extended dress. Naked and in the flattering mood lighting of the hotel, in just my bra and knickers, I didn’t recognise the girl in front of me. No wonder Thor didn’t find me attractive, no son of Odin would sully their deified air with my fat arse. The sneer of disgust as he walked past me and thought, I swear she was cute earlier but now like at the hog, I’ll never forget it. I was no longer a young woman hot enough to pull a Norse God. I pulled out the scales to see how far removed from the girl I remembered taking a phone call from Chipo to tell me that Grendel was coming to get me. Which seemed such a long time ago. And, depending on your view of time, maybe it was.

    I stood on the scales in all my naked shame and read the digits below.

    170lbs.

    I stood off and took a breath. And stepped on again.

    170lbs.

    And one final time, for scientifically rigorous confirmation.

    170lbs still.

    Fucking fucking fucking shit. Motherwanking fuckball cuntery. FUCK!!!!

    What had I been doing in the future? Eating apparently.

    59lbs in 5 days.

    Was I fat then? Like, not even on the upper side of regular. Was I now officially fat? What will everyone on social media say when they see me testing a size 14 dress to the limits when they had previously thought I was cute just 4 days before in a size 4? The insults. The mocking. The shame. Will I never be sexy again? Am I going to die alone? Is Grendel going to swallow me and I’ll be fat and alone?

    No, this wasn’t going to happen. Grendel wasn’t going to swallow me at all. I may be fat, but at least I’m going to stop Grendel. I may be fat but at least I got dis. I was no longer pretty, but at least the world wasn’t going to end.

    I didn’t even bother attack the discomfort of squeezing into my nightie, I would just have to sleep naked. So I pulled my duvet over my head and tried to think of positive thoughts.

    “Hey Google, lights off”

    And I fell asleep as my room filled with darkness.

 

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  • 3 weeks later...
18 minutes ago, dania201 said:

Bump for content 😉

Apologies, it might be a few weeks before I tackle this again. It's a bit harder to write than my other stuff. But, I haven't forgotten, and once my end-of-year assignments are over I'll plunder on. It's about to get good!

But thanks for the reminder anyway!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Chapter 9

 

 

 

++++++++++++++

 

 

I looked around as the page refused to load. And that’s when I saw it. Hiding back so far away it was almost behind the horizon, but so tall that it towered above it. It seemed like some bizarre topological feature, like a flat mountain that coated the entire landscape. But it wasn’t anything so benign. It wasn’t anything so safe. I saw before me, towering over the horizon a wall of water as wide as the eye could see and as tall as Everest. It was a supermassive tsunami and it looked like it was about to wipe out an entire continent. The continent that I was on.

I dropped my phone and just stared at this hellscape of water rising up and surging towards me. This monolithic death knell wrecking ball of ocean that rose and rose as it got closer to me. Other people below the hill were noticing now, and frenzying frantically. The poor people were running away from the direction that this hurtling monstrosity of water as if they could outrun it but it was futile. I knew that. This was how my world would end. Not with a whimper but the crushing bang as the Atlantic erected above me look it was Poseidon himself. And rise up it did until it was the backdrop of the sky. Rise and rise as it grew closer to us. Rise and rise until it towered so high that it blotted out the sun. I was going to die. I had solved it, I had actually cracked the case, only to be crushed by this Goliath of water that blistered towards me.

It was so close now that I could almost feel the spray. It was so close that it sheltered me from the wind. This colossus of water was swallowing up the land before me and I just watched.

 

 

++++++++++++++

 

 

Strauss’ Thus Spake Zarathustra horned around my bedroom, as it filled with light, waking me up from a nightmare that I didn’t remember. Those banging drums echoed around the room before I could really register what was happening. It as bellowing and crass and not what I wanted to wake up to.

Hey Google, shut the fuck up!”

The music kept playing, blaring louder and higher in pitch as it reached that famed crescendo.

Ugh, Hey Google, alarm off”

And silence.

 

It was 5.45am. That was the cause of the sonic pyrotechnics. Today was the first day in a race against time and space. Today was the first day in our bid to stop these from being our last days. Today was the day we laid siege to Grendel.

But first, breakfast.

No, no breakfast. I’ve eaten enough. It all came back to me as my foggy head cleared up and I pulled myself out of the warm embrace of my duvet and into the cold air-conditioned room. I was suddenly made aware of my increase of size when I looked down at the cold pale flesh that had clumped up on my midriff all soft and ripply. It didn’t look like it belonged on me, like I was the victim of a bad photoshop or something. It felt like there was hand luggage strapped to my stomach, rippling like spacetime from my waist. No, definitely no breakfast today. Instead, the plan was to get changed and save the world. In that order.

My actual luggage was not a lot of use in this situation in all honesty. I hadn’t packed with the intention of being a borderline size 16. I felt fat and hopeless, on the other side of the world and vainly fighting to not be on the other side of a black hole, in a room that saw fit to use the music that opened 2001: A Space Odyssey as my alarm. It must have been set by Chips as a joke…

And if she set the alarm as a joke, she must have instructed someone to come in here while I was asleep. And if she instructed someone to come in here while I was asleep, then they must have been in here for a reason. And could the reason have been to deposit some clothes that I could worm my gelatinous form into?

I opened the wardrobe and saw a buffet of clothing options available to choose from, and all in my rather plush size. Thank you Dr Chipo Oliseh for saving my extensive arse! A nice long black skirt and a flowery blouse that fluffed up around the neck, to distract from the fact that I had fluffed up around the belly. Putting these on, I felt ready to tackle the day now. I had my armour on, I felt confident, and now all I had to do was slay super-massive Grendel. First, we meet the team, then we meet the president, then we save the world. Today was the day we meet the team.

 

The building was a spectacular sight as the chauffeur pulled up alongside it. It was set in a bit from the harbour, but still prime real estate, set among regularly sized buildings and dwarfing them with its disproportional enormity. It was the newly built International Federation for Space Mapping and Telescopy (IFSMaT), and it had sharp silver angles that jutted out into the Sydney skyline that looked like it a lightning bolt fucked a disco ball. It was eye-catching, spectacular and so absolutely fucking hideous. But, sprawling out the top, in all its glory, was Starmap, or the Oliseh telescope as it was now called. A gargantuan thing that swelled off of the roof like a volcanic eruption of science, technology, engineering and maths. It might not have been pretty, but if you had told a layperson that it was designed and built by the Gods themselves, I reckon a fair few of them would have believed you. It dominated harbour-side Sydney is a way that the Opera House used to before everyone got blasé about it.

Getting out of the car and getting caught in the early morning coastal bluster of wind, I gazed up at the monolith that was to be my workplace from now until the end of days. Nerves hadn’t really struck her me to be honest until I saw this clusterfuck of a building staring down at me with oppressive size and aggressive angles. But now, as I lay in the shadow of this colossus, with the wind whipping up flecks of spray, I felt a deep-seated terror spread across me. It was as if it brought back memories of a nightmare I never had and, all of a sudden, I felt shivers of despair reverberate through me.

The front doors were thick and dark, shrieking secrecy to every passer-by. The building had been commandeered by the Australian military as a base for Project Beowulf (I mean.. really?) several weeks ago, and it had been fortified accordingly. This building was now ground zero for the world’s defence against Grendel, and the world’s foremost minds and most powerful decision makers were drafted into IFSMaT to bicker amongst themselves until they get swallowed up. And now I was one of those foremost minds.

I walked up to these unwelcoming front doors and placed my hand on the scanner while two burly blokes in armed police uniform stood to attention to either side of me with frowns. Hopefully the thing that they were disapproving was their inevitable demise at the hands of a celestial chasm, and not at how big my arse was. The doors folded gracefully open and I shuffled into the next stage of entry. I placed my laptop satchel and handbag down onto an airport-like conveyor belt, before standing to the opposing side and going through a parallel conveyor belt for humans, while more guards looked out sternly. Loud clunk-clunk-clunks as MRI images, x-ray images, infra-red images, you-name-it images were all taken of me, to ensure I wasn’t an explosive but in fact a human being. A step further and I was beginning to feel like Ethan Hunt just to get into the damned building. I had swabs taken, temperature checked, and more impenetrable doors to work through, until eventually I reached the reception area. I hope I don’t blackout again, just because I can’t be arsed to go through that palaver once more.

The building was surprisingly alive at this early hour. There were people milling about, chatting sternly or hurrying from one room to another. There were people in suits looking like they had slept in their clothes, and others who looked fresh as a daisy. And all darting about with their own set of rules, duties and attentions in the expansive foyer at the ground floor

II walked towards the receptionist and got in the queue to be seen as people lined up to be pointed in the direction that they were needed. Apparently, recruitment was still going strong as they conscribed soldiers in the last battle that the world may ever face. I stood in line until the receptionist took my details and informed me that it would be the 38th floor that I needed, and to head to Laboratory 38.4. And this wasn’t a Trump tower, so this would actually be the actual 38th floor as well. I got in the lift and let it carry me a tiny bit closer to the stars.

I expected to get out the elevator and see something other than endless corridors. Maybe I’d seen too many movies but it seemed an anti-climactic image upon the lift opening to see just corridors leading to various labelled rooms. I followed the path to Laboratory 38.4. Along the way, there were stern looking people, but at least these ones looked like my kinda people. Nerdy types who drink too much coffee. I hustled down the corridor, scouring the doors to see which one was labelled for me.

Hustling down corridors was, however, tougher than I expected. I had 60lbs of extra me to hustle with and there felt like a real disconnect between my actions and my body’s reactions. For a start, my arse wobbled when I walked. I’m not sure if it did that previously or not, I’d never really noticed it. But now I couldn’t not sense the rhythmic pulse of my arse pushing and pulling upon each step. I could also sense irritating chafing between my thighs. It wasn’t discombobulating or anything so dramatic, but it just felt wrong. Like when you’re driving a car in icy conditions and the car doesn’t behave exactly like you expect it to but it still is sticking to the road so nobody else notices. But you notice because it didn’t behave exactly as you expected. That. It felt like that. Only the junk in the trunk this time was figurative.

Watcha, you must be the Grendel girl.” Some grungy looking old man with long hair and skinny build popped out from the side as if to accost me. “I’m Devon, but my friends all call me dickhead. Nah, I’m just pulling you leg, it’s only my enemies that call me that. You looking for point 4? I’ll show you, it’s just a quick toddle down here”

The aged rocker called Devon guided me through the warren and to a closed white door with no windows.

Yeah, we’re just having a looksie at the latest data from Grendel...” he said as he opened the door and the room unfolded before me with bleached white walls and ceilings.

Thanks Devon” I said, as I took in with shock what the dingy corridors had been hiding from me. The sparkling white of a hospital under the garish blaze of harsh white lighting spread out in front of me, and it was littered with nerdy looking people sitting or standing at desks with their headphones on, pouring over the laptop screens.

No worries. Anyway, come over to this desk here where Clefty is and she’ll show you what data we’re talking about. You’ll love Clefty, everyone loves Clefty. Isn’t that right, Clefty?” He said, patting his dark hirsute hand on her back.

Fuck off Devon” she rolled her eyes at him before redirecting them at me. “Wait, are you Dr Gwendolyn? Chipo’s friend? Bloody great to meet you”

She opened her skinny arms up for a hug and jumped up and down with giddiness as she embraced me.

Nice to meet you…” I replied, tentative about the nickname that he’d given her.

Yeah, you can call me Clefty. Everyone does it. It’s because of this hairlip. You can hardly see it now but, it’s like a playground in here, they’ll take any distinctive feature and never let you live it down. My name’s actually Charlotte.” She said, with a big grin. It was true that you could see the vague outline of a hairlip on her upper lip, but it had clearly been ironed out in surgery to the point where you would only notice it if she pointed it out. The rest of her was unassumingly pretty, muddy brown hair around a large circular face, stacked atop a body that looked too thin for the head. But her eyes fizzed with enthusiasm, as she looked into mine.

I’ll call you Charlotte then” I said, not really wanting to lean into the playground bullying thing. Besides, by the looks of it, there were far more men than women and sisters had to stick together.

Don’t be daft. Call me Clefty. Anything else feels like political correctness gone mad at this stage. Only my mum calls me Charlotte, and that’s only when I’ve gone and dicked something up” she ruffled my hair with a big cheeky grin, as if to welcome me into the fold. “Anyway buggaloo, cast your goggles over this bad boy”

And with that invitation, I leant over and stared at some of the most comprehensive analysis I’d ever seen. The Starmap 2.0 was running simultaneous algorithms and churning out indecipherable gobbledegook that Clefty was marvelling at.

Do you know what this means, mate?” she said, big old smile wrapped around her dace.

Let’s pretend I do, but can you tell me anyway?” I had no idea what it meant.

This is us going through previously collected data and running algorithms to see if we can spot when these fluctuations in spacetime started growing”

I sat there open-mouthed. This was brilliant. This was all that I had hoped for. This brilliant piece of technology was number-crunching to not just find out where it happened, but also when it happened. See if we can work out what fuck up our duvet of spacetime, so we can hopefully unfuck it.

Oi, Jonno. You see that hot murderer on the news. Would you fuck her?” some loudmouthed so-called astro-physics expert bellowed across the room. This place really was like a playground.

I’d fuck the living daylights out of that green-eyed psycho bitch” another dickhead – presumably one called ‘Jonno’ - replied. I kept trying to block out the rowdy juvenile nonsense as they shouted over Clefty.

Fuck yeah, forget mischief, I’d like to be running through her vei...”

And not a second to soon, Chipo walked into the room and the classroom settled. Within seconds of her opening the door, everybody had buried their head back in their laptops and shut the fuck up. Thank god for that. She slowly made her way into the room with a big smile.

So it seems you two have met. My new protégée, meet my old protégée.” She said, ignoring the children and coming over to us. It might perfect sense that Chipo would take a shine to her, she had the same youthful enthusiasm that I once had, and the same youthful slenderness too. Chips clearly had a type.

Chipo’s told me loads about you. All the juicy embarrassing stuff. I just know we’re gonna get on” Clefty grinned.

Wait, what? The embarrassing stuff? She didn’t tell you about...”

The waiter with the blue hair. Yeah, she told me about him” Clefty was loving it.

I stared in mock-shock at my superior and friend.

Wait until I tell her about yesterday” Chipo said and then my mock shock turned to genuine worry. I really wasn’t comfortable talking about this.

No, Chips, don’t mention...” I said, a little to concernedly. She saw the alarm in my face and gestured to her office so we could at least have the chat in private.

 

Well, I didn’t wanna say anything, but I had always pictured you thinner. Guess I met you five days too late” Clefty said, patting my stomach uninhibitedly. I just sat next to her in the room in shame and pouted. I felt like a clown, a circus freak. It was bad enough Chips knowing, but at least I knew she wouldn’t judge me. We’d been through too much together. The waiter with the blue hair, for example. But this new girl, I didn’t know her from Adam and I felt really insecure revealing this part of myself to her.

Oh come on Gwen, stop sulking. Clefty won’t make fun of you for it, will you Clefty?” Chipo said, reading me like a book.

No, you daft cunt. I’m called Clefty for fuck sake, like I’m in a position to mock. Anyway, it suits you. And if the rumours are true, when the president arrives, he’ll take a shine to you” Clefty said apologetically.

Wait, president or prime minister? I get these mixed up. I remember when this country didn’t even have a president.” I said, my heart skipping a beat. Hopefully they meant Kyle Malcolm, he was really hot in a despotic kinda way, and it would be great to see him in person.

President. The Prime Minister is just a ceremonial role these days, thanks to our dictator-in-chief. No, Kyle Malcolm is meeting the team tomorrow, and everyone knows he likes his women with a bit of meat on their bones. Just don’t say that near him, he has genuinely imprisoned journalists for insinuating that he has that fetish” Clefty said, considerately cluing me in on modern Australian politics. Ever since Kyle Malcolm swept in with his good looks, deep voice and populist vindictiveness, and turned Australia into an official republic, I’ve struggled to keep up with the political hierarchies of the nation I lived in for 6 years.

Will you be okay Chips?” I said, my thoughts suddenly turning to what Chipo had said to me yesterday about her family being kept indefinitely in an off-shore detention centre on his say-so.

Hey Gwen, of course I will. I’ve never been more confident that I’ll get to see them thanks to you. And Clefty’s right, he might take a shine to you now you’ve… developed. Physically.” Chipo said, her famous toothy smile warming my insecure heart. “I’m only joking a little bit when I say, maybe have a good sized lunch to please him. We need him on our side.”

I laughed, but a cold thought had infected my logic stream. Earlier this morning, I wondered what I had been doing in the future, and how I had put on so much weight. Now, Chipo was suggesting that I should put on some weight. Surely these things couldn’t be related. Could they? Had I, in the future, already pimped myself out to Australia’s dictatorial president? Do I get to fuck Kyle Malcolm? And is that such a bad thing?

The three of us chatted some more. Firstly, it was about the logistical stuff of preparing for our meeting for tomorrow, making sure we were all singing from the same hymn sheet while we essentially explained tablecloth astrophysics to a national leader with a penchant for locking up people who tell him things that he doesn’t want to hear. Chipo, being the face of science in the 21st Century, and also being a local, would take the lead and do the bulk of the explaining. In the meantime, myself, Clefty and some sombre looking dudes from other nations, would elaborate certain points and create the impression of scientific consensus.

Then we started discussing the nuts and bolts of where we were and what we knew. We knew that the black hole was rolling over creases in spacetime like a basketball over creases in a tablecloth. But what was causing the creases. Our first instinct was that it was the black hole itself. This seemed the most logical assumption, given its gravity-contorting enormity, but the data that Starmap had spat out thus far, seemed to indicate quite the opposite. It seemed to be rippling out towards the black hole from further away. This was why it had been so difficult to make an estimate on the time before it swallowed us, because the creases that it was rolling over were growing.

But if they weren’t coming from the black hole, then where were they coming from. Now, this was where the data sets and algorithmic information was insufficiently sparse to say with any conviction but… it appeared to be coming from us. Which is good news, because it means that if are causing it, we can fix it. And that was basically what we were telling Kyle Malcolm tomorrow. What we were not going to mention is the time-travel stuff, and that I had been doing it.

And this hung over us like the sword of Damocles while we spoke. The fact that I had been toing and froing across my own timeline like this was an episode of Doctor Who or something. And that it could happen again, at any time. It caused Chipo a great deal of worry, and she kept asking every time I brushed my hair from my eyes if it was another migraine coming on. So far, so good, but how long would this last?

We really needed Starmap to do its thing, and while bunches of people scoured the data that it pumped out on the lookout for the Holy Grail of a start point, all we really could do was wait, and maybe hypothesise. And maybe snack.

If you like, I can get someone to get you a snack?” Chipo asked conscientiously.

Wow, you really are trying to fatten me up for Kyle Malcolm aren’t you?” I jested, but Chipo pulled an offended face. “I’m joking Chips! I’m just trying to watch my weight, unsurprisingly. It’s just that...”

I paused a second, as thoughts began flashing across my mind.

It’s just that, everytime I’m eating, I’m always jumping in time. I was going to say that’s an annoying coincidence...” I said, thinking deeply as I spoke. “But what if it’s not a coincidence?”

Mate, you think that it only happens when you’re eating? Apologies if this sounds harsh but that sounds bloody crazy!” Clefty said, laughing heartily. But I wasn’t laughing, and Chipo knew that look on my face and knew not to laugh also. Eventually, Clefty’s laughter petered out also.

What do we know Chips about when I jumped in time? My mass changed. I am in the same place in the timeline, and the main thing that’s changed is my mass.” I said, ready to launch into the most bizarre and twisted theory yet.

I’m listening Gwen” Chipo said, her hands on her chin a la Rodin’s The Thinker.

Maybe that’s what’s causing the fluctuations. Same person, same time, but different mass. Spacetime wants everything to be exactly the same, it should be exactly the same. And everything is, except my body. This yesterday, and the yesterday that I had the first time round should be exactly the same. I’m dropped off at the exact same point where the creases in spacetime meet. But because I’m different, it’s not working.”

Chipo nodded sagely, unsure where I was taking this.

Ugh, how do I explain this better? Okay. We know that the only thing that really leaves a dent in spacetime is something as astronomically big as a black hole. But what if this phenomenon had a nominal effect on it too. The discrepancy between the original timeline and the new one because of the change in mass.”

But you said so yourself, that’s nominal...”

I don’t know, say… ten years ago, there was a minor ripple in spacetime. Such a tiny one that it made no difference. The only thing that differed was a slight change in mass in the people caught in it. That might, potentially, cause a second ripple. And if there was a change in mass, larger this time because the ripple was bigger, then that might cause a third. And if that ripple caused an even larger change in mass because the ripple was bigger, and so on...”

Wait, why would a larger ripple cause a larger change in mass?” Chipo was interested, but hesitant.

If the initial ripple was 1 hour, how great a change in mass could you realistically have? I don’t know how localised these ripples would have started out but if it affected millions… still not a great amount. But if the cumulative change in mass caused a second, larger ripple that lasted for 6 hours, then people will gain or lose more weight in 6 hours than they can in 1 hour. More change, bigger ripple. Bigger ripple, more time. More time, more change. And so on.”

So you think the amount of time is indicative of the size of the ripple? Yes, actually, that would make sense. This is spacetime folding up. The bigger the folds, the more spacetime. Yeah, that makes theoretical sense...” Chipo was being won over by my hypothesis as something to be investigated.

Because we know that the ripples are inconsistent, but they seem to be getting stronger. We know that, in a sample size of one, they seem to occur when I gain weight. And the more weight I gain, the further forwards or backwards I jump. So I need to stay the same weight so I don’t jump into the future and die.”

Pause filled the room, rippling out itself. Until Clefty piped up

Crikey Gwen, that’s guano crazy! I love it. So, we need to find the original ripple and what…”

We didn’t know. But at least we had a working hypothesis. We had something to build on. I had met the team. Tomorrow I meet the president. Day after, I save the world.

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Gwen: Wow, these people are so vulgar! I feel so uncomfortable 😣 

Also Gwen: I’m meeting the President? Does that mean I get to fuck him 🔥😯 ?

Ahahaha! It’s rather hypocritical, isn’t it? But I think everyone believes they’re more innocent and moral than their peers. That’s human nature. Also, why’s Australia need a dictator when it has the Queen of England? 😜👌

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13 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Gwen: Wow, these people are so vulgar! I feel so uncomfortable 😣 

Also Gwen: I’m meeting the President? Does that mean I get to fuck him 🔥😯 ?

Ahahaha! It’s rather hypocritical, isn’t it? But I think everyone believes they’re more innocent and moral than their peers. That’s human nature. Also, why’s Australia need a dictator when it has the Queen of England? 😜👌

Gwen - among her many other attributes - loves to fuck. But I bet if you asked her, she'd deny it demurely. She loves to feel wanted, so if they want her, she'll overlook even being a despot. So yes, people are wonderful hypocrites, you're right

And the Queen of England is Australia's dictator. Bloody royals (jk)! Of course, when this is set, it is actually Queen Meghan, wife of King Harry I. 

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Just an FYI, I have now plotted this story out formally, and broke it down into chapters. The bad news is that there are twelve chapters to go plus a one-off spin-off to wrap it all up, the good news is that this previous chapter was the last boring one. Every chapter after this should be good, unless my writing lets it down. But I start laying down the twists soon, and there are lots of major twists coming. Major twists.

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Hopefully, after this chapter, it will start getting good. But at least we meet the malevolent Kyle Malcolm at last

Chapter 10

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

 

I switched down to second gear as she took the right turn. The flashing blue lights from the police cars nearby rippled across the dark Glaswegian streets, shimmering starkly. I took a deep breath as I tried to regulate my breathing in this stressful situation, and drove as normally as I could so as not to arouse suspicion. A call came over from despatch.

We believe the two suspects are no longer on foot and are now in a vehicle. Please remain vigilant until we confirm make, model and number plate.”

They must have been already scanning camera footage in the area, it was only a matter of time before they cotton on to which vehicle we were in. I was going to have to step on it, and drive a little bit more aggressively. My SatNav showed 35 minutes until we reached our destination, and if I didn’t make it there, everybody would die.

I changed up from third into fourth, and then again into fifth. The road straightened around the next corner and I would be able to make up some time once I got onto it. I just needed them to not identify this vehicle until I got onto it.

You two okay back there, things might get a bit hairy so fasten your seatbelts!” I called back to the two girls in the backseat. The one I didn’t recognise, Ramona, responded quietly, while the real reason that I was here sighed loudly before obeying her instructions. For my part, I had already got mine on, though it was painfully tight thanks to my obstructing largesse swelling out ever closer to the steering wheel.

I took the corner, and then began ratcheting through the gears once more as I lifted the car’s speed sharply but without causing a commotion. Then police despatch piped up with the news that we didn’t want to hear. They must have found a street camera identifying what vehicle it was that I was driving, so I stepped on it as the make, model and registration came over the speaker, switching on my own sirens to cajole the traffic nearby to get out of the way. Subtlety was exhausted now, it was now just a question of speed.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

I woke up gasping for air, sweat pouring down my forehead and dampening my nightwear. Another nightmare, but a different one this time. No wall of water towering over me, but something else. I put my hand on my wrist to take my pulse and found it was racing. I could feel that my heart-rate was soaring, my heart bashing against the inside of my rib-cage as it propelled oxygenated blood across my body. My hand was shaking in fear, I could hold it out in front of me and see the tremours ripple across it.

I couldn’t quite remember what the nightmare was though, I think I was driving, which was strange because I couldn’t drive. I never learnt. And I was with two other people, two other girls were in the car, and they were escaping someone or something. The police? Were they fleeing the police? And the two girls were in the back. Who were they? I didn’t know there names and couldn’t picture them. Oh, it was all fading so fast. One of them had brightly coloured hair maybe. Yes, that was right, streaks of violet, indigo and pink like a raspberry ripple on her cropped hair. But the other girl. Who was she? It was dark on the backseat and my memory was tired as it clawed back trying to pick the thoughts up that it had dropped on the floor and seen shatter. I could see the silhouette of her, but couldn’t make out any features. But something stood out, the colour of her eyes. What were they? If I could just remember? If I could just dig the memory up, I was nearly there…

Strauss’ Thus Spake Zarathustra erupted in her hotel room once more, abruptly totalling my attempts at recollection. The loud, brash brass of the opening chords completely threw me from my train of thought and brought me tumbling back into the present. I groaned, realising it must be 5.30am once more and it was time to brief the President of Australia. Kyle Malcolm was arriving in Sydney.

Even at the unearthly hour at which I left the hotel room, you could tell that the city was expecting Mr Malcolm. Armed police and riot officers patrolled the streets as the controversial dictator looked to land from Canberra. Protesters were starting to mill about already, picking up stones from the pavement to add to their arsenal of missiles to through once he arrived. He was raised in this city, and was once their favourite son, but the longer his reign has gone on, the more vociferous the dissenters had become. An eighty year old woman with a walking stick mouthing off at armoured car rolling down one of the Sydney centre streets pulled over and violently arrested her, throwing her frail elderly body down on the floor while they handcuffed her. 30 minutes later and the only trace of her was the walking stick that they had left behind.

Head down, I hurried as fast as my chubby legs could carry my zaftig upper half until I arrived at IFSMaT. I glanced behind myself nervously as I began the long-winded entrance exam into the building, grateful to leave the growing presence of military and protesters behind. It didn’t end though once I had gained entry to the downstairs foyer. Armed soldiers were standing at every entrance and exits with backs straightened, chests puffed out and eyes alert. Again, I kept her head down as I got in the lift.

Up on the floor that I needed and still the military presence wouldn’t abate. I felt silly in my semi-formal attire and softened physique, surrounded by these straight-faced caricatures of machismo. I got into my lab and finally could look around the room and not see the Australian military. If I wanted to spend all day surrounded by a weapon of mass destruction, I’d fucking let Grendel arrive. But I had no intention of doing that.

G’day mate! You’ve made it through the fancy dress brigade I see?” Devon bellowed as Gwen hurried in. “Can tell you’re not from around these parts. All foreigners act like they’ve shit themselves when they see the force of our Aussie boys in camo.”

Fuck off Devon! This foreigner is going to explain to your dictator how the fuck we stop Grendel, while you just glance in the mirror trying to mitigate your bald patch… ‘mate’” I teased back sharply. I’d hung around with jack-the-lads and jackasses like Devon most of my academic career and could speak the lingo.

Haha! I like you Gwen” he chuckled before walking over to me and hissing quietly. “But call Kyle Malcolm a fucking dictator again and I’ll end you. He’s a great man and you English have no idea what real leadership looks like”

And I like you Devon...” I hissed back. “But call me English one more fucking time and I’ll stuff your Aussie balls down your neck, boyo!”

Like I said, I was used to the inferiority complexes of boys in academia who mistakenly believe that they’re men. So, I wondered over to Clefty for safety in oestrogen.

Hey mate! You’re here good and early! And don’t worry about that bogan over there. He’s just a bit of a wanker, to be honest” Clefty grinned.

Yeah, he doesn’t bother me. You’re here early as well I see?” I noticed that Clefty had clearly been working for a while.

Ah yeah, big day. Anyway, fancy grabbing some food? I’ve not had breakfast yet and you look like a girl who’s partial to breakfast” she grinned again. We were obviously getting on well if she felt she could tease me about my weight already.

Yes, we could grab some tucker, I suppose” I replied, mocking her strong Aussie accent.

Hahaha, nobody actually says tucker any more. Unless you’re a real outback hombre.”

So, Devon probably says it then!” I felt like I was part of a team, that early-onset feeling of belonging that comes from working with a group of people I know and like. And I liked Clefty.

You betcha, he deffo says it!” she giggled, looking at him blatantly as she passed him by.

 

We were eating our cooked breakfasts in the quiet canteen when a tall man in a sharp suit and slicked back hair strode in. Clefty tightened as soon as she saw him, and I tightened when I saw the fear in her eyes.

They said that I’d find you here” Kyle Malcolm said as he walked into the room and towards our table. His security detail fanned out at a distance from behind. “You, little girl, can go back to the lab.”

The little girl was apparently Clefty. She scurried off nervously, squeezing behind the security officers that guarded the doorway without ever looking back. Well, if Clefty was the little girl, what was he implying about me?

Mr President” I said, unsure of the correct formal address for the head of Australian state.

Please, call me Kyle. And you are Gwen, the heir to Dr. Chipo’s throne and the brains behind Grendel. I watched your interview. ‘We got dis’. I like that, Gwen. You are smart, confident and charming.” he said, his face friendly but his eyes sharp and pointed.

Thanks Mr… Kyle. Thanks Kyle. But really the credit must go to Chips...” I stammered. He knew how to suck the air out of a room. This was not a man who was ever not the centre of attention. He commanded either fear or respect, you could see it from his posture to the regulation of his voice.

I see you have a lot to credit chips for” he said smilingly, allowing the double-entendre to sneak by with plausible deniability.

Haha, yes. Chips made me the person I am today.” I said, joining in a little. I was scared as he stared me down and eyed me up. But there was a kinetic energy that fed my confidence. At that point, I picked up two chips from my breakfast and put them in my mouth. I was hoping it came across subtly seductive and not just weird and Welsh. Just some fat girl who loves fries. The large, firm hand on my knee suggested I had made the right call.

You really are all Dr. Chipo said you were. And so much more to boot. I’m looking forward to seeing a lot more of you” he said, as he prepared to leave.

Oh, I have every confidence that you will be seeing a lot more of me” I said, a smile fingerpainted across my face. Just as he started walking off, he turned around and smiled.

Oh, and Dr. Chipo has requested time off from her leadership of this team to spend time with her family. So you’ll be assuming the role after today.” He said, and then walked off.

So… you let her family in? She gets to see her family?” I asked to his back, but there came no reply. His security detail followed him. Left all alone in the canteen with my heart racing once more, I indulged and ate the rest of Clefty’s breakfast as well.

 

Post-breakfast, I bumped into Chipo in the warren of corridors between the canteen and the lab room. Chipo who had a blinding smile wrapped around her face. I didn’t need to say anything and she didn’t need to say anything. She knew that I knew, and I knew that she knew. She just hobbled over to me and wrapped her arms tightly. She was going to see her parents at last. Just one more day and she was finally going to get to see them. Sometimes it is important to talk to your friends, but this was not one of those times. Sometimes it’s important to just say nothing at all. We hugged, tightly and forever, saying nothing at all.

I walked with her to the auditorium on the same floor, carrying her briefcase with all of her fastidious notes. She had to convince the President to continue funding for Project Beowulf, and that I was the woman for the job. Only I knew that the odds were stacked in her favour, but everyone other than me knew that he could switch modes and attitudes at the flick of a light switch. He was the sum of so many Roman planetary gods, he could be mercurial and jovial, or saturnine and martial. All at the drop of a hat. I thought, thanks to our shared experience in the canteen, that I had a handle on him. But they had seen so many of their friends made enemies of the state. This was not a politician to take lightly. He was a cruel dictator who imprisoned Chipo’s family first, and a piece of hot ass second.

Kyle Malcolm stood up first and gave a rambling speech about the greatness of Australia and aiming for the stars and blah-blah-blah. I’m sure it was all very worthy but our priority as a group was to ensure that our planet didn’t get swallowed up by the most incredible phenomenon the starry night’s sky has to offer – a supermassive black hole.

Eventually preceedings started in earnest as Chipo laid out the established findings thus far. We knew why the black hole was so much closer than expected – the tablecloth of spacetime and all that jazz. Moreover, we knew that Earth was the source of the increase in table-cloth turbulence, so we knew that fixing it was theoretically possible. The only things we didn’t know were why it was happening and how to stop it. But we had learnt so much in just the past 48 hours that Grendel wouldn’t stand a chance.

And we’ve learnt so much in just the past 48 hours, since Gwen has come on board, that Grendel doesn’t stand a chance. And Australia will be the country that saved the world” Chipo ended her speech.

Australia saving the world? My word, that does sound good. I mean, of course, neither of you two are Australian. Gwen, I believe, is British and you Dr. Chipo are black.” Kyle Malcolm said, his eyes scanning our reactions to his intentionally incendiary comments. He was exploring and exploiting the power that he had over us. Chipo’s poker face was a masterpiece in tongue-biting repression, but my shock was obvious.

Something the matter Gwen?” he said, leaning forward. Chipo looked at me but said nothing. The fear in her eyes said it all. She wanted me to back down and not fight. This was her family on the line.

No, President Malcolm. Nothing’s the matter.”

Well, that’s settled then. Thank you very much for your time ladies. I can see that we’re making substantial progress and have high hopes of it continuing. I look forward to the next update that the pair of you will provide.” He said, packing his stuff and preparing to leave, but unable to deny himself a glance at Chips to see her response.

But, I was hoping to leave duties to Gwendolyn here and spend time with my family...” Chipo said calmly and with confusion.

I appreciate that Dr. Chipo. I really do. But, as I’m sure you’ll agree, two heads are better than one. Besides, the two of you foreigners have made such good progress as a team, it would be foolhardy to split you up. This is the fate of humanity on the line here. Are you really so selfish Dr Chipo?” he said calmly, but with a sinister glare. Chipo’s bottom lip started quivering as she realised that he was snatching away the one thing that had been motivating her. Her family was his leverage and he didn’t want to lose it over her.

I do appreciate that, Mr Malcolm. But, as I’m sure you’ll understand...” Dr Chipo said through staccato breaths. “I’m sure you’ll understand – fuck you! Fuck you, you racist piece of shit!”

And Dr Chipo started sobbing next to me. I put my arm around her as a show of support, but it felt so useless. What was an arm of support in the face of such cruelty? How much could a hug from a friend help when your family had been snatched from you?

That, Dr. Chipo, is not how you speak to a President. Even though I’m not your president, even though I’m not the president of Africa, I am still a world leader and you will show me respect” he yelled in anger, before walking away and making his way to the door to exit.

But President Malcolm, I can take the project on by myself. Let Chipo see her family, for fuck sake!” I shouted in the vain hope of turning him around. But he continued his way to the exit. I couldn’t let him leave, not if I was a true friend. So I took the biggest risk of my life, put it all on the line and shouted one last thing before he walked through the door. “Don’t you think I’m big enough to fill her boots, Kyle?”

He paused at that.

Don’t you think I’ve got the stomach for this fight? Kyle?”

I could sense his thoughts forming.

You know how much I love Chips, and I believe I can really grow into the position… Kyle”

Well, Gwen, you make a good case” he said, loitering around the exit but not quite committing. “You say you’ll grow into the role?”

Yes, Kyle. I’ve really come a long way in a really short time, as a student. But, as a leader, I can really grow into the role. I intend to develop and push myself harder and harder, Kyle...” I said, standing up. “But let Chipo see her family, and then I’ll show you what I can do”

He stood and paused. He was thinking, but the smile on his face gave me hope.

Everyone clear the room. Detail, that includes you. Chipo, that includes you.” Kyle Malcolm gestured for everybody to leave. And once the room was empty he walked towards me. “So, Gwen, let’s cut the chit-chat and be frank with one another.”

Okay, that sounds fair” I said, and my hand was shaking with fear again, I could feel it.

You are, if I’m not very much mistaken, a fat bitch” he said, snaking his head to the side.

Yes, Mr President, I am a fat bitch” I was keeping my poker face this time.

How come? I watched the video that you did a week ago, you looked so much thinner” he was getting close to me, I could see the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple on his neck as he spoke.

Been very busy the past week”

Fuck off! Nobody gains that much weight, that quickly. Believe me, I’d know” he threw his hand in the air dismissively. He was now so close that I could make out each of the bristles of stubble around his lips and jaw.

I can. I can and I did. Let Chipo see her family and I’ll show you” my posture was not as strident as it sometimes was, my nerves were jangling.

I have a private limousine, a private room and a private chef. How about I take you out for a test ride before I make my judgement” he said and I swear to God he licked his lips a little as he said it. It was terrifying, like he was eyeing his prey.

Sure, a private room, but I reckon I could eat something on the ride over” and here was my Hail Mary. I wasn’t sure how good I would be at eating all that was before me, this size was new to me and I didn’t know my upper limits. But I did know something about astrophysics that he didn’t. Weight gain x travel = time travel. I had done it on the train to my dad, I had done it on the plane flight to Sydney. I needed to gain as much weight as I could in the car ride over, to either jump backwards and repeat it again and again until I grew before his very eyes.

 

I sat in the back of the limousine and I suddenly felt claustrophobic in my tight blouse and skirt. I could have sworn it wasn’t that tight upstairs. He stepped in also, and instructed the driver to turn off all sounds and cameras to the back. But first, he needed a stop-off at a place in West Sydney called El Jannah. It was a notoriously popular fast-food joint that specialised in Lebanese grilled chicken with pickles and garlic sauce. He ordered the Family Meal which featured two chickens, as well as large chips, four cans of pop and the pickles and sauce. It seemed manageable, especially with Chipo’s family at stake.

I hurried as I ate, his eyes were boring into me and my nervousness propelled me to eat faster. It was ungainly and unglamorous but he didn’t seem to mind. He just silently watched and judged as I hurried more and more chicken into my mouth. My stomach seemed to fill quickly, but my head felt fine. I was starting to worry as I was halfway through now and I was hoping for a headache. I finished the chips, shovelling them into my mouth as his eyes hung over me.

I’m the president of Australia. Don’t you think this behaviour is utterly embarrassing?” he drawled. I nodded, but continued eating. I needed to jump in time.

Hey, I’m one of the most important people in the world and you’re scoffing chicken like a poor person. It’s disgusting. Royalty have sat on that seat, world leaders, sheikhs. And you’re getting chicken crumbs over the seat of it” he chastised, but failed to hide the smile on his face that told me this was just his weird, perverted idea of foreplay. So I just kept eating.

We are standing on the precipice of the annihilation of the human race and all you can think about is your fat stomach. You’re a disgrace!” he sneered. But the faint martial drum beat of a forming migraine began rumbling in the distant corner of my brain, so I didn’t stop. Nearly finished the second chicken and the beat of the migraine was getting stronger. Suddenly the back of my eyes were hurting and my head was spinning, but still I kept eating and eating…

 

I sat in the back of the limousine and I suddenly felt claustrophobic in my tight blouse and skirt. I could have sworn it wasn’t that tight upstairs, it was straining at the seams. He stepped in also, and instructed the driver to turn off all sounds and cameras to the back. But first, he needed a stop-off at a place in West Sydney called El Jannah. It was a notoriously popular fast-food joint that specialised in Lebanese grilled chicken with pickles and garlic sauce. He ordered the Family Meal which featured two chickens, as well as large chips, four cans of pop and the pickles and sauce. It seemed manageable, especially with Chipo’s family at stake.

I hurried as I ate, his eyes were boring into me and my nervousness propelled me to eat faster. It was ungainly and unglamorous but he didn’t seem to mind. He just silently watched and judged as I hurried more and more chicken into my mouth. My stomach seemed to fill quickly, but my head felt fine. I was starting to worry as I was halfway through now and I was hoping for a headache. I finished the chips, shovelling them into my mouth as his eyes hung over me.

I’m the president of Australia. Don’t you think this behaviour is utterly embarrassing?” he drawled. I nodded, but continued eating. I needed to jump in time.

Hey, I’m one of the most important people in the world and you’re scoffing chicken like a poor person. It’s disgusting. Royalty have sat on that seat, world leaders, sheikhs. And you’re getting chicken crumbs over the seat of it” he chastised, but failed to hide the smile on his face that told me this was just his weird, perverted idea of foreplay. So I just kept eating.

We are standing on the precipice of the annihilation of the human race and all you can think about is your fat stomach. You’re a disgrace!” he sneered. But the faint martial drum beat of a forming migraine began rumbling in the distant corner of my brain, so I didn’t stop. Nearly finished the second chicken and the beat of the migraine was getting stronger. Suddenly the back of my eyes were hurting and my head was spinning, but still I kept eating and eating…

 

We pulled up at his restaurant and I hadn’t had a migraine. My appetite just wasn’t there. I’d gotten through the meal, but clearly not at the pace required. I sat there, defeated and ashamed.

Wow”

I looked up with heavy eyes at the leering President.

Wow, what?” I said, forlornly.

I’ve never seen somebody gain so much just from such a small meal. Wait until you see what I can really do to a woman.” His eyes were wide with lust. He pressed hand tightly against my knee. I half-resisted, but honestly wanted it as that hand pushed itself upwards.

I had no idea what he was referring to when he said that, until I looked down to where his hand was crawling and saw that I had managed to burst the buttons on my blouse. My stomach swooshed out with relief where they had once been caged. I must have time-travelled. I just couldn’t remember doing it. This could not have been my first limousine journey, my first Family meal from El Jannah. In fact I had no way of knowing how many times I had recycled through that car journey. It could have been half a dozen for all I knew, could be even more. I must have just eaten my way back to the start if the journey over and over again, gaining all the time. Essentially my past week in microcosm.

The president’s breath was on my neck know as his other firm hand slid the blouse off my arms. He drew his body near mine as I rolled up my skirt. I could feel how much taller and stronger he was on me. I felt at his physical mercy, his political mercy, his psychological mercy. All I could do was beg for mercy, and thank him by saying merci. And then, once I got my fat girl knickers out of the way, I felt him enter me, and push himself up and down within my confines. I gasped and gaped until his head tilted back and his eyes shut out.

He liked at me with a snake’s smile as we both got out breath back.

That was amazing Gwen. How about round two, I’m sure I could go again soon enough? He said, his grin serpentining on his smouldering face.

Why don’t you tie me up, fuck me and feed me” I said, as I stared into his baby blues. “But first, let Chipo be with her parents.”

He nodded and obliged, making the phone call straight away.

Maybe it was him that was at my mercy after all.

 

Chipo was escorted towards a helicopter as one of the agents relayed that her destination was to see her parents. The words hung on her like corpses from a noose. She didn’t dare get her hopes up this time, not when that wanker Kyle Malcolm is involved. But still, there were those embers of hope sparking on kindling in her heart that carried her to the helicopter, with men in armoured gear marched her to the top of the building and watched her depart.

She looked over the Sydney skyscape during mid-morning rush hour and wondered if her heart was going to jump or sink when the helicopter touched the ground. As she cold sun beat down on her and the helicopter engine roared, Chipo was trapped with her thoughts and fears as she travelled to the airport, to catch a flight to Brisbane. This is where her parents were being taken to, apparently, from the offshore detention centre in Nauru. This, in theory, is where she would be reunited with her parents.

She landed and was escorted to the private jet on the runway. In any other circumstances, she would be flattered or impressed. But she wanted to see her parents, her old, frail parents who Kyle Malcolm had been using as bait. The fancy-dan nature of her ride in didn’t really matter when the state and welfare of her parents were on the line. They would offer her drinks or nibbles on the way there but such trinkets and frivolities meant nothing.

The plane set itself down and a chauffeured limousine was there to greet her on the runway. But still she was filled with only hope and dread. She sat in the car and could have been celebrating with the champagne that they had provided, or listening to the surround sound stereo. But her mind was fixated on finally being reunited with her parents. If the end came, and she did not share Gwen’s confidence that it wouldn’t, then she wanted to spend those last days with the people that mattered most to her. The people she hadn’t seen in years. The people she had abandoned in Soweto to become the global scientific superstar she had since become. She would not abandon them again. Not even with the fate of the world on the line.

The car eventually pulled up outside an administration office in East Brisbane. She lumbered herself out of it and was guided to the door. Through another hallway she dragged her tired body, her legs not cooperating as they should. And then, into the backroom where she saw two old black people with wrinkled foreheads and the slouched shoulders of age. She recognised the soft facial expressions immediately.

Mum! Baba!” she said, her eyes welling up as she saw these two prunish old people with familiar eyes come over to her.

Haha, I knew she would come. I knew she would. My daughter is a superstar haha!” The old man’s voice was a rich croak. The old woman was quieter and more teary, but no less happy. They came together and hugged for an age.

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did they treat you okay?” she said, eyes wet with guilt, relief, sadness and happiness.

Haha, do not worry about us. We are from Africa, we won’t let that slimy white skebenga get us down Chipo. Aikona! You should know that from us.” His face was wide and eyes were gleaming, but they were saddled with bags that spoke to the trauma of being detained in Naura. Chipo looked at her mother and saw the same smiling face pasted paper-thin over the trauma of the past week.

We have missed you very much Chipo, and we would like to stay with you here. They said that we could.” She said, her voice quieter and softer. Each sound laced with gossamer silk.

Of course you can! I have permission from Kyle Malcolm to be with you while they fix Grendel. I want to be with you too” she said, hugging them again.

Haha, I knew it! My daughter is like a queen, and she tells that greasy tsotsi what to do. She is a scientist! Haha!” He said, his voice warm like an open hearth. “By the way, why do they call the monster in the sky a ‘black’ hole. Eish! Is this not racist? Why can it not be a white hole? Haha”

Chipo laughed at her dad’s bad joke and suddenly she was 25 years younger and with her parents once more. She didn’t know what sacrifice Gwen must have made to make this happen, but she was glad that she did. She just hoped that the price wasn’t too high.

 

I was sitting on the silk covers of a luxurious bed in a room palatial and expansive. The room had deep velvet coloured walls and matching carpets, and it was all brash and garish. I figured that the walls were soundproofed and that’s why I couldn’t hear what he was up to outside the room. I looked back at the bed and spotted a pen on the bedstand. I walked over to it and drew a line on my arm. If I was going to find myself time-travelling again, I was going to make sure I kept count this time. I didn’t want another incident like the limousine ride where I could vaguely capture fragments of a couple of journeys made, but was sure that many more had happened and I just didn’t know about. The evidence of this was hanging over the waistband of my skirt.

He came in, the sleeves on his well-ironed shirt rolled up as if he meant business.

So, what are we going to do with you, you fat pig!” he said, sizing me up. I just smiled meekly in return.

Food’s coming but I’ve got a few ideas what we could be doing in the meantime” he said, his eyes so charming but his smile so snake-like.

Weigh me?” I said, playing the part. It caught him off guard, which I liked.

Weigh you? Yes, I mean, I guess we could. Ummm, there is a scale in here.” he looked around and grabbed the metallic scale for me to stand on. He then stood back and the handsome man, I swear, licked his lips. “When did you last weight yourself?”

Yesterday morning. 170lbs.”

170? You’re not fucking me? I don’t like liars Gwen” he said, his eyes needling fiercely.

Why? Do you think I’ve gained since then?” I asked meekly. I was a terrible liar, but a magnificent truth-teller. And I genuinely was 170lbs merely 34 hours ago. “I mean, I was 111lbs ten days ago, so it’s possible...”

That’s impossible! That is just impossible!” he raged. “I said I don’t like liars Gwen! Don’t lie to me!”

He reached for my neck at this point and wrapped his hand tightly around it as he said it. I made sure I kept eye contact with him. He released after a few seconds.

You know I’m not lying, you’ve seen the Sky News interview. You’ve seen how much I can gain in a car journey. You know this is for real. I am your perfect woman Kyle. So what are you going to do with her?” I said, still maintaining eye contact. He throat felt bruise and the darkness in his eyes when he gripped it reverberated in my subconscious. But I knew what I was doing. I was in control. I was in control. I was in control.

Step on the scales” he said, his angular face staring at me.

I did, obeying calmly. I stepped on and waited for the number to be called out.

198lbs.

I tried to maintain my composure, but that threw me. I wasn’t expecting that. How many car rides to El Jannah had I actually had?

Can I see the damage? Have you got a mirror?” I asked, my confidence flaking. He could tell I was shaken by that reveal, and it seemed to thrill him all the more. He gentlemanly guided me to the body long mirror in the bathroom and I took the image in again. This was what an obese woman looked like.

My stomach was indeed hanging over the waistband of my skirt. It was scarred with deep rich red lines coursing like veins from the side and underside. It sunk down like a sack of yoghurt, straining below my now-impressive breasts, which now too had begun to sink downwards. Even my arms were soft. I ran my hand over the arms and felt their softness. His shadow loomed behind me and watched.

I looked at my face and saw my tired splotches melted away under newfound chubbiness. There was an unmistakable second chin now and my cheeks were pillows where they once were concave curves. Everything had changed. I was genuinely unrecognisable. I wasn’t Gwen, I was a fat girl. And I feared things were going to get worse before they got better.

Hey, bitch. Food’s up. Come get your fill, you fat whore” he said through an irrepressible smirk. I glanced down at my arm. It still just had the one line marked on it. How bad were things going to get?

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21 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

Man, the Aussie president is a cunt.

Oh man, absolutely! A vile, vile man. A predator and a wanker                                                                                               The current American one isn't much better

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Life comes at you fast. This starts of like 50 shades and ends in a weight gain frenzy that might be terrible but felt ever so wonderful when I wrote it. I need your impartial verdict on this one

Chapter 11

 

The time-travelling, president-fucking one.

 

I hesitantly walked to the bed and sat on the primped duvet, and looked at the ceiling with nerves. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was typically ornate, befitting the lavishly fitted room. I’m sure the Australian public would delight to know that their tax dollars were being splurged on such frivolous foppery. I closed my eyes as I heard the clink of the trolley as it passed over the room divider in the door-frame. I dreaded to think what was on it. I just preyed that I wouldn’t time-travel and that this would soon be over. That I have a bite to eat, or maybe two, maybe be rigorously fucked by a handsome despot, and then get back to work. Then I heard the clink of a second trolley passing over the room-divider in the door frame and I knew it wouldn’t be so simple.

I opened my eyes and the 6ft3 alligator in a human suit was looking at me with his hands in his pockets with a naturally model pose. He looked every bit as charming as he wasn’t. The grey suit was tailored and the white shirt unbuttoned at the top. His hair had sprigs of grey, but they added depth more than they took off youth. He was an extraordinarily handsome beast and it was a shame that he was an Australian Pyscho.

I dreaded to think what he saw when he looked at me. My hair was unruffled, my bra was poorly fitted and my shoulders bare, since my blouse had apparently been removed on the way here. I don’t remember it happening though. My stomach swelled out underneath my enlarged breasts and reticently sunk into the upper part of my lap. My legs were once defined, honed and polished, and now they submerged into the mattress amorphously. In fact, everything looked shapeless. Just swollen aimlessly, like fat deposits had just piled into any vacancy on my body without a thought to how it would change me.

On the wall behind the President was a holographic screen, state-of-the-art 3d thing. It filled the wall like a billboard, and stretched and filling it was an old news interview with me. The one that I gave to Sky News whenever that was. A week ago? I don’t know, time gets so sloppy in my head these days, like porridge caught on the underside of my brain. Either way, it was a recent interview, and in it I was the Dr Gwendolyn Hughes that I remembered. Weathered but lean, sharp features not yet glooped up into mush. A waist that swung in beneath the shoulders and didn’t bubble outwards like the lava from a lava lamp.

Get up and stand next to the nice pretty woman on the television” he said, he voice effortlessly deep. I got up and stood next to it like I was in a police line-up. Which felt about right. He squinted at me with marvel, walked up to me to analyse the details and then stepped back to gather scope, like he was at an art gallery.

I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself, but you’ve ruined yourself. Honestly, it’s shocking. It’s repulsive. You truly are a hideous grotesquerie.” He chided malevolently.

Got peckish is all” I said, my face stone-cold.

Well, you better still be peckish, you disgusting whale of a human” he said, before hurling me onto the bed. I didn’t know whether to be scared or aroused. I wasn’t so sure that the two were mutually exclusive.

These bedsheets are made of silk. I had to get them imported. Cost thousands of dollars. So you better not spill anything. Now, take off your skirt, whorebag”

I obeyed, my eyes wide open with fear. The room was air-conditioned and I felt so very cold in just my bra and panties, as the circulated air rushed across my body and tickled the hairs on my arm.

And it was those arms of mine that he grabbed, gripping them tightly around the wrist and putting into cuffs that he then tied to the bedframe. I didn’t resist, out of fear, morbid curiosity or simmering titillation I honestly couldn’t tell you. He did the same to my legs, spreading me wide like I was making snow angels in the covers.

I could feel him hovering over me before I could see him. Then I could see his shadow as he took off his shirt. I craned my neck forward to take a look at what I would be dealing with. A man of lean mass but discernible shape. Arms that could strangle the life out of you. His chest was a rugged mess of dark hair that thinned out over his flat stomach, bar a stern snail trail. Then off came his belt, though he kept it worrying close by. And then he pulled down his trousers. His legs were thin and dark with hair, but his look was bolstered by tight boxers vacuum sealing the bulging source of his masculine confidence. Maybe I would be in good hands after all, even if those hands were so very very bad.

I put my head back down against the bed and returned to looking up at the ceiling. The clinking sound of the trolley being wheeled to my bedside could be heard as I felt the shift in gravity from his weight pressing on the bed. His slow, moderated breath began to rise as he neared me, and mine was lost in sexual fear.

Look what I’ve got for you, bitch” he said, quietly but firmly. “There are people in the Northern Territories, where the rebels have congregated, who won’t have seen this much food in their lives. My personal chef worked really hard to rustle all this up on such short notice, you ungrateful bitch. But for you, you selfish whore, this is just the prologue.”

I turned around to see what the prologue was.

We have chicken parmigiana, a good old-fashioned meat pie, both with chips, some lovely battered fish, also with chips, and this spaghetti carbonara dish. We’ve also got a nice roast lamb with mashed potato and gravy here, this one looks really nice, and salt and pepper calamari – but that’s just a starter, probably should have lead with that” he said, rummaging through the dishes. They looked like a restaurant menu made flesh. “And the other tray has the dessert on it.”

I gulped. Though I should probably have saved gulping for when there was food in my mouth. There was probably going to be a lot of gulping from hereon in.

On his knees, he trampled across the bed and over me. From my position strapped to the bed, he seemed even taller and more imposing as her rose above me. Looking down at me, I could see the slight scar, shrouded by his stubble, on the base of his chin. It was apparently from when he was attacked by a crocodile as a kid, but the story was probably bogus. His vanity didn’t just influence his tailoring, it influenced which truths he told and which untruths he told as well. The idea that he fended of a crocodile as a kid was part of his action hero mythologising that too many Australians fell for. But I knew better. He was just a sadistic bully with a thing for fat chicks. Fortunately, I had recently become an alumnus of the University of Fat Chick, myself.

He grabbed the battered calamari first, it was the starter there after all, and began feeding it to me. My hands were tied and I was suddenly helpless and a victim to his feeding hand. He dictated the steady, rhythmic, pulsing pace and controlled the food choices, he was in a state of absolute dominance over me, and all I could do was open my mouth and swallow. I mean, it was probably all really tasty, I probably should have been savouring the crunchy texture on the outside juxtaposed with the soft calamari centre, but my appetite for food was taking a backseat as he continued to cast his shadow over me with food in his hands. My appetite lay elsewhere.

Next up was the roast lamb dish. This was a messier eat than the last. The lamb was flakey and soft, it had clearly been slow-cooked on the bone so that it would fall off at the slightest contact. The gravy was rich, ostentatiously so, like everything else about Kyle Malcolm, as he poured that warm nectar down my throat. He was a bit less delicate and dainty with the accompanying mashed potato, and I felt him exert his power over me. I felt his hand pressing down on my shoulder, tightly, painfully, as he used the other to push the stuff with his hand into my face. It was aggressive and assaulting as the potato went all over my face and all over the expensive silk bedcloths that I was chained upon. His face tightened, his grip tightened, his scowl tightened as he fed me more and more forcefully. I was fully in his shadow now as he towered over me, like a tsunami.

Like a tsunami.

Wait, why did that feel spring to mind?

But I had no time to digest thoughts just as I had no time to digest food. Just serve as temporary storage for it, and mediating facility until he body got around to tackling the backlog of food that had been rammed into it. I was never going to survive this, never going to come out the other end of this. I could feel myself bloating, this unstoppable force was being met by a moveable object. I was already considering waving the white flag, and I wasn’t even a third of the way through the main.

I tried to resist, I turned my head away like a child might when being fed brussel sprouts. But the resistance just fired up his own hunger further. He took his large hand off my shoulder and grabbed my face tightly, pulling it towards him. His face was contorted with a righteous fury as used both hands to crowbar my mouth open like a broken elevator door. The spaghetti carbonara went in next, greasy, oily, cheesy sauce splattering over my face as the spaghetti spasmed upon entry to my mouth. If the previous dish was decadent, this was dodecadent, that salty, dense sauce smeared across thin drainpipes of pasta. Now this was spaghettification.

Stop resisting bitch” he snarled. This wasn’t play acting, this was aggression, frustration. It was problematic toxic masculinity 101. It was oppressive, victimising and I really should have hated it. And I really should have hated him for doing it. He slapped me with the back of his hand right across my cheeks and they erupted in stinging pain. They hurt so much they felt hot. It hurt so much, I felt hot.

I again turned my face away, my stomach was overcrowded, packed to the hilt with indulgence and I could no longer sustain this consumption. But I wasn’t being given a choice. There was no safe word. Nobody and nothing is safe when Kyle Malcolm is around.

I said eat!” he roared, now gripping both of my arms with his hands, and restraining my flailing legs with his lower body strength. I used to have core muscles, but I had never felt core muscles like these. I was trapped with his body. He lowered himself down, his breath on my cheeks again. I could feel his erection through his briefs pressing against my soft stomach as he straddled me to maintain control.

Resistance was futile.

And then a headache slowly gathered clouds on the horizon in my head. He crammed more spaghetti, more sauce, more savoury pancetta, more parmesan-infused creamy eggy sauce into my mouth. There was no point holding out, no point fighting it, I was never escaping without time-travelling. I couldn’t just ride the wave – the wave? - and get through it all. There was too much food, too forceful a feeder and goddamn it I wanted it too much. After Thor’s snub, I needed this. I needed all of this. I needed his large hands pressing on my, his saturnine sneer leering at me, that canine bark of his voice railing against my physical limitations. No, I wasn’t going to get out of his chains by eating less, I needed to eat more. But I needed to write the note down to myself to remind me to lean into it and not against it next time. I needed a pen. I needed a hand free. And I needed to do it before the headache came.

Give me more” I whispered, almost groaning it. The smile stained his face again. He started cramming battered fish into my mouth as I breathed heavier and more loudly. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t fit any more food in, I had reached that point a while ago. What mattered was that I wanted more. Mind over matter, and I had a lot of matter. I ate it vindictively, almost torturing myself with gluttony. Poisoning my physique, laying waste to my waist.

I arched my back forwards, pressing my swollen stomach against those tight boxers and the caged animal within it. I could hear his teeth grit as I did so. I repeated again. And again. Rhythmically, regularly, grinding against his cock with my mass. All while eating. Eating so fast, eating so much, eating with such self-harm. It didn’t matter about the pain, it was about to take a back-seat to the rumbling headache anyway. I just had to grin and bear it for a bit more.

I need to put on a condom, I don’t want to fill your fat belly with a baby, there’s too much of you as it is” he said, shaking with arousal.

Free one hand before you do, so I can keep eating while you put it on” I said as seductively as a girl as stuffed as I was could muster.

Nice” he said, subconsciously biting his lip at the thought. He freed one hand of mine from the cuffs and then went into the bathroom to get a condom.

I made my move, and went straight for the pen on the bedside cabinet. I needed to write a message to myself. I needed to tell myself not to undereat to avoid the migraine. I needed to over-eat to time-travel beyond this point. The solution was to eat more. The solution was more. The solution was so much more.

I took the pen to my arm to write on it, and stopped dead in my tracks. On my arm was a note.

Eat more is the only way out

I had already given myself the message that I was going to write.

 

But how?

Was this note my first time?

 

I looked at my other arm to see the one mark that I had made, so as to keep tally this time. Except there wasn’t one mark on there at all. I used the pen to put the seventh mark on there, so I would know in the future. I had eaten like this seven times already. No wonder I was feeling big.

My headache was know gripping, like a drilling from inside the head. Just whirring away through the skull from the inside. I needed to make sure I wasn’t stuck in this loop forever. I needed to tell myself to check my arm earlier. I needed to give myself a clue this time.

Except, presumably, I had attempted this last time, and it hadn’t worked. And before I could truly realise the futility of the situation that I was trapped in, the headache exploded.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Next up was the roast lamb dish. This was a messier eat than the last. The lamb was flakey and soft, it had clearly been slow-cooked on the bone so that it would fall off at the slightest contact. The gravy was rich, ostentatiously so, like everything else about Kyle Malcolm, as he poured that warm nectar down my throat. He was a bit less delicate and dainty with the accompanying mashed potato, and I felt him exert his power over me. I felt his hand pressing down on my shoulder, tightly, painfully, as he used the other to push the stuff with his hand into my face. It was aggressive and assaulting as the potato went all over my face and all over the expensive silk bedcloths that I was chained upon. His face tightened, his grip tightened, his scowl tightened as he fed me more and more forcefully. I was fully in his shadow now as he towered over me, like a tsunami.

Like a tsunami.

Wait, why did that feel spring to mind?

I felt like I’d thought that before.

But I had no time to digest thoughts just as I had no time to digest food. Just serve as temporary storage for it, and mediating facility until he body got around to tackling the backlog of food that had been rammed into it. I was never going to survive this, never going to come out the other end of this. I could feel myself bloating, this unstoppable force was being met by a moveable object. I was already considering waving the white flag, and I wasn’t even a third of the way through the main.

.

.

.

.

And then a headache slowly gathered clouds on the horizon in my head. He crammed more spaghetti, more sauce, more savoury pancetta, more parmesan-infused creamy eggy sauce into my mouth. There was no point holding out, no point fighting it, I was never escaping without time-travelling. I couldn’t just ride the wave – the wave? - and get through it all. There was too much food, too forceful a feeder and goddamn it I wanted it too much. After Thor’s snub, I needed this. I needed all of this. I needed his large hands pressing on my, his saturnine sneer leering at me, that canine bark of his voice railing against my physical limitations. No, I wasn’t going to get out of his chains by eating less, I needed to eat more. But I needed to write the note down to myself to remind me to lean into it and not against it next time. I needed a pen. I needed a hand free. And I needed to do it before the headache came.

Give me more” I whispered, almost groaning it. The smile stained his face again. He started cramming battered fish into my mouth as I breathed heavier and more loudly. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t fit any more food in, I had reached that point a while ago. What mattered was that I wanted more. Mind over matter, and I had a lot of matter. I ate it vindictively, almost torturing myself with gluttony. Poisoning my physique, laying waste to my waist.

.

.

.

.

.

I made my move, and went straight for the pen on the bedside cabinet. I needed to write a message to myself. I needed to tell myself not to undereat to avoid the migraine. I needed to over-eat to time-travel beyond this point. The solution was to eat more. The solution was more. The solution was so much more.

I took the pen to my arm to write on it, and stopped dead in my tracks. On my arm was a note.

Eat more is the only way out

I had already given myself the message that I was going to write.

 

But how?

Was this note my first time?

 

I looked at my other arm to see the one mark that I had made, so as to keep tally this time. Except there wasn’t one mark on there at all. I used the pen to put the fifteenth mark on there, so I would know in the future. I had eaten like this fifteen times already. No wonder I was feeling big. That was ridiculous. I was trapped.

My headache was know gripping, like a drilling from inside the head. Just whirring away through the skull from the inside. I needed to make sure I wasn’t stuck in this loop forever. I needed to tell myself to check my arm earlier. I needed to give myself a clue this time.

Except, presumably, I had attempted this last time, and it hadn’t worked. And before I could truly realise the futility of the situation that I was trapped in, the headache exploded.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

He grabbed the battered calamari first, it was the starter there after all, and began feeding it to me. My hands were tied and I was suddenly helpless and a victim to his feeding hand. He dictated the steady, rhythmic, pulsing pace and controlled the food choices, he was in a state of absolute dominance over me, and all I could do was open my mouth and swallow. I mean, it was probably all really tasty, I probably should have been savouring the crunchy texture on the outside juxtaposed with the soft calamari centre, but my appetite for food was taking a backseat as he continued to cast his shadow over me with food in his hands. My appetite lay elsewhere.

Next up was the roast lamb dish.

.

.

.

.

.

And then a headache slowly gathered clouds on the horizon in my head. He crammed more spaghetti, more sauce, more savoury pancetta, more parmesan-infused creamy eggy sauce into my mouth. There was no point holding out, no point fighting it, I was never escaping without time-travelling. I couldn’t just ride the wave – the wave? - and get through it all. There was too much food, too forceful a feeder and goddamn it I wanted it too much. After Thor’s snub, I needed this. I needed all of this. I needed his large hands pressing on my, his saturnine sneer leering at me, that canine bark of his voice railing against my physical limitations. No, I wasn’t going to get out of his chains by eating less, I needed to eat more. But I needed to write the note down to myself to remind me to lean into it and not against it next time. I needed a pen. I needed a hand free. And I needed to do it before the headache came.

Give me more” I whispered, almost groaning it. The smile stained his face again. He started cramming battered fish into my mouth as I breathed heavier and more loudly. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t fit any more food in, I had reached that point a while ago. What mattered was that I wanted more. Mind over matter, and I had a lot of matter. I ate it vindictively, almost torturing myself with gluttony. Poisoning my physique, laying waste to my waist.

.

.

.

.

.

I made my move, and went straight for the pen on the bedside cabinet. I needed to write a message to myself. I needed to tell myself not to undereat to avoid the migraine. I needed to over-eat to time-travel beyond this point. The solution was to eat more. The solution was more. The solution was so much more.

I took the pen to my arm to write on it, and stopped dead in my tracks. On my arm was a note.

Eat more is the only way out

I had already given myself the message that I was going to write.

 

But how?

Was this note my first time?

 

I looked at my other arm to see the one mark that I had made, so as to keep tally this time. Except there wasn’t one mark on there at all. I used the pen to put the twenty-third mark on there, so I would know in the future. I had eaten like this twenty three times already. No wonder I was feeling big. That was ridiculous. I was trapped.

My headache was know gripping, like a drilling from inside the head. Just whirring away through the skull from the inside. I needed to make sure I wasn’t stuck in this loop forever. I needed to tell myself to check my arm earlier. I needed to give myself a clue this time.

Except, presumably, I had attempted this last time, and it hadn’t worked. And before I could truly realise the futility of the situation that I was trapped in, the headache exploded.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

I could feel him hovering over me before I could see him. Then I could see his shadow as he took off his shirt. I craned my neck forward to take a look at what I would be dealing with. A man of lean mass but discernible shape. Arms that could strangle the life out of you. His chest was a rugged mess of dark hair that thinned out over his flat stomach, bar a stern snail trail. Then off came his belt, though he kept it worrying close by. And then he pulled down his trousers. His legs were thin and dark with hair, but his look was bolstered by tight boxers vacuum sealing the bulging source of his masculine confidence. Maybe I would be in good hands after all, even if those hands were so very very bad.

I put my head back down against the bed and returned to looking up at the ceiling. The clinking sound of the trolley being wheeled to my bedside could be heard as I felt the shift in gravity from his weight pressing on the bed. His slow, moderated breath began to rise as he neared me, and mine was lost in sexual fear.

Look what I’ve got for you, bitch” he said, quietly but firmly. “There are people in the Northern Territories, where the rebels have congregated, who won’t have seen this much food in their lives. My personal chef worked really hard to rustle all this up on such short notice, you ungrateful bitch. But for you, you selfish whore, this is just the prologue.”

I turned around to see what the prologue was.

We have chicken parmigiana, a good old-fashioned meat pie, both with chips, some lovely battered fish, also with chips, and this spaghetti carbonara dish. We’ve also got a nice roast lamb with mashed potato and gravy here, this one looks really nice, and salt and pepper calamari – but that’s just a starter, probably should have lead with that” he said, rummaging through the dishes. They looked like a restaurant menu made flesh. “And the other tray has the dessert on it.”

I gulped. Though I should probably have saved gulping for when there was food in my mouth. There was probably going to be a lot of gulping from hereon in.

On his knees, he trampled across the bed and over me. From my position strapped to the bed, he seemed even taller and more imposing as her rose above me. Looking down at me, I could see the slight scar, shrouded by his stubble, on the base of his chin. It was apparently from when he was attacked by a crocodile as a kid, but the story was probably bogus. His vanity didn’t just influence his tailoring, it influenced which truths he told and which untruths he told as well. The idea that he fended of a crocodile as a kid was part of his action hero mythologising that too many Australians fell for. But I knew better. He was just a sadistic bully with a thing for fat chicks. Fortunately, I had recently become an alumnus of the University of Fat Chick, myself.

He grabbed the battered calamari first, it was the starter there after all, and began feeding it to me. My hands were tied and I was suddenly helpless and a victim to his feeding hand. He dictated the steady, rhythmic, pulsing pace and controlled the food choices, he was in a state of absolute dominance over me, and all I could do was open my mouth and swallow. I mean, it was probably all really tasty, I probably should have been savouring the crunchy texture on the outside juxtaposed with the soft calamari centre, but my appetite for food was taking a backseat as he continued to cast his shadow over me with food in his hands. My appetite lay elsewhere.

Next up was the roast lamb dish. This was a messier eat than the last. And I was getting bored of it to be honest.

Wait what?

 

Why was I getting bored of it?

 

Because I had eaten it before. I was sure of it. No, I remember eating this before. This was not new to me. I could taste the food before it was rammed in my mouth. The soft sweet slow-cooked flavour. I glanced at my arm. This wasn’t right, I needed to see how long I had been doing this?

He was making it difficult by never giving me a second to breathe, constantly refilling my still full mouth with that tender New Zealand lamb. He made it difficult by being such a physical force, such a restraining force. I ate the lamb as fast as I could, so he would have to lean back to the trays of food to re-supply. I then snook a glance at my arm, dreading to see how many times I had been on the merry-go-round.

I didn’t have time to count all of the notches in my arm, tallied though they were in sets of five. But there were lots. Far more than I had expected. Far more. I looked around in panic as I felt his weight on the bed once more, reloaded with mashed potato to cram into my mouth. And in my panicked frenzy, I saw my other arm.

Eat more is the only way out

Thanks previous Gwen, but that’s a bit vague. Plus I’m stuffed. How much more? So many questions, so few answers, this is like Char all over again. But I trusted myself, and leant into it. I pushed myself as hard and as fast as I possibly could.

I scarfed the spaghetti, grunted and groaning as I did so. The strands splashed on the side of my face but I held no fear. I didn’t waver. I was trapped in the eighth circle of hell and I was beginning to resemble its circumference. I had one way out of here apparently and I had no choice but to follow my own orders.

The battered fish and deep-fat fried chips were heavy work. They required a lot of chewing, and lot of grinding, a lot of jaw strength. But I kept on keeping on, determined to pull past past endeavours.

The meat pie was no less easy, but at least it wasn’t as dry. Apparently Australians don’t put mushy peas or curry sauce on their fish and chips, the plebs, which made the last meal so difficult. But the meat pie was mince beef and onion, and it oozed as I bit into it. It’s hot centre spewed out onto my enormous chest, causing me to wince in pain. But I showed no signs of stopping.

The headache started brewing at this point, so time was of the essence. The chicken parmigiana would have to be eaten quickly. I strained every sinew in my stomach to make room for it, and just ate it like my survival depended on it. Whether or not that was true, I wasn’t sure. The cheesy tomato coating softened the chicken, making it easier to digest. The gunkiness clacked up my throat and the chewiness of the chicken slowed me down but I needed to keep going. To keep pushing until I could push no more.

The headache wasn’t just simmering in the background, it had started bubbling and reaching boiling point now. Repressing it was getting harder now, my head is fuzzing, splitting, schisming into pieces. Oh Lord for some trepany, this hurts so much. Have I done it? Have I eaten enough?

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

The answer was no.

 

I jerked back into the past, an eruption of darkness exploding into my vision. And we were back here, before the feasting. Before the weighing. Right at the very start. This is the furthest back I’ve travelled since I’ve been trapped in this loop. I’m making progress.

And I was beginning to remember more clearly after each jump now. Like my brain, my memory, my orientation, was acclimatising to the space-time pressure being enforced upon it. I was beginning to get the hang of this.

So, what are we going to do with you, you fat pig!” he said, sizing me up. I just smiled meekly in return. Just like I did the first time. And what he saw was a woman far more naked than he expected. My skirt, underwear, bra all removed at some point, though he couldn’t fathom when.

Food’s coming but I’ve got a few ideas what we could be doing in the meantime” he said, his eyes so charming but his smile so snake-like.

Weigh me?” I said, playing the part. It caught him off guard, which I liked. Plus, I had to see the damage that this vortex of Groundhog Day had wrought across my body. I dreaded to think.

Weigh you? Yes, I mean, I guess we could. Ummm, there is a scale in here.” he looked around and grabbed the metallic scale for me to stand on. He then stood back and the handsome man, I swear, licked his lips. “When did you last weight yourself?”

Yesterday morning. 170lbs.” Well, what else could I say. 5 minutes in the future, dozens of cycles in the past? No let’s keep it simple.

170? What? How? This is… is it illness? How are you doing it” he said, his eyes boggling. They needled fiercely and he accused me of lying last time. Is this some weird type of progress.

Why? Do you think I’ve gained since then?” I asked meekly.

That’s impossible! That is just impossible!” he laughed. Caught up in the sight of me. Last time he was angry, now I had grown so much, it just amused him

I am your perfect woman Kyle. So what are you going to do with her?” I said, still maintaining eye contact. He just kept shaking his head in wonder, but I knew what I was doing. I was in control. I was in control. I was in control.

Step on the scales” he said, his angular face staring at me.

I did, obeying calmly. I stepped on and waited for the number to be called out.

244lbs.

I tried to maintain my composure, but that threw me. I wasn’t expecting that. I had more than doubled in weight since a week ago, when Grendel was first revealed. Doubled. More than doubled. How long had I been trapped in this hell-hole of a timeloop? I glanced at my arm and tried to count the marks without making it look to obvious. We were looking at exactly 85 marks.

Can I see the damage? Have you got a mirror?” I asked, And I was as bewildered as he was. This I had to see. My stomach was so wide, so soft, so doughy. It swelled outwards and the crested forwards before swooping downwards. It covered my vagina with its bifurcated mass, a dark indent at its centre giving it a twofold appearance. And it was causing my drooping breasts to droop sidewards and well as down, the outreach of my stomach meaning that they drifted so slightly to the side. My arms… my arms were heavier to lift now, wider, thicker, meatier than my legs used to be. But not anymore. They had never looked so short, now widened to such proportions that their sleek length was lost in mulched depth, with an assortment of puckered skin where cellulite had dawned, and the red lines of my stomach no creeping around parts of my thigh like the spread of a contagion. And my face. It was the same face, but now lost under an onslaught of papier-mache fatty tissue, giving it features it didn’t ever have and losing features it always did. I couldn’t loook sexy, no matter what pose I pulled left me looking adorable but not sexy. Though somebody could have told Kyle that.

Hey, bitch. Food’s up. Come get your fill, you fat whore” he said through an irrepressible smirk. I glanced down at my arm. It still just had the one line marked on it. How bad were things going to get?

I used the interval to have a look at my phone, as I wondered to the bed. Charon had been playing on my mind, and I had a five minute window to hunt them down. To scroll through all the Charlies, Charlottes, Charmanders, Charazards, charcoal, charcuterie, Charlemains that I could. Hopefully I would stumble across something this time, but if not, there would always be next time.

.

.

He hovered over me like a tsunami.

Oh god, I had seen a tsunami before. It was coming back to me now.

.

.

We got to dessert this time. At last. I had almost grown frustrated with the not knowing what was on the second tray of food. My hunger for knowledge now working alongside my more generic hunger. I was getting better at the eating. Holding more food, eating it quicker. It was a crash course in stuffing and I was repeating it over and over again. And I was finally getting the hang of it. The main courses had become over-familiar, and I needed the sugar rush to reignite this engulfing of food.

There was pavlova, sweet pavlova. Sharp with fruit, light with meringue. It went down so easily, it’s fresh sweetness in such delightful contrast to the oppressive savoury of earlier. Then, a lamington cake, cut into squares and powdered beyond reason in caster sugar. The sponge was light, the coconut coating crisp, the chocolate decadent.

And then back in time again, the headache shrill and painful, but not like before. I was learning to manage the pain now. I was in control. I was in control.

.

.

.

And I repeated. Over and over again. Going back a little further each time. El Jannah in the car. Serenading Kyle Malcolm each time, and each time it got a little easier. I didn’t need to mark my arm any more, I could keep count. It felt clearer now, the fog had lifted. It just felt like consecutive days. I just had to keep count.

And keep getting weighed, as it kept on climbing. And kept on growing. I remember reaching the landmark of 100 time loops, and wanting to do something a bit special. So I stopped suggesting he weigh me. And if I got to 150, I would ask again, to see the progress.

And every time, before the food rolled out, I would get a little session on my mobile phone to scour the internet for Chars. And every time I worked through the list, I felt like I had gotten a little closer. I was in the perfect environment to solve the riddle, a repeated loop outside the normal forward roll of time, just to keep searching.

And every time I also ate a bit more. A bit faster. A bit easier. Soon, I recommended a third tray. Soon, I was finishing the first two and needing a third. Chocolate cake, a whole one, thick and creamy and saccharine sweet. Strawberry cheesecake, dense, firm and with a ginger base.

150 loops in and I was at 278lbs. At what point should I be scared? And at what point was I beyond no return? And at what point had I started to enjoy myself so much, that I was reluctant to leave? At what point had Charon and Grendel taken a back seat, and I just wanted to be stuck in this time loop forever? When did Kyle mould me into his perfect woman?

But I kept on Googling, dutifully. But was constantly drawing blanks. Chargrilled chicken? Chartered flights? Charity? Character study?

And I was no longer counting. Gave up at around 180-190. But that felt a long time ago. I was enjoying the lamington cake too much, the cheesecake. The sweet stuff. I had developed a sweet tooth.

How was my body faring? Underneath each additional layer of fat. My heart having to pump a bit harder each time, my body carrying around a bit more each time.

322lbs. Oh my god, I looked so fat.

348lbs. When was this ever going to end.

371lbs. I didn’t want it too end. I never wanted it to end.

412lbs.

429lbs.

Up and up and up and up.

436lbs.

441lbs.

I was just fat now. There wasn’t a lot else to say. Creases and rolls and not a lot else to say.

456lbs

471lbs

I had probably been trapped here years, but I didn’t want to leave. I was curbing my appetite now, because I didn’t want to jump any further. I wanted this. Forever. And ever.

488lbs

496lbs

502lbs

Half-tonne and I didn’t care. I was a trapped animal that had no intention of escaping.

508lbs

522lbs

And then I typed in the words that mattered. In that 5 minute interval before the food rolled in. I typed into Google and found CHAR.

Playtime was over, I had a universe to save now. And I ate with monolithic abandon. I ate the three trays and a fourth, and a fifth and then…

 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Strauss’ Thus Spake Zarathustra horned around my bedroom, as it filled with light, waking me up from a nightmare that I could vaguely remember. Those banging drums echoed around the room before I could really register what was happening. It as bellowing and crass and not what I wanted to wake up to.

Hey Google, shut the fuck up!”

The music kept playing, blaring louder and higher in pitch as it reached that famed crescendo.

Hey Google, stop”

And at last silence.

Hey Google, what date is it?”

May 23rd” the electronic voice informed me, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. It was a massive deal. I had to save the world, and I had jumped three weeks into the future. Grendel was a fortnight away and I had to save the world.

All 529lbs of me.

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2 hours ago, dania201 said:

Holy shit. This is very hot. 

Especially as someone who might not be familiar with being so heavy, Gwen may quickly discover how hard navigating the world at 500lbs actually is. She’s in for a surprise!! 😲

Yeah, and she might not be the only one surprised either...

And glad you liked it, I liked this chapter a lot

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