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Capes and Cuisines: Regirth (NEW CHAPTER ADDED 1/17/2022)


Cyril Figgis

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48 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

absolutely loved this whole arc. Thought it was great when she snapped out of it and went back to the fight despite her being so huge.

 

And hoping that she and Tanisha get a nice freshman 150...

Can't keep a good hero down!  And it'll be a minute until we get back to these two sidekicks, but I'm sure they're in for some big things ahead.

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THE RAVISHING BRUTESS - PART 1

Ramona Pierce had been a great many things in life: sorority sister, stock broker, agent of F.E.E.D., and a reserve member for a dozen different superhero teams.  She had been all around the world to cut deals with some of the top names in the business world, and she had been to the edge of space to fight a living black hole.  Just last week, she had lunch with an actress set to portray her in a TV miniseries and thwarted a volcanologist from crushing New York City with a mechanized mountain.  Her life moved at the speed of light, and she managed to keep up with all her responsibilities despite being one of the premiere members of the Protectors.  That was why it was all the more surprising when she collapsed in the middle of dinner.

One minute, she was eating a microwave chicken alfredo for a girl’s night in with her best friend; the next, she found herself in a room at Midtown Hospital.  It was hard for her to believe that she could be crippled so, but the charts did not lie—Ramona had suffered a panic attack.  The idea that she could have such an episode while watching a cheesy rom-com was almost laughable, considering that she was strong enough to level a building with a flick of her finger, but no one was laughing as the doctor gave the facts.  Her fast paced lifestyle was bound to catch up with her eventually, and that was the universe’s way of telling her that she needed to slow down.

That was how she found herself seated in the waiting room of a mental health clinic to see an old family friend.  Between her azure skin, Amazonian build, and designer clothes, she looked out of place among the other patients, yet she was probably the most anxious person in the whole room.  It had been years since she first gained the ability to transform into the Brutess, and she thought that change had gotten rid of her old nervous episodes.  The Ramona Pierce of the past had been a train wreck, a frightened little mouse that would have been eaten up by the world had her brother not given her an injection of a steroid that turned her into an unstoppable she-juggernaut.  Yet here she was, trembling like it was her first interview with Buscema, Lee, Stone, and Rosen.

“Ms. Pierce?  Dr. Rex will see you now,” the receptionist called out, shaking Ramona from her toe-tapping and finger-drumming.

She had to duck to get past the doorway—one of the downsides of being just shy of 8 feet in height—and took little breaths as she followed the nurse back to Doc Solomon’s office.  It was going to be okay: Solomon was an old friend who helped her brother out of many a jam in the past; it was he who managed to first wrangle the Brute in David.  If anyone could help her get control of this and keep things under wrap from the rest of the superhero community, it would be him. 

The office was small but cozy, with little decorations from Solomon’s travels adorning the walls alongside his degrees and psychology books.  Ramona sat down on a couch that was somehow comfier than the $20,000 sofa she had imported from Italy and squeezed her knees while counting numbers in her head.  Everything was fine…this was just a temporary hiccup in life.  All she had to do was get through one session, and then she would be cleared to get back to work.  She had far more important things to worry about than some prissy little panic attack.

“Sorry for the wait, Ramona,” Solomon apologized as he walked into the room.  “Someone didn’t refill the coffee **, and you know I need my 2 pm fix.”

‘Doc’ Solomon Rex looked the same as ever, save for some graying in the temples and little crow’s feet around his eyes.  He was an impressively built man that could have gone into bodybuilding if he so chose, sporting muscles that would not look out of place at a Protectors meeting but preferring to keep them under wraps in dress shirts and sweater vests.  His dark hair fell in curls down to his shoulders, and he was rocking the goatee again after swearing he was done with it back at the Justice United Christmas party.  Those locks almost hid the crown-shaped scar on his forehead, but it still jumped out to her whenever Ramona saw him.  It was a symbol of his birthright, to lead, but he gave up a life of power in favor of helping others to achieve their inner peace.

“That’s all right, Doc,” Ramona replied with a nervous smile.  “I know the feeling—I’m nothing without an energy drink every hour, on the hour.”

Samson chuckled in turn and took a seat across from Ramona.  “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances, but I’m glad to see you all the same.  How are you feeling now?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” the giantess answered, though perhaps quicker than she intended.  “It was a little scary at first, but I’m Brutess, y’know?  There’s nothing in the world that can scare me at this point, let alone a little panic attack.”

“Perhaps, but it’s a different sort of ‘attack’ than what you or I are used to,” the psychologist retorted.  “The life we live, we so often come under attack from alien weapons or giant abominations that we forget the little things can come for us too.  I got roped into fighting an electrical monster the other day, you know, and I walked away with a ruined suit and hair that wouldn’t smooth down.  But not two weeks ago, I had to call in sick because of a summer cold—a cold!  We’re strong, people like us, but we’re not immune to the little things life throws at us.”

Ramona did not like that one bit.  Ever since she first learned how to control the transformation between her human form and the Brutess, she remained in the powerful body of her counterpart because she felt indestructible.  Thanks to Brutess, she had changed herself from a dull wallflower into a commanding heroine, no longer relegated to being a bit player in her own life.  That her own body could betray her at this point rattled her to the core, and she felt uncertainty for the first time in a long while.  If she could be crippled just by a fluke twitch in her mind, who was to say what else her body had in store for her in the future?

“Well, is there anything I can do to keep it in check?  I can’t exactly go through my life knowing that I could keel over at any moment,” Ramona huffed, crossing her powerful arms under her bulging chest.  “Is there some kind of medication I could try?”

“Before we go that route, I thought we might try a different approach,” Solomon suggested as he played with a pentacle on his necklace.  “Perhaps we should try some hypnotherapy to get to the root of the problem.”

“C’mon, Doc, you know I don’t believe that stuff.  Don’t you have anything that would actually work?” the buxom heroine snorted in derision.

The psychologist grinned and told her, “Won’t know until you try.”

It took every muscle in her powerful body not to roll her eyes, but Ramona supposed that it could not hurt, even if it would not work.  mesmerism required a recipient that was open to the idea of being mesmerized, and she simply did not have the capability of loosening control on her life.  Doc could make the lights flicker and play all the soft music he wanted, but there was no chance he could actually put her into a daze.  She would tell him as much if she was not so exhausted all of a sudden—the strain of running a life as hectic as hers, she supposed.

Ramona shook her head clear of cobwebs and stretched her arms over her head like a cat, telling Solomon, “Sorry, Doc, I guess I was just daydreaming.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, Ramona,” Solomon replied with a soft smile.  “Not everyone takes to hypnotherapy.  Why don’t we talk a little more about what’s going on, and I might be able to prescribe you something to help?”

The two carried on for close to an hour: catching up on what the other had been up to, reminiscing about their times with the Brute, and delving into the source of the panic attack.  They never came to a clear conclusion, but Ramona felt much better just getting to sit and laugh with an old friend.  If there was any downside to the session, it was that she felt her stomach grumble halfway through; by the end, she felt hungry enough to eat a horse.  She did not want to seem rude, especially since she had not seen Solomon in so long, but she needed to get some grub in her or else she would look a lot more like her brother before long.

Thankfully, a little timer on the psychologist’s desk rang, signaling an end to their chat and a chance for Ramona to satisfy her hunger.  She smoothed out her business suit as she got up from the couch and said to Solomon, “You know, Doc, this has actually been really nice.  Maybe all I needed was a little time to relax and get some things off my chest.”

“It’s my pleasure, and I hope that we can do this again without doctor’s orders,” Solomon said in turn.  “But if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call, okay?”

Ramona nodded and shook the doctor’s hand before her stomach butted in to make its presence known.  After letting out a growl that was almost canine, the giantess blushed and asked, “Well, there’s one thing you could help with.  Know any good places to eat around here?”

The answer to the question turned out to be a sandwich shop just a block away from Solomon’s office—the perfect place for a professional to get lunch.  Ramona had an appropriately large appetite, but when she walked in and was overcome with the fine aromas, she felt ready to eat everything in the shop.  Thankfully for the staff, she walked out with only three sandwiches and bags of chips, which she hoped would be enough to keep her hunger in check.  After all, even a big girl like her could only eat so much, and if three Reubens did not do it, she was not sure what would.

Unfortunately, that was exactly the position she found herself in after wolfing down her lunch, still longing for more.  She was sorely tempted to run out and raid one of the vending machines, only for her salvation to come in the form of an intern with a grocery bag.  Ramona had been thinking of which Little Debbie treat to get when she was alerted to the scrawny girl—one of the new hires that came in a baker’s dozen—in her doorway.

“Hope this isn’t a bad moment, Ms. Pierce?” asked the girl.  “I just wanted to thank you again for hiring me, and I wanted to know if you’d like to have some lunch with me.”

Ramona gave the girl a warm grin and nodded, “Sure, Mabel, come on in.  I just hope you don’t mind if I’m not eating; I already had a rather filling lunch myself.  But feel free to enjoy…is that gumbo I smell in that bag?”

“Good nose, ma’am,” Mabel replied.  “I made a little too much, so I thought I’d bring some in to share.  I hope this isn’t imposing, but I sure would like it if you gave it a try; my cooking’s one of the few things I’m actually proud of.”

“Well, how can I say no to that?” the CEO hummed, though she would have still taken it if it was store-bought.  A nice, hearty soup sounded like exactly the cure for her hunger pangs, especially since ‘homemade’ usually meant ‘more bang for your buck’.

That was certainly what she got, as the bowl Mabel offered her was appropriately large and full to the brim with goodies.  Chunky cuts of sausage, rosy shrimp, and thick lumps of crab meat all mixed together with a rich, spicy roux that made even a heavyweight like Ramona tear up to create the best bowl of soup.  She was so enamored with the stew that she ate it down to the last drop before leaning back in her chair and resting her hands on her full stomach.

“My compliments to the chef—that was exquisite,” Ramona sighed, offering her intern a chef’s kiss of approval.  “What’s your secret?”

Mabel blushed at the praise and fiddled with her fingers as she answered, “Oh, my grandmother would absolutely kill me for sharing her recipe, but anything for you, Ms. Pierce.  The trick is to use bacon grease when mixing up the roux; that’s what gives it an extra pop of flavor.”

“I suppose bacon really does make everything better,” Ramona chuckled before letting out a yawn.  “Oh, sorry, Mabel…I always get a little drowsy after a good meal.  You’re quite the cook, you know that?  I’ve dined at some of the finest establishments on Earth, and this was top of the line.”

“Thank you so much!  I’m always trying new recipes if you’d like to try some more,” Mabel offered.  “Just say the word and I’ll make whatever you’d like.”

Stifling another unwanted yawn, the powerful woman nodded and replied, “I think that sounds lovely.  And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

As the two parted ways, Ramona shut the door to her office and yawned like a jungle cat.  She had no idea where this sudden tiredness had come from, but she felt more spent than after her one night stand with Mister Blitz.  Perhaps it was a holdover from the panic attack, though she tried not to think of her episode from the other night—she had more important things to worry about.  But when she tried to focus on her work, she found that she could not keep her eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.  And since she was not getting any work done, she might as well deal with her drowsiness once and for all.  Thus, for the first time in years, Ramona Pierce took a nap.

Back in her cubicle, Mabel squeezed the life out of a stress toy until it popped and joined its brethren in the trash can.  This was an absolutely revolting con, having to play kiss-ass to her archenemy and be an unpaid intern at one of the most lucrative firms on Wall Street; she was sorely tempted to transform into her stronger, more natural body and tear the building apart every day.  It was only the promise of a big pay day—and the threat of retaliation from the brains of the operation—that kept her from exacting her revenge.  At least she could take comfort in knowing that what was planned for Brutess would take her out of the game for life.

She reached for another stress doll when her burner phone buzzed in her pocket, alerting her to a message from her boss.  It was about time she got some updates; her muscles were aching for a chance to put Brutess in her place.  Mabel yanked her phone out and saw a text that read, ‘Meeting tonight.  8 pm.  Bring updates and veggie platter.”

“I got your veggie platter for you right here,” the scrawny woman growled as she texted the same into her phone, followed by a fist and an eggplant.  “This better be worth my time.”

***

The Mabel Morgenstern that walked down the street that evening was a far cry from the mousy intern who was little more than a doormat at work.  Now that she was free to be herself, she had grown three extra feet and put on an extra two hundred pounds of muscle, which filled her ebony costume to the max.  People parted around her life the Red Sea, which brought a cocky smirk to her lips as she relished in the shock and awe she instilled in the public.  Allowing Count Terror to imbue her with cosmic power had been the best decision of her life; there was no better feeling in the world than knowing no ordinary human could ever look down on her.

She stopped at a seemingly innocuous house, only to find herself inside a sprawling laboratory when she stepped through the front door.  Her cockiness faltered for a moment when she felt a wave of queasiness pass over her—her body still not used to traveling between dimensions—but she recovered soon enough and made her way back to the meeting room.  Chatter from within meant that she was fashionably late, as usual, but that did not bother her in the least.

“Got’cher veggie platter,” Mabel announced, casually tossing the platter onto the table in the center of the room, which caused some ranch dressing to splatter on Dynamo.

“WATCH IT,” the living lightning bolt crackled.  “YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I HATE ORGANIC MATERIAL COMING INTO CONTACT WITH MY BEING.”

“Whoops,” the strongwoman retorted with a shrug.  “What’d I miss?”

She glanced around the room at her current accomplices for an answer, only trusting one or two out of the lot.  There was Dynamo, who suffered from a God/Frankenstein complex and only knew how to be loud; the Whisper, who most often communicated in writing or sign language for fear of breaking someone’s mind accidentally; and Bladearang, who had far more ego than someone who used to be called ‘the Boomerang Kid’ should have.  Most surprising of the bunch was Doc Solomon, who kept his head down and scribbled in a notepad through most meetings, never once offering to buy a beer—the prick.  Mabel had no idea what a goody two shoes like Solomon was doing in their little enclave, but she kept an eye on him in case he decided to call the Protectors.

“We were just catching up on our progress from this week,” came the mechanized voice of their leader.  “Please, grab a paper towel and take a seat.”

No one knew exactly how Liderul had come to be: some said he was exposed to radioactive materials, some said he was a failed clone of the Brute, and still others said that he was a psychic parasite that passed through the world in search of knowledge.  Whatever his origin was, few could argue that he was more terrifying than a man in a wheelchair and hooked to a ventilator should be.  His schemes had nearly brought down entire nations, and he once ruled an entire dimension like a god-king, only to be stopped by Team Brute.  If anyone got on his bad side, they were doomed to suffer a fate worse than death, as Ramona Pierce was soon to find out…

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15 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

Oh boy, I was waiting for this and you didn't disappoint. Looks like Ramona is going back to being a wallflower, a wide one too, if she can't figure this out...but why is Doc Solomon here?

In the grand tradition of Marvel heroes, yesterday's friend is today's enemy is tomorrow's love interest.

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  • 2 weeks later...

THE RAVISHING BRUTESS - PART 2

It seemed like Ramona Pierce had been in every superhero team imaginable during her time as the Brutess, operating as a Protector, Cosmic Raider, Sensational Sixer, and even a Patriot Patroller during a brief jaunt into the 1950s.  That was why it hit so hard when she was put on medical leave after her panic attack; superheroing had been half her life for the last several years.  Sure, she still had her firm to keep her plenty busy, but she missed the urge to get out during the day to get some fresh air and beat up a thug or three.  She found herself staring out the window frequently, a listlessness growing in her chest by the day as she fought back the urge to cut loose.

That was why she made another trip over to Solomon’s office a couple weeks after her first appointment—to see if he had some sort of salve for that itch she felt.  She felt anxious as she sat in his waiting room again, though for a different reason than last time, and she had to fight the urge to tap her foot as she waited.  With her strength, she could bring the building down just by tapping her foot hard and fast enough; one of the drawbacks of having powers that never turned off.

“We really must stop meeting like this,” Solomon joked as Ramona walked into his room and sat down on the couch.  “You haven’t had another episode, have you?”

“Thankfully, no, but it’s on the same track,” the giantess answered, doing her best to get comfy.  “I’m on leave from the Protectors, as you know, and I’m having a bit of a time trying to get used to all this time off.  So much of my life has been about fighting crime that I don’t really know how to turn off that part of my brain; I’m jonesing to get my Brutess on, you know?”

Solomon nodded knowingly and replied, “Adjusting to convalescence is always tricky for those of us with an active lifestyle, especially when the issues seem to have cleared.  Have you tried picking up some hobbies you’ve been putting off?”

“Honestly, my hobbies have been working out and busting heads for so long, I can’t think of much else,” Ramona admitted, feeling rather embarrassed at how dull her life seemed without heroics in the mix.  “I guess I could try catching up on some reading that I’ve been meaning to do.”

“That’s a good start!  There’s plenty you can work on in the meanwhile,” Solomon hummed before placing a bowl of wrapped candies on the table between them.  “By the way, would you like a caramel?  One of the nurses makes them herself, and she brought in a big batch for everyone.”

It was very tempting, but Ramona had tried to cut out candy from her diet after a little Halloween binge left her bloated for two days a few years back.  She waved away the dish and replied, “Sorry, Doc—my sweet tooth is strong, but I’m stronger.”

Solomon moved the bowl back, but he did not take it off the table entirely as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together.  “Let’s circle back around to your listlessness.  Perhaps we should try some hypnotherapy to get to the root of the problem.”

“Oh, come on, Doc, you know I’m too antsy for that stuff to really take,” the blue beauty teased, though she felt a twinge of familiarity in his words.  “Liderul once tried to hypnotize me, and it took for maybe a second before I woke up and beat his scrawny ass.”

 “Won’t know until you try,” Solomon replied, his fingers fiddling with his pentacle necklace.  The lights in the room gave off a dull glow, and a strange buzzing sound made its way into the strong woman’s ears, though she was too drowsy to ask questions.

Instead of asking about the lights, noise, or strangely familiar words, Ramona found herself staring out the window and watching the geese swim around in the pond next door.  What a nice life they must lead: swimming around all day, flying here and there, and getting to munch on the occasional chunk of bread, all without a care in the world.  She wished she could do that—tune out from the hustle and bustle of the world—but there was far too much for her to do and too many people who relied on her.  But how nice it would be to be a goose…

“Still with me, Ramona?” asked Solomon, breaking the powerhouse from her daze.

Ramona rubbed her eyes and answered, “Yeah, sorry…just got distracted by the birds.  You’ve got a really nice setup here, you know—most peaceful place in town.”

“I don’t like to brag, but I like to think I’ve got it made,” the doctor chuckled before sliding the candy bowl back towards Ramona.  “Want to try some caramel?  We all deserve a sweet treat now and then, you of all people especially.”

Caramel…that was something Ramona had not had in a while.  And Solomon had a point: if anyone deserved to treat themselves, it was the woman who went to the hospital two weeks ago.  She happily plucked one of the candies from the dish, ignorant of her protestation earlier, and popped the salty, rich sweet in her mouth.  There was no helping the hum of delight that followed, and the mighty woman squirmed in her seat at the decadent taste.  Who knew caramel could be so good?

“My compliments to the chef,” the powerhouse cooed as she rolled the candy around with her tongue, coating every inch of her mouth.

“I’ll pass them along,” Solomon replied with a nod.  “Help yourself to a few for the road—we’ve got plenty to go around.”

Ramona did take a few for the road, but she was finished with them before she even left the parking lot.  How could she resist with such good, homemade candy?  As good as they were though, they did little to fill her up, and her stomach grumbled at her to demand sustenance.  She thought she had a good-sized breakfast that morning, but that clearly was not enough for her as the powerful woman pulled up to the sandwich shop down the street.

“Just a little something to tide me over,” Ramona assured herself.  “Mabel said she was bringing some ** roast for lunch, after all.”

***

That promise to eat light only held up until the blue beauty was inside the sandwich shop, and she left with four meatball subs, chips, and a cup of chili.  It was only when she finished everything that she realized how much she had actually eaten, and she cursed herself as she threw away all remnants of her lunch.  Eating so much was unlike her: while she did have a hearty appetite and her Brutess form gave her a seemingly unbreakable body, she still ate like a normal person if she could.  Though she was a towering force of nature, she still had some of the tics of the meek girl she used to be—chief among them comparing her body to others.

Ramona had just finished wiping her desk clean when Mabel knocked on her door and poked her head in.  She greeted her boss with a cheery smile and said, “Hope I’m not too late!”

“Oh, right on time,” Ramona answered, her mouth watering at the scent of the ** roast.  “Do come in; I’m absolutely famished.”

She had no idea how Mabel was able to cook so much, especially with her nonexistent intern salary, but Ramona was not going to complain when she saw the spread in front of her.  A football-sized hunk of beef sat on a bed of mashed potatoes, surrounded by an army of vegetables swimming in sauce, and it all made Ramona literally drool.  When she realized what she was doing, her cheeks darkened in embarrassment and she wiped her lips to Mabel’s giggle.

“Guess I know I’ve done a good job,” the petite girl remarked as she served herself a meager portion that was a scrap of what Ramona had.  “If it tastes half as good as it smells, I think we’ll be eating well.  Let’s dig in!”

And dig in, they certainly did.  The fact that she had just eaten more than some people did in an entire day never factored into Ramona’s mind as she wolfed down the ** roast, little hums of bliss and contentment escaping her lips.  So ravenous was she that she completely forgot about decorum and etiquette for a spell, juice dribbling freely down her lips and speckling her designer suit.  She barely even came up for air, offering little more than grunts in response to Mabel’s idle chit-chat, but surely the intern would understand.  After all, she was the one that was the amazing cook.

Ramona might not have been so complacent if she knew just where the food came from, as the disguised Aradia could not cook to save her life.  No, each dish was prepared by Bladearang and altered by Liderul in order to increase the consumer’s appetite and slow down their metabolism, even for someone as powerful as Brutess.  It was far from her usual style, but Mabel would have to settle for killing Ramona Pierce with kindness, at least until she had permission to actually kill her.  At least she could take some enjoyment out of watching her most hated rival bloat up like a parade balloon and more, provided her cohorts kept up their end of the bargain.

As their lunch wound down and Ramona came out of her hungry haze, Mabel told her, “Oh, Ms. Pierce, have you heard of a podcaster by the name of Ariana Wordsmith?  She’s great at motivational speeches and Zen teachings: just listening to her has given me a big confidence boost.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar, but I always preferred true crime stuff,” Ramona answered while cleaning her plate of the last remnants of food.  “I was never one for motivational speakers; there’s a reason I don’t have tons of Successories around here.  But I’m glad she’s worked out for you.”

Not wanting to lose her hook, Mabel continued, “I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but you really should give her a try.  She’s got advice on everything, from dealing with breakups to assertiveness in the workplace—even how to cope when you’re recovering from an injury.”

Laid on a little thick though it was, Ramona nodded in consideration.  Solomon had given her some tips on how to get through her current doldrums, but it could not hurt to check this other speaker out.  She replied with a warm, unassuming smile, “All right, you’ve twisted my arm: I’ll check her out when I get home tonight.”

“Oh, you’re going to love her.  All it takes is one listen, and I guarantee you’ll feel like a new woman,” Mabel tittered, the double meaning lost on her boss.  “Do let me know what you think of it over lunch tomorrow; it’ll make for great conversation over chicken and waffles.”

***

Even though Ramona was not one for pep talks, she was eager to take a listen to this Wordsmith when she got back to her apartment.  She was in desperate need of finding something to take her mind off superheroics until she was given clearance to return to the field, and any advice on the matter was more than welcome in her book.  It felt strange to be so unsure and listless now, after having been the physical embodiment of confidence for years, but she was a fool to think everything would be back to normal after the panic attack.

“But we’ll fix that soon,” the powerhouse told herself as she pulled up Ariana Wordsmith’s podcast on her phone.  “I’ll find plenty of things to take up my time until I get the go-ahead to work hard again—so much, I might not have any time for Protector work.”

It took a moment to search for the one she was looking for, but it was right where Mabel said it would be: ‘What to Do When You Have Nothing to Do’.  Ramona tapped play on the podcast and walked away to heat up her dinner as soothing music played on her speakers.  She had just pulled her lasagna out of the fridge when she heard the hostess speak and she froze in place.

“Why, hello, Brutess.  It’s so good to talk to you again,” cooed the Whisper in her sultry, dusky voice.  “Thank you ever so much for tuning in; I promise you won’t regret it.”

Ramona did not regret it, but that was because she could feel nothing at all so long as Whisper spoke to her.  The mesmerizing woman had power over words that few others possessed: being able to seize command of people with a single syllable, she had once led a cult that believed her to be the voice of God.  Her efforts were crushed by Brutess, but it had been so long since they battled that the blue beauty honestly forgot what she even looked like, much less how she sounded; Whisper could have passed by her on the street, and she would have been none the wiser.  Though she had been victorious in stopping the manipulative woman before, that had been with the help of a friend to break her free of her trance—and now, she had no one.

“It’s a shame I can’t see you now, but I imagine you’re standing still as a statue as you wait for my next command,” Whisper hummed.  “Here’s what you’re going to do: pick up your phone, dial 202-555-0104, and say ‘yes’ to everything they tell you.”

Her body was sluggishly slow as she went about her task, but she managed to dial the number ingrained in her mind and waited until someone picked up on the other end.  That someone was the distinctively nasally, Brooklyn-tinted tone of Bladearang, but Ramona was too out of it to notice.  The crook on the other end asked, “Hey, thanks for calling Pie in the Sky!  You want to get an extra-large supreme with all the woiks?”

“Yes,” Ramona murmured as though she was asleep.

“You want I should add extra cheese to that?  It’s gonna be an extra thousand calories, easy,” Bladearang reminded the dazed heroine despite knowing her answer.

“Yes,” Ramona answered.

“Gotcha, gotcha.  And I’m sure you’ll be wanting a couple party-sized sodas, a couple dozen garlic knots and wings, and a deep-dish cookie pizza?” asked the boomerang expert.

“Yes,” Ramona answered one last time.

“Dat’s just great,” Bladearang chuckled.  “We’ll have it ready for youse in just a few minutes.  Enjoy your ten thousand calorie dinner, ya dumbbell broad.”

After her accomplice hung up, the Whisper instructed her captive audience, “Now, Ramona, I want you to put your phone down, sit down on your couch, and turn on your TV.  You deserve to relax after such a long day at the office, after all.”

“I deserve it,” the powerhouse mumbled as she took slow, clumsy steps towards her couch and flopped down without a second thought.  She turned on her television, which cost more than some people made in a year and took up a third of the opposite wall, only to be greeted by yellow and orange static.  If she were in her right state of mind, she might have noticed that this was the work of Dynamo, but she was too under the thrall of Whisper to notice.

“I hope you don’t mind, but Dynamo finally managed to get through your firewall and he’s been itching for the chance to rewire your TV settings,” Whisper explained, knowing full Ramona had no say in the matter.  “All those documentaries and news programs you liked to watch to stay in the know?  Gone.  Anything of artistic merit that’ll provoke deep thinking?  Gone.  You won’t even have access to trashy reality shows, much as we would love to show you what the Helkurrians are doing to your teammate, Lady Liberty.  No…from now on, you’re only going to be watching one type of programming.”

Ramona watched in a daze as the static gave way to a kids show—the kind that parents put on to distract their toddlers, knowing the pretty colors and singing mascots would keep them occupied for half an hour.  It was as mindless as mindless TV got, but since she could not lift so much as a finger to stop it or change the channel, the blue beauty could only sit and watch the juvenile drivel playing across her giant TV.  Her eyes were glassy and dull, lacking any of the spark that filled them when she was hard at work; she looked like she was a few minutes away from drooling on herself.

When the doorbell rang, the Whisper told Ramona, “That would be your dinner.  Be a good girl and go get it; I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Hungry she was, but even someone as big as her would have trouble with the feast that awaited her on the other side of the door.  She carried the boxes of food back into her apartment with ease, her still shapely legs swaying as she made her way back to the couch.  This time, Ramona actually did start drooling, though this came from the decadent aromas that filled her apartment.

“Now that you’re comfy again, I want you to eat everything in front of you,” Whisper instructed her powerful prisoner.  “Don’t leave so much as a crumb or drop of sauce; you won’t be satisfied until you eat every last morsel.”

“Won’t be satisfied,” Ramona murmured as she opened the box of wings and popped one in her mouth, eating even the bones.

Though Whisper could not see her one-time foe, she could just imagine the formidable Brutess sat at her couch, stuffing her face full of enough food for a party.  It brought a smile to her pale cheeks, and she wanted so desperately to see the effects this meal would have on Ramona, but she would have to wait until Mabel provided some pictures from the office.  For now, she would have to settle with the joy of knowing that Ramona was under her thumb, and Whisper planned on keeping her there…

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  • 2 weeks later...

THE RAVISHING BRUTESS - PART 3

It felt like any other day as Ramona walked into the office: she greeted the clerks at the front desk, got her third coffee of the morning, and did a circuit of the workplace to see how everyone was getting on.  Her gait was slow and sluggish, but that was not out of the ordinary for the blue-skinned beauty; she was usually a groggy mess until the last drop of that third coffee.  She had done up her hair a little different that morning, opting for a loose ponytail rather than her typical bun, but she looked the same as she always did.  Then why was everyone staring at her like she had grown a second head?

“Morning, Ramona,” Mabel greeted her boss as the powerhouse passed by her desk.  “Got you some donuts to go with that coffee.  You really should try this place; they make the best apple fritters.”

“If they get high praise from you, I’ll have to check them out,” Ramona hummed, plucking one of the glazed treats from a box on Mabel’s desk.  “I swear, you know all the best spots in town.”

Ever since that first lunch, the two had grown thick as thieves: they ate together sometimes twice a day, went out for the occasional after-work drink, and even started catching up on the weekend.  It was small wonder that Ramona had offered Mabel a full-time position at the firm, much to the chagrin of several other interns and employees, but they were not the ones in charge and were not about to argue with a woman who once KO’d a space god.  Ramona argued that there was something special about Mabel—a certain je ne sais quoi—that made her such a valuable asset, but no one else saw it.  No one else could make Ramona laugh quite like the intern did, nor could they so easily recommend things to her and have her follow through on them.

“You can have the rest of the box if you want.  I’ve already had my fill, and I don’t want to be too stuffed for lunch.  We’re still good to try out that pizza place this afternoon?” asked Mabel as she slid the box to Ramona.

“You know it!  I’ve got a couple meetings, but they’re just boring shareholder crap,” Ramona chuckled before biting into another fritter and cooing in delight.  “Honestly, I feel like they’ve gotten even drier lately: either they’re so dull that I almost pass out, or they’re so wordy that I can barely understand what they’re saying.”

Mabel kept a straight face while smirking on the inside, knowing exactly why Ramona was having so much trouble keeping up at the meetings.  She remarked, “Still, it’s not good if you don’t show up for these things.  Maybe I could start filling in for you?”

It was ludicrous, irresponsible, and ludicrously irresponsible to send a woman that was just an intern a week prior to fill in for the CEO, but it sounded like the greatest idea to Ramona, who happily licked glaze from her fingers.  “Not a bad idea, Mabel.  Just make sure you take plenty of notes so I can catch up afterwards; I do still need to keep on top of things here, after all.”

“Anything for you, chief,” the plucky employee replied with a mock salute.  “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t do the meetings today anyway, especially in that outfit.”

Ramona cocked an eyebrow in confusion at the remark, since there should have been nothing wrong with her clothes.  She had chosen a pencil skirt that hugged her shapely thighs and a blouse that drew attention to her perky, basketball-sized breasts, and heels that cost more than some cars—perfect for a woman in control of the room.  Yet when she glanced down, she found herself in less than business appropriate attire: a Grateful Dead shirt from a concert the year prior, pajama pants with hearts all over, and banana slippers; perfect for a lazy Sunday, but not so much for a firm on Wall Street.  No wonder everyone gave her such odd looks all morning; she looked like she had just crawled out of bed.

“Oh my gawd, it’s like my ‘underwear in front of the school’ dreams,” Ramona squeaked, suddenly feeling as bashful as her human form.  “Can’t believe I walked out of the apartment like this!”

“Hey, it happens to the best of us,” Mabel assured her boss.  “I mean, I spent an entire day with my shirt on backwards once; I only figured it out when I got back home and looked in the mirror.”

Ramona sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  “I get that these things happen, but not for me!  I have all my clothes picked out at least a day ahead, and if I had to make any last minute changes, I probably would have been two hours late.  I don’t know where my head’s at, but it clearly didn’t show up for work today.”

“Well, you’re here now and you wouldn’t want to run back out at this time anyway.  Just think of it like a very casual Friday,” Mabel suggested, resisting the urge to laugh at her enemy’s faux-pas.  “I’ll order in from that pizza place, and we can pretend it’s like a sleepover!”

“All right, but bring your own sleeping bag,” Ramona replied with a smirk, trying to make the best of a lousy situation.  She sauntered back to her office and called out, “Holler if you need anything!”

Mabel needed a lot of things: a cool billion dollars, a super-yacht, and for those fertility drugs to start working so she and Mr. Osmosis could start that family they had dreamt of.  Since she was still barren as a desert, she would have to settle for enjoying the perks of her enemy’s deterioration—yes, perks, because spacing out was going to be the least of the Brutess’s worries.  The other reason people had been staring when Ramona walked into the office was because her pajamas were tight on her body, and not because of her muscles.

For the first time since she learned how to transform into Brutess, Ramona had put on a few fat pounds—nothing like the muscular bulk she was used to.  It was hard to call her out and out ‘fat’—she was nowhere near as bad as Defensor’s sidekicks, after all—but she was soft enough that the curves of her muscle were slowly disappearing under a cushion of pudge.  Biceps as big as watermelons lost their definition and were even soft to the touch, and her sharp jawline dulled as her cheeks filled out with plenty of pinching material.  Her abs were nowhere near as shredded as other heroines, but at least it was firm compared to the little pooch that peeked out from her t-shirt.  Each step she took sent a ripple through her thighs, testing the threads of an already tight pair of pajama pants.

But where Ramona had really gained was in her chest, which had once been flat as a pancake and only developed when she transformed into Brutess.  This gave her one more reason to stay in her godlike form, as she had a bust that put all others to shame—even Ms. Busty St. Clair herself, Miss Elite.  People would pretend to be her by cramming basketballs and the like up their shirts, but they were not far off from the actual size of those massive, gravity-defying melons.  She tried not to abuse their power, but the petite girl inside Ramona could not help but show off from time to time, like popping the occasional button with a knowing flex.

What was already big was now even bigger, and her breasts had both swollen larger than her head in a few short weeks.  They still retained some perkiness despite the weakening muscles behind them, but one look at a bare-chested Ramona would have revealed a hint of sag around the top and indigo stretch marks by her armpits.  She might have noticed this growth sooner, but her bra was custom treated with a chemical solution that enabled it to change size with her, should she ever find herself back to being 4’11” Ramona Pierce.  As such, it grew with her, leaving Brutess none the wiser as to how much she had really swollen—at least, for the time being…

***

Ramona tried to make the best out of her day, acting like there was nothing wrong and avoiding meetings if she could, but she was exhausted by the time she got back to her apartment.  The entire day was spent worrying about how she could have left home dressed in such informal attire, especially when she owned an entire closet full of designer suits.  When she tried to take her mind off that snafu with some work, she found herself drifting off whenever she had to review a report or look over a contract.  Not only was it absolutely tedious and dull, but Ramona found each document to be near illegible, as if it was written in another language.

“Okay, this is concerning,” Ramona muttered as she kicked off her slippers and shucked off her t-shirt.  “I haven’t been this confused since I contracted that brain parasite back in…what was that, Issue 187?  Christ, where’s Smilin’ Stan when you need him to keep tabs on these things?”

The sensation that something was wrong was unshakeable, even as she tried to go about her evening and unwind.  First on the agenda was a nice, hot shower to ease her mind and soothe her body, though she remained blissfully unaware of how soft she had grown over the last few weeks.  There would be a greater description of how she lathered up her developing potbelly or how the water cascaded from her bosom like Niagra Falls, but Ms. Pierce worked out a new contract specifying no shower scenes—see Team Brute #14.

Next came a trip to the kitchen for something to eat, despite the fact that she had eaten more than an entire family of four could handle in a single day.  It started with a sack full of breakfast sandwiches and an iced coffee that was more like a melted candy bar than coffee, followed by a near dozen apple fritters, a calzone the size of an extra-large pizza, and half a vending machine’s worth of goodies, courtesy of Mabel.  Even for someone with a body like hers, that was a ton of calories which had nowhere to go except into her developing curves—and yet, she still craved more.

When she opened up the fridge for her next meal though, she was puzzled by just how much takeout and prepackaged food there was inside.  Ramona was no stranger to ordering in, given her hectic work schedule, but there was far more than the last time she checked…or was there?  She thought back the last few days to recall ordering any kung pao chicken or bacon cheeseburger lasagna, but she was met with a mental fog that stopped her from even recalling what she had that morning.

“Guh…thinking sucks,” Ramona grumbled after drawing a blank on a reason for the food.  She had to be the one who bought it; no one else could have gotten it for her.  “At least I won’t have to worry about shopping for the next week or so.”

After heating up a box of General Tso’s, egg rolls, and wontons, the blue bombshell sauntered over to the couch to settle in for the night.  She remained blissfully unaware of how she took up even more room on her designer sofa, focusing instead on the rich flavors of food that had been unknowingly tampered with.  A hum escaped her lips and she mumbled, “God, I’d eat like this all the time, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans by getting too fat for commissions.”

In between bites, she picked up her tablet and tried to open up an e-book she had been reading through earlier that week, only to find that it was missing—not just the e-book, but her entire digital library was gone.  Ramona furrowed her brow and began an extensive search through her tablet for any sign of the library, but what she turned up was even more disheartening: somehow, several of her apps had vanished into the ether.  Gone were her puzzles and brainteasers, her daily selections of poetry and podcasts, and her news feeds keeping tabs on markets around the world; it was almost as if the tablet had been reset to factory settings, but with even fewer options.

“Great, now I have to take this into the store,” the CEO grunted before returning to her food and attacking it as only a frustrated sufferer of First World Problems could.  If she could not spend the evening browsing through her tablet, she would have to settle for checking out something on TV—anything to take her mind off her troubles.

Unfortunately, her escape into television fared little better, as she found countless channels blocked and her DVR’s recordings scrubbed clean.  The only things that seemed to be accessible were shows for children, and not even the kind she could feel nostalgic about watching; they were puerile, juvenile, and meant for toddlers at best.  Everything was a menagerie of colors, letters, and puppets, and Ramona could not roll her eyes hard enough.  How anyone of any age could stomach this was beyond her, since she could not stomach more than a minute before reaching for the remote.

But why bother?  There was nothing else on, and with how screwed up her technology was acting, Ramona would have to take what she could get if she wanted something to cut through the silence of an empty apartment.  So, with a resounding sigh, she flipped through a magazine on the coffee table with one of those puppet shows running in the background, content to let that run until she was tired enough to go to bed.

The longer the show went on for though, the more curious she became about just what was playing on her TV.  Every so often, her ears would perk up at the sounds of funny voices and laughter, and she found her foot tapping along to the odd melody when the puppets sang about certain life lessons.  She would peek out from behind her magazine cover and find some bizarre, man-sized puppet traipsing along, and she had to admit that there was a lot of care and attention put into the suit; in fact, the whole set radiated charm, combining groovy 60s and 70s colors with a modern design aesthetic.  It might not have been highbrow entertainment, but there were certainly far worse things to watch.

There was one puppet in particular that she found the most delightful: Bubbleberry, who was little more than a head, hands, and feet stuck on a ball of a body.  The little fluff ball would roll onscreen with the other puppets and try to help a kid with their homework or answer questions, but the only thing on her mind was food.  When a child asked a math problem about splitting up candy, she would answer, ‘Why split it up?  I’d want it all for myself!’ When another child complained about having a tummy ache, she would scoff, ‘You know what you need?  A little ice cream to help settle your stomach!  It always works wonders for my bubble belly!’

Ramona soon found herself enamored by the misadventures of Bubbleberry and her friends, even humming along to the songs when they played.  How anyone of any age could hate such pure, wholesome entertainment was beyond her, as she was hooked like a four year old on a Saturday morning.  She shut out the part of her brain that told her how ridiculous it all was and allowed herself to sink into the warm comfort of the show.

“All right, boys and girls, let’s play a counting game,” Bubbleberry announced to the unseen audience.  “Make sure you’ve got snacks so you can play along at home!”

Quick as the Speed Demon, Ramona raced back to her kitchen to grab a package of cookies so she could follow along with the puppets.  She got back to the couch and ripped the bag open just in time for Bubbleberry to stick a cookie in her felt mouth, munching it into crumbs that would be cleaned by a stagehand afterwards.  Unlike the puppet, Ramona could and did happily munch down on the Milano cookie, cooing at the rich chocolatey taste just like her favorite puppet.

“That’s just one, and that’s no fun!  Go for two—you know what to do!” Bubbleberry cheered as she was fed two more cookies by other puppets.

Ramona matched the rotund puppet bite for bite, cookie for cookie, even as her rhymes climbed higher and higher up the numerical chart.  ‘Golly gee, how about three?  I need more, so let’s do four!’ On and on she counted, her little rhymes worming their way into Ramona’s ears like that Medullian parasite from so long ago.  It got all the way to ‘That was ten, let’s go again,’ and the blue beauty was all too happy to oblige until she ran out of cookies.

“Aw, no,” Ramona groaned as she shook the bag out, only scattering crumbs across her lap.  A pout spread across her lips as she whined, “That’s no fair!  I’m out of cookies!”

As if she could hear into the Brutess’s apartment, Bubbleberry chirped, “If you don’t have cookies, you can count along with whatever you’ve got!  Candy, popcorn, pretzels, or chips—just so long as it’s not broccoli!  Let’s keep playing, okay?”

Her pout spread into a dopey grin as Ramona nodded along and gathered up a bunch of snacks from her well-stocked kitchen, all so she could play along with the puppets.  Bubbleberry repeated her rhymes, this time accompanied by her friends and the occasional child, and Ramona found herself chanting them along with her.  Granted, her rhymes were muffled by constantly being full of food, which only served to spread crumbs in her lap and on her floor.  But what did she care?  She was having such a fun time eating, singing, eating, clapping, and eating.  No one could ask for a better night!

***

“Almost too easy,” Liderul smirked from behind his mask as he watched Brutess gorge herself on enough snacks for a Little League team.  “Team Brute really does live up to its name, eh?  But this is one time their savagery won’t save them.”

Dynamo poked his head out of a console beside his current master and asked, “LIDERUL, I REQUIRE A FIVE MINUTE BREAK TO RECHARGE.  THE BRUTESS SHOULD BE SUFFICIENTLY MESMORIZED AT THIS POINT.”

Liderul creaked his head to the side an inch or two—the most his fragile body could manage—and answered, “Negatory, Dynamo.  If our plan is to succeed, we must make sure that she is dumbed down as quickly as possible.  Continue.”

As the living lightning bolt solemnly returned to its duty, Doc Solomon watched from afar and scratched notes in his journal as the other villains amused themselves with Ramona’s humiliating acts.  He hated seeing her like this, but he needed just a little longer before his plan could go into action…

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Oh wow.

 

First off, Ramna was only 4'11 before hand? No wonder she stays as Bruttess, especially as she had A cups before hand.

But they've already humbled her mentally. She's anxious, absent minded and ditzy, while already getting soft. I'm wondering how much her strength has fallen already and if her powers might crap out all together...

 

And as for Solomon, if he's a double agent he's not doing a very good job...

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12 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

Oh wow.

 

First off, Ramna was only 4'11 before hand? No wonder she stays as Bruttess, especially as she had A cups before hand.

But they've already humbled her mentally. She's anxious, absent minded and ditzy, while already getting soft. I'm wondering how much her strength has fallen already and if her powers might crap out all together...

 

And as for Solomon, if he's a double agent he's not doing a very good job...

Time will tell just how far Ramona falls, and just how effective Solomon really is...

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  • 2 weeks later...

THE RAVISHING BRUTESS - PART 4

In what was fast becoming a recurring scene, Ramona Pierce found herself in the waiting room at Doc Solomon’s practice, but she looked even more out of place than she did when she first showed up two months prior.  Gone was the sharp business suit, replaced by a tracksuit Doctor Sensational had made for her to fit when she needed clothes with extra stretch.  Gone was the cell phone to scroll through while biding her time, replaced with a deep fascination in the bead maze with the rainbow colors and pieces shaped like animals.  Most noticeable of all was the disappearance of her fit and toned body, replaced by something unwieldy and bulky—and not in the hyper muscular style of her brother.

The Brutess that took up an entire loveseat was a bloated parody of herself, looking less like a fitness model from Pandora and more like Violet Beauregarde at 50% full.  A ring of fat circled her neck, giving her the appearance of a bullfrog mid-croak, and her chubby chipmunk cheeks masked what had once been a razor sharp face.  The flab around her arms had grown so big that the average person could use them for a pillow, and the threads of the track jacket creaked whenever Ramona moved her arms wrong.  But at least the jacket still fit around her arms; the same could not be said for the biggest breasts in the superhero business by a country mile.

She had never shared this secret, but Ramona was so worried about the size of her breasts that she used to dream of having tits that swelled to the size of actual zeppelins, only for them to burst and leave her flat all over again.  While her breasts had not grown that big, they were still far larger than she could handle, even with her immense strength.  They had grown bigger than any sports equipment or produce could describe, and even cow udders were nowhere near as large as the massive milkers that bobbled about.  The most apt simile was that the blue butterball looked nine months pregnant, but the b**s were growing in the wrong place.

That was not to say her belly was spared any growth, because it most certainly had not.  What used to be rock solid had grown soft and flabby in just a matter of weeks, swelling out so far that she could not see her feet and even a few steps ahead.  It bounced in front of her like a yoga ball, and with how often it caused her shirts to ride up, Ramona often just let it fly loose rather than waste the energy fixing it for the umpteenth time.  The same could be said for her flabby backside, which just barely fit in her trackpants and needed to be hiked up constantly, lest the public catch a glimpse of her grand canyon.  She was so wide that double doors were a necessity, unless she tried turning sideways and squeezing through doorways, but even that was becoming difficult as she got bigger.

“All right, Mrs. Dog, are you and the puppies ready to go for another ride?” Ramona asked the dog-shaped beads.  She wiggled the lead toy around and barked before giggling, “Okay, let’s go to the other side.  Whee!”

Her playtime was interrupted by a nurse, who waved to her and asked, “Ms. Pierce, Dr. Rex is ready for you whenever you are.”

The interruption offered her a moment of clarity, and when Ramona realized she had been playing with a child’s toy, she dropped it like a hot potato and turned purple with embarrassment.  She murmured, “Sorry, sorry…I was just testing its quality.”

“It’s quite all right, ma’am,” the nurse replied with consummate professionalism.  “This is a judgement-free zone, and you can do whatever makes you happy.”

While she was sure the nurse meant well, Ramona was not so certain as she glanced around the waiting room at the various people idling about.  It was bad enough that a superhero was visiting a therapist in the first place, but to see one acting like a toddler?  They must have wondered why they put their faith in her in the first place, and the blue beauty would not have an answer to that.  She hoped that Solomon would be able to figure out what was wrong with her, because she was at wit’s end after what happened in the office the day before…

***

“Oof…that’s good soup,” Ramona mumbled as she leaned back in her chair and patted her full stomach.  “I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got the magic touch with food.”

“Oh, it’s just a lot of practice and effort,” Mabel hummed as she cleared away the salad bowl her boss had been eating her chicken tortilla soup from.  “And it’s also because you’ve been such a big help with taste-testing my recipes.  You have no idea how much it means to get your opinion.”

Bladearang was sure to appreciate how much Brutess enjoyed her cooking, but she would love how fat the giantess had grown after supping on the highly caloric meals.  Mabel had seen plenty of full-bodied people in her life—being from Kentucky, the obesity capital of the USA—but her hated rival really took the cake.  Even with the added height of her transformed body, Ramona was enormous; were she back to her normal height, she would be as wide around as she was tall.  It was particularly telling when the elevator creaked when she stepped on, inspiring several people to take the stairs, lest they plummet to their death or wind up as fat as her one day.

The best part, the one that made the whole charade worth it, was how oblivious the heroine was to her increasingly flabby body.  She had been so anal-retentive just a few weeks prior, but it now seemed like a simple jingling of keys was enough to distract her.  Boredom came easy, especially when she could spend her time playing games on her tablet—children’s games, the only apps Liderul would allow to run on the device.  Thankfully, she had Mabel to rely on when it came to all those tedious reports and meetings; it gave her plenty of time to watch TV and doodle in her coloring books.

Ramona let out a puff of air as she rubbed her tender belly, ignorant to how her sausage fingers pressed into a pillowy mass.  Her eyelids fluttered as sleep threatened to overtake her, but she was roused from her pre-nap by Mabel setting a bowl of chicken tortilla soup in front of her, which felt eerily familiar to her.  Maybe she had some the other day?

“Hope you saved your appetite, because I made us a batch of chicken tortilla soup with just a hint of habanero pepper,” her friendly intern said with a grin that normally seemed pleasant, but now seemed hostile—almost predatory.

“I…I don’t know if I’m hungry,” Ramona replied in between yawns.  “Chicken Topeka soup?  Didn’t I just have that yesterday?  Or…wait, didn’t I just eat?”

There was a twitch in Mabel’s eye before she regained her composure and broadened her smile, which only made her seem more unsettling.  She gleefully answered, “Of course not, silly!  I mean, if you had eaten already, why do I still have a big bowl of soup left?”

Ramona nibbled on her lip for a moment before nodding and mumbling, “Right…right, that makes sense.  Sorry, Mabel, I just don’t know where my head’s at today.”

“Which is all the more reason to eat!  After all, you know what Bubbleberry says—you can’t think on an empty stomach,” Mabel hummed as she opened up the container of soup.

“Wait, what did you sayyyyoh, that smells good,” the befuddled heroine murmured, her thoughts cast aside when she got a whiff of the soup.  She grabbed up her spoon, which was more akin to a ladle, and greedily slurped up soup as she forgot all about her worries.

Mabel held back a sigh of relief, having avoided a 700-pound bullet.  Liderul had managed to avoid being discovered thus far, and even though Brutess was far gone, she needed to make sure the hulking heroine stayed that way.  With how quickly she was wolfing down her meal though, Mabel felt certain that she had her ‘boss’ caught hook, line, and stinker.  In fact, she felt so emboldened, that she reached out with a napkin and dabbed away the splatters of soup that wound up on Ramona’s chubby cheeks and desk.

“My, my, what a big mess!  Does Brutie need a bib when she eats?” the devious criminal cooed.

It was a taunt that would have gotten her knocked into kingdom come before, but now, it barely registered in her enemy’s mind.  Instead, Ramona grunted around a mouthful of soup, “No…Brutess no need bib.  Brutess not baby.”

“Then you need to eat like a big girl and use some table manners,” Mabel teased.  “If you use your table manners, I’ll even get you a candy bar from the vending machine!”

That lit a spark in her sluggish brain, and Ramona ate much more carefully through the course of the second lunch.  Mabel plied her with more and more food, from thick slices of buttery cornbread to heaping scoops of creamy coleslaw, but she was none the wiser to how much she was gobbling up.  It was only when her crafty feeder ran out of food that she stopped eating, and even though her belly had grown twice its size and was stretched tight as a drum, she still wanted that candy bar.

“Did…did Brutie eat good?” she murmured, her normally strong voice barely audible as she struggled to keep the massive meal in.

“You did very good,” Mabel answered with a condescending pat to her rival’s head, relishing in how empty it had become.  “I think that’s even earned you a second treat!  I’ll get you a candy bar and a honey bun.  Doesn’t that just sound yummy?”

“Yummy-yummy,” Ramona gurgled as she ran her fingers over her stomach once more.

Somehow, she managed to fit the sweets into her mouth before passing out into blissful oblivion, sleeping for the rest of the afternoon; she would have slept the entire night at her desk, had her best work friend not poked her head in.  Chloe Fitzgibbons had been her mentor when Ramona first started out in the business, and they had been inseparable ever since their days at Buscema, Lee, Stone, and Rosen.  Despite Chloe having the eyesight of a mole, asthma, and fifteen stubborn pounds she could never shake, she had been with Ramona through thick and thin.  And even though she had seen this woman battle gods hand to hand, this was the first time she had ever been truly concerned for her.

“Ramona…Ramona, wake up,” the stout Chloe whispered as she nudged Ramona’s shoulder.

“No more cake, Bubbleberry,” Ramona mumbled as she rocked slightly in her sleep.  “Too full…gonna pop…well, just one bite…”

“Okay, Plan B,” Chloe sighed.  She hated having to do this, but trying to wake a sleeping Brutess required a firmer touch at times.  That was why she pulled out her phone and blared an alarm titled DEFCON 1 in Ramona’s ear, which caused her to all but jump out of her chair.

“What’s going on?  Who are we fighting?  Is it the Voidrex again?” Ramona stammered as she glanced around her office for any sign of the threat.

“It’s just the end of the day, Ramona, and I thought you might want to sleep in your own bed instead of your desk,” the smaller woman told her, having to crane her head up to look at her friend.  “You feeling okay?  You’ve been off the last few weeks, and I don’t think I can chalk it up to the panic attack anymore; I mean, you came to work in sweats, for goodness sake!”

After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Ramona glanced down and realized that Chloe spoke the truth—she was clad in a Protectors hoodie that barely reached her navel and left a thick swath of belly on display, Juicy sweatpants with the letters on her ass spread a mile apart, and tie-dye Crocs.  It was just one of many dress code violations she had committed since her panic attack, but she looked over the outfit as if she just realized she was wearing it.

“Why…why am I wearing these?” the heroine mumbled as she tugged on the hoodie to try and cover more of her stomach.  “I don’t even remember putting this on!”

Chloe’s hand on hers helps stabilize her, and the giantess looked down into a pair of gentle, green eyes.  Her longtime companion told her, “This isn’t just about being overworked anymore, Ramona; this is something bigger.  Promise me that you’ll see your therapist first thing in the morning and try to get this figured out, okay?”

“I will, Chloe, I will,” Ramona answered, although her voice was wavering and weak.  “I’m going to beat this; I have to.  I mean, I’m the Ravishing Brutess…right?”

***

“I don’t know what it is, Doc,” Ramona mused as she popped another butterscotch candy in her mouth.  “Lately, I’ve just been feeling overwhelmed…like I’m not really up to the task.  I feel slower—not physically, but mentally, you know?”

“Like a fog?” Solomon suggested.

Ramona nodded and replied, “Yeah, that’s it.  It just feels like my head’s in the clouds, and I don’t know how to get it down.”

The blue-skinned Brutess fidgeted on the couch, her nerves playing tricks on her and making her feel even smaller than her normal, human state.  She was so used to being in control of her life that any deviation caused her a small bit of panic; when she started losing track of things in her day to day, it took everything she had not to freak out.  It was one thing if she forgot her glasses or her briefcase back at her apartment, but to walk out in clothes that did not fit her?  To forget what she had eaten?  Something was very off, but she could not put her finger on it.

“Perhaps we should try some hypnotherapy to get to the root of the problem,” said Solomon as he leaned back in his chair and toyed with the pentacle on his necklace.

“C’mon, Doc, you know I don’t believe that stuff,” Ramona scoffed, even as she picked up another candy.  “Don’t you have anything that would actually work?”

The psychologist shrugged and answered, “Won’t know until you try.”

Ramona was about to contest that before her lips slammed shut and her head fell to the arm of the sofa, except she passed right through it and continued to fall.  It was not a fast plummet, like falling out of a plane; it was a slow sinking, like a boat drifting to the bottom of the sea.  The sensation was so gentle and pleasant that Ramona wished she could drift forever, even as the office grew further and further away.  Light faded into darkness and noise sank into silence, and for the first time in a long while, the Brutess felt at peace.

Of course, nothing good could last forever, and Ramona found herself landing softly atop a bed of cerulean sand.  Movement was stiff and awkward, but she managed to get to her feet after a moment of stretching her limbs, and it was only then that she realized she was no longer Brutess.  Her hair had returned to its normal mousey brown, her body was petite and devoid of any muscle or fat, and her skin was a caramel tan.  It had been so long since she last returned to her human form that it was as alien to her as if she had grown another pair of arms.

“Better get your bearings quick, because we have a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it,” came the soothing voice of Doc Solomon from her right.

Ramona turned and glimpsed her therapist sitting atop a rock, twiddling his pendant and glancing anxiously out to the horizon.  The two of them were no longer seated in Solomon’s cozy office, but situated instead on an island in the middle of a vast sea.  With fingers twitching and panic building inside her, Ramona asked, “Doc, where are we?  What happened?”

“The short answer is that several of your enemies have come together to launch an attack on you by robbing you of your mind and body,” Solomon explained as he hopped down from his perch.  “I’ve been working to build a safe haven for you to rebuild before they break you completely.  It’s a little something I came up with to help your brother when he was being haunted by extradimensional spirits the other year.”

As storm clouds formed on the horizon and Ramona wrapped her arms around herself, Solomon told her, “Welcome to the Blue Lagoon, Ramona Pierce.  Now our work begins.”

***

Back in his lair, the Liderul’s army of machines were putting the finishing touches on a device that would grant him the ultimate revenge on not just Brutess, but the entirety of Team Brute.  His plan had worked perfectly, with mental and physical manipulations softening the Blue Bombshell so much that he could finally break through her defenses and capture her mind.  And if she somehow happened to break free from his clutches, she was in no shape to defend herself; Mabel would have an absolute field day with her if they were to duel now.

“Soon, very soon, I’ll have you, Brutess,” the devious genius chortled before being interrupted by one of his minions.

“Hey, boss, just FYI—I got that veggie platter you asked for,” said Bladearang.

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  • 2 weeks later...

QUEEN CUISINE VS SHE-PANTHER - PART 1

Even before the Geist was killed, there was not much to get excited about in Arcane City, what with its high unemployment, homeless, and crime rates.  Things only got worse when the Geist was killed and the city effectively fell into martial law—only supervillains were dictating the law.  While they would eventually turn slightly towards the better after the general anarchy died down, it remained a city run by thieves and crooks.  Only a select few could live well in the heart of the city, while most chose to work far and away from Arcane; it was far safer to steer clear of the once mighty city than to risk a night on the town.

That was why Queenie’s was such a breath of fresh air in Arcane, as it was a fairly successful business in spite of the dying metropolis around it.  New eateries were something to take note of in such a lifeless city, as most chains avoided Arcane like the plague and fine dining was out of the question when robberies and vandalism were such a strong possibility.  But this little café that popped up almost overnight shined like a beacon in the dead of night and offered something sweet for a city itching for a good turn.  Word spread fast about their delectable offerings, from perfectly brewed coffee to buttery pastries to handmade candy, and it was not long before Queenie’s was the talk of the town.

There was some concern about the café being targeted by the criminal element, but those fears were dashed when it was revealed that the proprietor was none other than Camilla Cooke—formerly known as Queen Cuisine.  Some thought that she was too much of a joke to bother with, but no one wanted to mess with a one-time supervillain, even though she swore that her criminal career was behind her.  Camilla told reporters and visitors that she wanted to make amends, and providing a little comfort to her hometown was just her way of paying back.

“Simple fact is that this city needed a little transfusion, and I’m just the gal to do it,” the owner told her latest friend from the press as she leaned back in her desk chair.  “I’ve always believed that the best way to help a broken heart is with good cooking, and my cooking’s good enough to heal all wounds.  Anything we don’t sell at the end of the day gets donated to local shelters, and I try to keep prices as affordable as possible so even someone a little short on cash can get a bite to eat.”

“Well, I think that all sounds lovely, Ms. Cooke,” said ** Cuttler, a representative from Channel 7 looking to cash in on the latest news that was not about murder or arson.  “And may I just say, off the record, that you look great?  You’ve got to tell me your secret.”

Camilla laughed off the compliment, as she got it quite frequently from an unbelieving public.  Not only was she forty-three, but she had spent the last fifteen years behind bars; no one would fault her for looking a little worse for the wear, yet she did not look a day over thirty.  Her earthy skin was free of blemishes and wrinkles, and there was not a single strand of gray to be found in her hair—nor any dye covering it.  While she was thick, she was a far cry from the chubby crook that used to cause mischief across town, having developed a foundation of muscle that made her look like a plus-size model in the middle of a culinary-themed photoshoot.

“Let’s just say that I saw a lot of lost causes in Cherrywood and decided that I would never let myself look that bad,” Camilla giggled.  “But thank you again for coming out, **—I really appreciate this chance to tell my story.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.  I ought to be thanking you for these amazing muffins,” the reporter replied as she held up a cinnamon apple muffin.  “They were just what the doctor ordered.”

Camilla flashed a toothy grin at ** as the tawny woman took another bite of the fluffy muffin—her third since sitting down.  While the former Queen Cuisine had changed most of her ways, some things had remained the same, and chief among those was her penchant for fattening up unsuspecting peoples.  She could not help herself: there was just something irresistible about watching someone thin or fit fill out until there was no trace of a thigh gap or muscle; the sight of someone walking by in clothes that were too tight for them was enough to heat her up.  None of the food she offered in the café was tainted with additives, but whenever she got some alone time, she liked to break out the good stuff.

Unfortunately, her show was interrupted by one of the supervisors bursting into the office.  Allison Catt panted as she caught her breath, but she had the same frantic look in her eyes as when she realized she was late for lunch.  “Miss…Ms. Cooke, we’ve got an issue out front.  There’s, like, a really bad customer out there and she’s making a total scene.”

While most had left Camilla’s little shop in peace, there were some punks who still tried to make a mess from time to time.  She dealt with them in her own way, and this would be no exception; she just wished that it did not detract from watching a cutie stuff her cheeks.  With an exasperated groan, Camilla got up and apologized, “S’cuse me, Pheebs, I’ve got to take care of this.  Allie, be a doll and make sure that Miss Cuttler gets a little care package to take home with her, okay?”

As she left Allison to collect **’s to-go order, Camilla stormed out into the café proper to see just who was making a fuss.  People were either trying to mind their own business or gawking at whatever was going on, and the former criminal had to force her way through until she arrived at the source of the trouble.  Sadly, it was not someone as manageable as low-level punks or even a Z-List villain like Princess Paisley—it was She-Panther, the muscle of the Gangland Gals, and she had reduced a former member of the gang to tears.

“—and tell them that I’m starving and want something good now!” the She-Panther growled at Mona Warr, formerly known as the Jellyfish and looking just as tough as one.  “Now, waddle your fat ass back to the kitchen, you hillbilly skank, before I decide to eat you instead!”

Mona blubbered an incoherent reply, thick tears creating a black stream of mascara down her cheeks, and turned so fast that she nearly bumped into Camilla.  The once menacing Jellyfish winced and quickly stammered, “S-S-Sorry, sugar, I gotta check on Ms. Kasatkina’s order.”

“Why don’t you go to the back room and sit down for a few, okay?” Camilla suggested as she patted Mona on the shoulder.  “I’ll have one of the girls bring you a hot chocolate, and then we’ll have a chat when I’m done.”

The bottom-heavy blonde was all too eager to escape, her fighting spirit drained from her after weeks of being hounded by what she believed to be a resurrected Geist.  Camilla almost felt sorry for her former partner in crime as Mona waddled back to the office as fast as her thunder thighs could carry her, but she had bigger things to worry about—namely, the 300-pound panther in the room.

Lyudmila Kasatkina never had it easy in life, from growing up as an immigrant to having a mutation that caused her to grow hair all over her body.  When she realized that there was no way of getting rid of it, she toughened up and fought back against anyone that insulted her, earning herself a reputation as a vicious hellcat at a young age.  This reputation only increased as she got older and her mutation grew stronger, where she developed a new pair of ears on top of her head and a tail that was sharp as a bullwhip.  She initially started off as a very agile street fighter who relied on feline nimbleness to give her an edge, but time and injuries saw her switch to a more brutal, hard-hitting style; as such, she now sported a muscular physique that put even superheroes to shame.

“I don’t appreciate you harassing my staff, Lyudmila,” Camilla told her former colleague, arms crossed under her plump chest.  “As far as reunions go, this ain’t a good start.”

Lyudmila downed a tall cup of coffee and leered at the retired criminal.  “Maybe you ought to staff your place with girls that can take orders and aren’t wash-ups; that, and I like to see that frigid bitch squirm after acting all high and mighty for years.”

“You don’t get to talk about Mona or any of my staff like that, and you know it,” Camilla growled, looking much fiercer in her lavender chef clothes than one would expect.  “You’re going to have to leave if you can’t play nice.”

“Ha!  Look who spent a little time behind bars and thinks she can take on the world,” Lyudmila chuckled before shooting out of her chair and towering over her fellow Gangland Gal.  An inhumanly long tongue danced across her lips and sharp teeth before she continued, “You might think you’re hot stuff after all these years, but all I see is the same little clown that tried to hang with the popular girls and got burned.  I could press two of you without even breaking a sweat; you look like you’d probably get tired out just stretching.  Still want to try and kick me out?”

If she thought Camilla would back down from her show of intimidation, Lyudmila was dead-wrong, and she felt the hackles raise as the air changed between them.  There was something off about the stout baker that was imperceptible to the naked eye, but the enhanced senses of the She-Panther told her the doughy woman was dangerous.  She still felt that she could take Camilla if they came to blows, though there was now a needling doubt in the back of her mind.

After what felt like an eternity of them staring each other down, the former Queen Cuisine told the felonious feline, “I’m not the same loser you used to know, Lyudmila.  You can either leave through the window or the door—your call.”

Lyudmila leaned in and snarled like her namesake, but Camilla still did not flinch.  That nagging doubt still lingered in her mind, and she was not about to have it proven correct.  She hissed, “The coffee tasted like rat-piss anyway.”

With her empty insult made, the She-Panther stormed out of the restaurant and slammed the door with such force that the glass shattered.  She flipped off Camilla as she walked by the front of the café and sneered, “Good luck running this shithole, Queenie!”

Those still in the café, meanwhile, were silent as they waited to see how the proprietor would react to all this as, for a brief moment, it felt like Camilla would explode.  Thankfully, she let out a long sigh and threw on a tired smile as she told her customers and staff, “Folks, I’m so sorry about that: we’ll clean things up here, but please feel free to enjoy your food and drinks; if you’d like anything else, your next order is on me!”

Instantly, the air in the café lightened up and a peaceful calm returned as people went back to their pastries and coffee.  Camilla busied herself with sweeping up the glass at the front of the store, putting in a call for a repairman that could be out the same day, and comforting Mona with a tray of cornbread and maple bacon donuts.  She did her best to come off as happy-go-lucky, but her mind was a dark, raging storm as she calculated her next move against her former accomplice.  Her machinations had done a number on the woman once known as the Jellyfish, and if everything went according to plan, the She-Panther would soon be extinct…

***

After cowing to Camilla’s demands, Lyudmila was in a fighting mood and gave a few unfortunate souls some wicked scars on the way back to her den—a gym that she had commandeered from the previous owner.  Her lair was not as expensive as the Jellyfish’s had been, nor was it as colorful as Big Top’s abandoned theme park on the outskirts of town, but this suited the hellcat perfectly.  She did not need any pretenses or gimmicks to be a successful criminal; all she needed was brute strength and an intimidating look, which came all too naturally for her.  Besides, with how dingy and decrepit the building had become under her ‘ownership’, it made for a suitably eerie environment that few would be caught dead in.

The gym was equipped with all kinds of equipment—all of which was stolen in some capacity—and Lyudmila used all of them to a varying degree.  Some were more worn than others, with the weights and punching bag especially showing signs of damage from her using them to vent her frustrations.  It was the latter that she targeted first when she got in, pummeling the punching bag with such ferocity that it began to leak sand in a matter of seconds.

“Why didn’t you put her head through a fucking wall, you weak bitch?” Lyudmila growled as she continued to pound the bag.  “What are you scared of?  It’s just goddamn Queen Cuisine!  She’s a fat, little troll that couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag!”

Just when she knocked the punching bag off its hook, the lights in the gym went out one after the other until a single, flickering bulb over the gym’s boxing ring remained on.  Lyudmila spun around and sniffed the air for any sign of danger, and the first thing that struck her was a heavy sulphuric odor that made her gag.  Her hackles shot up in an instant and her eyes grew wide as dinner plates as she searched for the source of the foul stench.  She did not have to look long, for it came to her—a masked figure standing by the fire exit, surrounded by a cloud of pale green smoke.

“She-Panther…I’ve come to end your reign of terror, you bloodthirsty animal,” the Geist snarled from behind his mask.  “Not even death can stop justice.”

Lyudmila’s blood ran ice cold when she saw the Geist standing there, alive and well, despite her slashing his throat in their last encounter.  She pointed a clawed finger at the vigilante and hissed, “You’re dead!  You should be worm food by now!”

“And yet, here we are,” the ghastly hero replied with a voice as hard as stone.  “You used all your strength and savagery, and what did it get you?  I’m still here, and you’re no better off than the day you killed me.  How does it feel to still be the runt of the litter after all these years?”

The only reply the Geist received was a bestial roar as Lyudmila dashed at him with all the speed of her namesake and tried for a tackle.  He moved quite fast for a dead man though, and nimbly dodged to the side like a matador; he even landed a blow to her ribs as she flew past.  This only infuriated the She-Panther further, and she lashed out at her foe with a flurry of swipes that were so fast, the very air itself became a razor.  Still, the Geist did not go down, deftly batting her paws away with his own strikes that seemed random and defensive at first, but as the barrage continued, she began to grow sluggish.

“What happened to your stamina, She-Panther?  We only just got started, and you’re already breathing hard,” the Geist remarked after side-stepping out of her attack.  “You’re getting old, is that it?  But if all you’re good for is your muscle and you lose that, what good are you to anyone?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Lyudmila growled as she continued to attack her old enemy, but his taunts were proving unfortunately accurate for her.  She had spent so many years focusing on brute force to win fights that her stamina was at an all-time low; it did not matter if she could hit like a truck if that truck ran out of gas.  “I’m going to paint Eisner Park with your blood!”

“No, I don’t think you will,” retorted the Geist, and Lyudmila knew it was true. 

After countering one of her blows with a palm-heel strike that cracked two ribs and left the cat-woman howling in agony, the masked vigilante twisted his neck from side to side.  Lyudmila clutched at her side as she felt real pain for the first time in years, and though she tried to half-heartedly swipe at the Geist, it did her no good.  He proceeded to dissect her as if his hands were scalpels, striking at nerve centers and joints across the She-Panther’s body until she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.  Pain and fear were the only things she felt as the feline fighter frothed at the mouth, her limbs twitching as they tried to get into working condition once more.

“K-K-Kill…kill you,” Lyudmila gurgled, fruitlessly scratching at the floor as she tried to reach for her most hated enemy, who answered the empty threat with a sigh.

“You never were a quick learner,” the Geist grunted as he walked around his fuming foe and grabbed her right arm.  “But I’m going to give you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

With one violent yank, the masked man popped her arm right out of the socket at the shoulder, sending a white-hot pain through her entire body.  Lyudmila almost blacked out on the spot as she writhed on the floor like a worm in the rain, her mind racing at a million thoughts a minute as every one of her nerves screamed in pain.  She was barely cognizant of the Geist standing over her, nudging her with a combat boot as if she was little more than roadkill and clicking his tongue in mock sympathy.

“That’s going to take some time to heal, even for your freakish regenerative ability.  Maybe the next time I come around, you’ll have learned your place, but I doubt it,” the masked mutilator sneered before booting Lyudmila in the head and sending her to sleep.

The Geist made a quick escape from the gym, retreating to the safety of a nearby alleyway where a motorcycle waited for him under the cover of darkness.  He sped off into the night, never stopping until he reached his destination—Queenie’s, which had long since closed for the night.  A quick trip up the fire escape behind the building and the vigilante stepped into a cozy two-bed apartment that had a perfect view of the dumpsters out back.  He tossed his fedora and mask to the side, revealing it was not Nathaniel Holt under the disguise, but Camilla Cooke.

“Not a bad workout,” the former villainess remarked as she rolled her shoulders around.  “Almost makes me want to keep Lyudmila around, but that furry bitch needs to be brought down a peg or three.  Guess we’ll see if she learned her lesson or not…”

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QUEEN CUISINE VS SHE-PANTHER - PART 2

Camilla did not see Lyudmila for a couple of weeks, and when the feisty felon darkened her doorway again, she had a hunch that it would not go as poorly as their last encounter.  The battered She-Panther was looking better than she did back at the gym, but she still sported a sling for the dislocated arm and an awkward gait.  When Mona meekly showed her to a table, there was no badmouthing or sneering about her; in fact, she had a far-off look in her eyes the entire time.  It was only when the pudgy proprietor of the café stopped by that she finally snapped to attention.

“I’m not here to start any trouble, don’t worry,” Lyudmila huffed as she rested her chin in her good hand.  “Your coffee is actually okay—plus, this place is closer to the gym.”

“Apology accepted,” Camilla replied with the sincerest smile she could manage.  “So, dare I ask how the other guy looks?”

Lyudmila’s eyes darkened at the question and she glanced down at the table, resisting the urge to tear through it with her claws.  She looked up to her old accomplice with trepidation and told her, “It was the Geist that did this.  He broke into my place a couple weeks back and…well, let’s just say it didn’t go so hot for me.”

It took every ounce of control she had to keep her poker face, but Camilla managed to appear appropriately shocked and awed.  “The Geist?  But that’s not possible!  He’s been dead for years!”

“Keep your voice down!” Lyudmila hissed as she gestured for the cook to join her.  “Look, superheroes come back from the dead all the time, right?  Maybe this one just took longer than the others because of how bad off he was when he died, but that don’t matter—the point is he’s back.  I ain’t been this bad off since my first scrap in grade school; he worked me over like one of them assassins over in the Shadow Brigade or whatever.”

“Golly,” Camilla mumbled in amazement.  “Do you really think he’s back?  Maybe it’s just some kind of impostor running around.”

Lyudmila shook her head and whispered, “Not a chance: he used the same moves that night I tried knocking over that armored truck; the only difference is the arm he wrecked.  This is the real deal, and I’m not in the right condition to deal with him!  That’s why I need your help.”

“Me?  Gosh, I don’t know what I could do for you,” Camilla replied.  “And I can’t afford to get wrapped up in anything off the level after I just got out a few months ago.”

“Relax, relax, you’ll be clean,” the félin fatal retorted like a shady car salesman.  “I just need you to give me a little boost, like what you did when you helped Madame Lash train for the Crime-a-lympics.  You could mix be the best protein shakes possible and give me so many electrolytes that I could zap people!  And when I’m all jacked up on home cooking, I’ll rip the Geist’s head off and chuck it so far downriver that he’ll never come back!”

Camilla put her fingers to her lips in thought, and to the unsuspecting Lyudmila, she appeared to be considering the job.  What she did not know was that her former comrade in crime was considering all the ways she could spin this in her favor.  Taking out the She-Panther could have been as simple as snapping her neck back at the gym, but that would have been too easy—and if Mona’s saddlebags were any barometer, Camilla had no intention of going easy on the other Gangland Gals.  The only question was ‘how’ she would utterly ruin this behemoth’s life, not ‘if’.

“All right, I’m in,” Camilla agreed as she put her hands over Lyudmila’s fuzzy paw.  “No one messes with the Gangland Gals if I have anything to say about it.  But if we do this, I need you to follow my instructions to the letter, comprendes?”

It was not something that came easily to the snarling enforcer, but Lyudmila was willing to forsake her pride if it meant getting payback on the Geist.  She sighed and answered, “I’ll do whatever you ask me to—I promise.”

Camilla smiled sweetly and gave her new target an assuring squeeze as she told her, “Then let me whip up a little something that’ll help those nagging injuries heal up faster, and I’ll work on a little workout routine for you.  When we’re done, the Geist won’t even be able to recognize you!”

Lyudmila liked the sound of that, as she pictured herself stomping through the streets with muscles that would put Brutess to shame, but Camilla had an entirely different picture in her mind for the feisty felon.  She could still see She-Panther stomping through the streets, but only because she was so laden with fat that she could only walk with heavy, clumsy steps.  Through devilish machinations, the former Queen Cuisine had transformed the iron-willed Jellyfish into a lily-livered shell of her former self and ate to feel better whenever anyone raised their voice to her.  That was going to look like child’s play compared to what she had in mind for the strongest woman in Arcane City…

***

After Queenie’s closed up for the day and Camilla made her rounds to the shelters, she ventured over to Lyudmila’s gym with a box full of supplies.  The exterior of the gym was just as decrepit as the buildings around it, with the faded sign at the top of the building coming away from the wall and windows covered with trash bags rather than plywood.  It was a sad state, but that was just how Arcane City was, even before the Geist had been killed; it was a city so depressing that even villains who fed off misery tended to avoid it.  But one man’s dumpster-fire is another man’s grill, and the shoddy gym was home sweet home for Lyudmila, who gave her old accomplice a grin as Camilla walked in.

“Damn, Cammy, whatever you put in that coffee helped a ton,” the meathead exclaimed as she rolled both arms around at the shoulder.  “I honestly feel like a million bucks.  What did you do, add some morphine or something?”

“The secret ingredient is good beans, good milk, and a whole lot of love,” Camilla answered, skipping the key ingredient—dawnshade, an herb used by the Shadow Brigade to accelerate healing in their bodies.  Granted, the herb was only supposed to be used in life or death situations, and much like sports drinks, was far less beneficial for the casual user.

Lyudmila sniffed around the box in Camilla’s hands and asked, “What’cha got there?  Smells like granola, fruit, and honey.  Did’ja steal some Nature Valley bars from the grocery store?”

“Please, like that store-bought crap is actually good for you,” the culinarily-minded woman scoffed.  “I made you some protein and energy bars myself!  All the effects those crap bars claim to give you?  These will actually get the job done.  Let me set this down and I’ll give you a sample.”

The two walked over to a nearby folding table, where Camilla set her crate down and unveiled the goodies inside.  There were several plastic containers of bars, each of different colors and textures; some were yellow and smooth like lemon bars, others were light brown and rough like granola bars.  When Camilla opened them up, the delectable aromas inside were magnified, and Lyudmila could not help but lick her chops in anticipation.  The furry fighter picked up a soft, dark bar that smelled of plums and popped the entire bar into her mouth as if it was a fun-size candy.

“Holy fuck, that’s good,” Lyudmila groaned as the rich, sweet flavors washed over her mouth.  She gulped it down before she had a chance to really savor it, so she quickly snatched up another so she could relish the taste for a little longer.  “Seriously, Cammy, you’ve got to start adding these to your menu.  These things are the shit!”

“Well, I’m glad that you approve, but remember to space them out,” Camilla cautioned, knowing full well that the She-Panther would not be able to resist the delicacies.  “You’ve got to exercise moderation, okay?  Too much of a good thing isn’t good for you.”

“Whatever, ‘Mom’,” She-Panther grunted before getting poked in the side by a very stern Camilla, who glowered up at her like an irate mother.

“I need you to be serious about this, Lyudmila, unless you want the Geist to give you another thrashing,” the cross cook explained.  “And don’t get sarcastic with me, understand?  I’m helping you because we go way back and I don’t want to see anyone get torn up by a punk vigilante, but I won’t help you if you won’t show me some respect.  Are we clear?”

The only person to ever talk back to Lyudmila like that was her babushka, and she was not about to let a frumpy little wannabe boss her around.  But as much as she wanted to tear Camilla a new one, she wanted revenge against the Geist even more, so she swallowed her fury and answered, “Yeah, we’re clear—but don’t get used to being in charge around here, got that?”

Camilla only answered with a nod before she moved on to the other contents in the box.  “Now, the bars are one part of your regiment; I’ve got plenty of other tricks here.  I know how much you like your protein shakes, so I’ve concocted my own special blend that’ll have you shredded in no time.  And you’ll want supplements to make sure you stay well-rounded, so you’ve got a couple packs of vitamins there—I even wrapped them in dark chocolate for extra taste.  Everything here is handmade and designed to give you the boost you need for this fight.”

Lyudmila looked over the variety pack in front of her and remarked, “Shit, you really know your stuff, huh?  You must have made the best damn prison wine at Cherrywood.”

“I did, but let’s skip to the next part of this training,” Camilla told the urban jungle cat.  “You’ve got to cut out all the foul mouth language and show a little decorum.  You know who talks like that?  Punks and amateurs, that’s who; real villains show a little class.”

“Oh, bullshit they do,” Lyudmila grunted as she crossed her powerful arms under her chest.  “I’m not trying to get a makeover here, Queenie; all I need you to do is make some food that’ll give me an edge over the Geist.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do for you, pussycat!  Strength isn’t just about being able to lift more than the other guy; you have to be able to keep your cool even in the heat of battle.  If you blow your stack and start acting a fool, you’re only going to get your ass kicked again, and you might not get spared next time.  You’ve got to fight smarter, not harder, if you want to stop the Geist from going to town on you again,” Camilla explained to her reluctant student.

Anyone else who tried to tell that to Lyudmila would have ended up a stain on the wall, but Camilla was smarter than that.  She knew the Gangland Gals better than anyone—even themselves—and after honing her craft in prison, she was ready to use every trick in the book.  The best way to get a mindless brute like She-Panther was to play to her pride and vanity, constantly reminding her of the threats to her life should she fail to listen to her ‘friend’s’ advice.  It was a risky, calculated move to try and goad the hair-trigger fiend into compliance, but Camilla had trained under some of the most devious minds on the whole planet.  If anyone was going to bring the dreaded She-Panther to heel, it would be Queen Cuisine.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Lyudmila relented, “just lay off a little, okay?  I haven’t had a proper coach in thirty fu…freaking years, and you know darn well I don’t take to commands unless I’m getting paid.”

“No one ever said getting fit would be easy, Lyudmila, but we’ll take it slow for now,” Camilla replied, allowing the felon a brief reprieve for the time being.  “Now, can you let me see the equipment you’re working with?”

The tour was where Lyudmila truly came alive, as she not only got to show off her (stolen) possessions but also how each one was used.  It was like watching a comic fan show off his prized collection of back issues, and Camilla was genuinely amused by the eagerness with which her target flaunted her goods.  She knew that the She-Panther was in good spirits when she caught the woman’s long, fuzzy tail wagging excitedly as she went from machine to machine.

“So, what do you think?” Lyudmila asked as they came back to the table.  “Pretty sweet, right?  The best part is I save a fortune not buying into some phony gym contract.”

Camilla gave one more glance around the gym before nodding and remarking, “It’s pretty impressive, not going to lie.  You’ve got some good equipment here, but I think I can make a couple calls to get you some new stuff, like maybe a punching bag even you can’t tear up.”

“Hell yes!” Lyudmila whooped, only to receive a flick on the arm from a stern Camilla.  “Oh, come on, I can’t even say ‘hell’?”

“Only if you’re some try-hard edgelord who gets relegated to the dustbin of history,” the cocky cook reminded her protégé, who scowled down at her with a look that could kill lesser people—but not someone with experience like hers.

Lyudmila relented and gave a more halfhearted, “Heck yeah.  Now, do you have any tips for new exercises?  I want to be like a Swiss Army knife, able to kill a man a dozen different ways like some of those super-soldier types do.”

Camilla was about to answer before her phone buzzed in her coat pocket and she snapped her fingers at the reminder.  “Sorry, pussycat, but I’ll tell you more tomorrow; I promised my niece I’d stop by to give her some help with her bake sale at school.  But I left you a little notebook with some things I picked up at Cherrywood that might be helpful to you, and I’ll ask around for any tips that might help you!  How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Lyudmila answered with a grin.  She plucked another protein bar from the box and took a bite before telling Camilla, “And, um…thanks again for this.  I know I can be a bit of a bit—a bit much, I mean, so I appreciate the help.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Camilla replied, a warm smile spread across her chubby cheeks.  “We’re friends, Lyudmila, and I promised I’d help you become a new person, didn’t I?  We’re going to take it one step at a time, but you’ll be so much better for it in the end.”

The two parted ways with a quick handshake, and not the bone-crushing kind that Lyudmila normally went for.  On her way out, Camilla sent Maxine a quick text to let her know she would be a little late getting to the house but was on her way over.  Then, when she was in the privacy of her car, she made a call to another old friend—one who owed her a favor or three.

Camilla hummed, “Mechy, baby, it’s your gal, Camilla!  Hope everything’s going all right for you and Jerome.  Hey, I need you to put together a few toys for me if you could; I’m getting started on that little project we talked about back in ‘Nam.  The sooner you can get them to me, the better, and I’m willing to give you a couple goodies that’ll really put some meat on your hubby’s bones.  All right, ciao!”

***

Back at the Cooke Residence, Maxine was eagerly awaiting her aunt’s arrival, as Camilla’s tips were her secret weapon in winning the bake-off at Homecoming Week.  The recipes she had shared from prison were a hit with the athlete’s friends, but now that she was free and able to come over, she was teaching Maxine techniques that she never knew.  While her sister, Sarah, took after their aunt more in the culinary department, Maxine was no slouch in the kitchen herself—and besides, she shared a few other traits with her aunt.

“Looks like we still have a little time before my aunt gets here, which means we’ve got a chance to finish this pizza,” the thick girl purred to an even thicker girl on the couch.  “Come on, baby, I know you’ve still got room in that tummy of yours.”

People often wondered how Maxine Cooke and Courtney Liebowitz got together: the former was captain of the softball team, had a boyish fashion sense, and liked to jog at 4 am; the latter was president of the ‘smoke behind the Starbucks’ club, preferred gothic dresses, and would have slept to noon if she could.  But what started as a silly game of seven minutes of heaven spiraled into a full-blown relationship as both girls could not get enough of each other.  Courtney adored whenever Maxine would play-wrestle her onto the couch, and Maxine adored how her already fat girlfriend was growing even bigger under her tender loving care.

Plump lips hung open as Courtney took shallow breaths, her belly too full of pizza for much else, but she still eyeballed the box with desire.  Even though she had outgrown her favorite lacy underwear and sported a belly bigger than a woman with triplets, she could not get enough of the food Maxine prepared or ordered for her—specifically, how the stronger girl fed them to her.  Her chubby hands, which were now too thick for her fishnet gloves, rubbed her stomach to ease the aching pain six thick slices had brought with them.

“Oh…Maxie, I don’t know if I can,” Courtney huffed, her cheeks red and round as tomatoes.  “I’m too full…one more bite, and I’ll pop!”

Maxine answered by sauntering over, straddling her girlfriend’s lap, and picking up a slice loaded with toppings.  She held it up to the growing goth’s lips and purred, “I know my Porky Courtney better than that: she can eat anything, especially when she knows how much I love a clean plate…”

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QUEEN CUISINE VS SHE-PANTHER - PART 3

Being something of a protein fiend, Lyudmila was used to waking up each morning to a tall glass of raw eggs and sausage just barely cooked, which was why it was so surprising to wake up to the breakfast Camilla prepared for her.  Gone was her glass of eggs, replaced with a frosty milkshake and orange juice; the sausage was there, but it was just one part of a large omelet.  These were joined by a couple slices of toast topped with avocado and what looked like little squares of bread—‘wheat cakes’, as the stocky cook had called them.  It smelled absolutely delicious and Lyudmila would be lying if she said she did not want it, but she questioned the overall health benefits of such a feast.

“Camilla, you sure this is a good idea for me to eat?  This can’t be good for my diet—or any diet,” the furry woman mused as she poked at one of the wheat cakes.

“Don’t be silly!  Just look at all this right here,” Camilla hummed, pointing to each of the items in front of Lyudmila.  “That omelet has got so much more protein in it than just a glass of eggs, avocados have plenty of healthy oils, and wheat’s the best kind of carb!  This is going to give you a lot more energy than just dumping whey powder down your throat.”

Lyudmila crinkled her nose and furrowed her brow as if deep in thought, but Camilla knew she was no closer to connecting the dots than before; this was the same woman who thought the best way to try and kill the Geist was to throw a rock at him.  Sure enough, the She-Panther shrugged her shoulders and tucked into the meal without another thought about whether this was actually good for bulking up as intended.  Any lingering doubts were chased from her mind as she purred with bliss at that first mouthful, savoring rich flavors that no microwave meal could match.

“Sho darn good,” Lyudmila groaned before stuffing her mouth with more omelet and chasing it down with a big gulp of milkshake.

Camilla watched on with barely contained glee as her latest target consumed thousands of calories in one sitting, to say the least of the chemical enhancements that had gone into each ingredient.  When she first started out as a criminal in Arcane City, she had been intimidated by the upper echelon of criminals that reigned over the cesspool, as their crimes went far beyond the whimsical robberies that the likes of Queen Cuisine flocked to.  The elite criminals of the past were diabolical masterminds who did their deeds not for a swashbuckling, heart-pounding thrill, but because they were monsters who fed on human misery.  To them, there was no sweeter satisfaction than to corrupt that which was beautiful and good, like watching a cinnamon roll grow stale and moldy in the sun.

It took getting locked up for a decade and a half, but Camilla was starting to come around to their viewpoint.  Like the Count of Monte Cristo, she had spent years fantasizing about what she would do to each one of the Gangland Gals for framing her, so much so that she could recite every step verbatim before long.  The first few years were spent thinking of how best to kill them, first by some elaborate death trap then by something as simple as a bullet to the brain, but that was too good for the treacherous taints and it did not match her style.  No, if she was going to punish them, she was going to do it her way—with good cooking—but she would not stop at simply popping their pants.

“That was fuc—mighty tasty, Queenie,” Lyudmila hummed after finishing off her omelet, all but licking the plate clean.  “Now, howzabout we hit those weights?”

“You could, if you want to get sick all over your floors,” Camilla cautioned her protégé.  “Better to give your body a little bit to digest all that energy first.  Why don’t you go lie down for a minute?  I’ll make sure all the machines are ready for you, and when you’re good to go, we’ll get started on some reps.  Sound good?”

Once again, Lyudmila scrunched up her face in confusion, for this was unlike any other fitness program she knew of.  But perhaps this was one of those new age styles that she had heard about, where you respect your body and show it some love instead of pushing to the breaking point.  That made the most sense to her, and she yawned, “Sounds good to me—but I’m going to bust my butt when I wake up, all right?”

“Of course, pussycat,” Camilla hummed sweetly as she pet Lyudmila on the head.  “Now, scoot!  Gotta give those calories time to do their thing!”

After the feline fighter lumbered back to her makeshift bedroom, Camilla set about double-checking the machines in the gym.  The Mechanic had come through for her, bringing custom-made equipment and ‘upgrading’ many of Lyudmila’s current tools to the vengeful cook’s specifications.  Each device was set to the She-Panther’s preferences at first glance, but the weights had been relabeled and the speed of the treadmill readjusted so that her normal settings seemed much smaller.  It was all part of her plan to keep Lyudmila in the dark for as long as possible while she underwent this transformation, at least until she became too big for the equipment.

“Not bad, Mechy, not bad,” Camilla remarked as she ran her hand over a butterfly press.  “Now, let’s hope your other toys work out just as well…”

***

The name ‘Queen Cuisine’ used to be something of a joke in Arcane City, for what self-respecting criminal made a name for themselves by fattening people up?  Her crimes were written off as little more than pranks—especially when compared to some of her contemporaries—but that was because people could not see the deep level of chemistry that went into her cooking.  If she put her mind to it, Camilla could make a barren womb fertile and a feeble mind brilliant, such was the genius behind her food.  She could have easily turned Lyudmila into a blob too fat to wiggle her fingers and too dumb to even speak, but like a good piece of steak, she was going to let this one marinate before she slapped it on the grill.

“Keep it up, kitty, keep it up!  Just a few more reps and then we’ll take a breather,” Camilla encouraged her protégé, who was curling a dumbbell that claimed to weigh far more than it really did.

After dropping the weight, Lyudmila leaned back on the bench to catch her breath, which felt off to her.  Had her routines always been so tiring?  She said as much when she asked, “You sure we should be taking a break?  Feels like we just took one a few minutes ago.”

Camilla gave the feisty woman a seemingly reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, though it was mostly to gauge the layer of softness building over Lyudmila’s taut muscles.  “Trust me, your body needs these breaks.  If you push yourself to the brink, you’re actually doing your muscles more harm than good since they’re being worn down.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” the She-Panther mumbled, less out of acceptance and more because she had zero clue how the body worked—and it was so much easier to let someone else do the thinking for her, really.  “I’ve pulled a couple muscles before.”

“Exactly,” Camilla said as she patted her target on the back, sending a slight ripple through her fluffy frame.  “Time to refuel that killer bod and build those muscles!  Come with me to the back—I’ve got just what the doctor ordered.”

Lyudmila nodded and heaved herself off the bench, which was a little more difficult than it had been a few weeks prior but was chalked up to sore muscles.  Even though it had been less than a month since starting this project, the black-furred brawler looked like she had not worked out in ages and was out of shape for the first time in decades.  She looked bloated all over, from soft cheeks that looked stuffed to a wobbling beer belly, and she occasionally wondered if she was moving backwards rather than forwards, but Camilla would not steer her wrong.  Sure, the stout chef was being a little pushy, but she meant well—and frankly, she did not have very many friends to turn to for this.

When she plodded to the backroom, the She-Panther’s nose was bombarded with dozens of delectable aromas that had her all but salivating at the first whiff.  Camilla had made her so many amazing dishes, from simple things like grilled cheese to things she had never heard of before like croque monsieur.  Lyudmila was eating well for the first time in a long while, but there were some nagging doubts that she might have been eating too well.

“You sure I should be eating all this, Queenie?  This don’t seem like it’d be good for me,” She-Panther remarked as she gazed at the feast in front of her with awe.  Burgers swimming in their juices, succulent ribs slick with sauce, and a small mountain of chicken wings all sat before the hungry fighter.

“Are you kidding?  Think about how much protein is on this table,” Camilla explained while pulling up a chair for her former partner in crime.  “This is going to help you build up plenty of muscle, and the burgers will give you some good carbs—not to mention the veggie toppings!”

Anyone else might have second-guessed the chef, but She-Panther was not about to turn up her nose at the food.  After all, she could not cook to save her life, and she would have to pay top dollar to get this kind of spread anywhere else.  And as her potbelly proved, the furry femme fatale needed all the help she could get when it came to getting back into shape.  Satisfied in her choice, She-Panther quickly sat down and snatched up her first rack of ribs.

“Oh mah gawd,” she moaned around a mouthful of meat, “thish ish sho good!  Camilla, where have you been all my life?”

The smartass in her wanted to say ‘locked up for fifteen years’, but Camilla hid her disdain under a saccharine smile.  The furball would be getting hers soon enough, with the way she was mowing through her food.  It would have been bad enough for She-Panther’s waistline if that was normal food she was eating, but nothing Queen Cuisine made was ‘normal’.  There was a special ingredient mixed into the sauce on each dish that would speed up the villainess’s growth, breaking down her calories much quicker and turning them into pure fat…

***

It was the end of the second month of training when Camilla made her next big move.  Up until then, she had played little tricks on Lyudmila’s mind—upping portion sizes, tampering with the machines in the gym, and incorporating a growing amount of junk food into her diet—but it was not enough.  The She-Panther was a far cry from her physical peak mere weeks prior, but fifteen years in a cell demanded more than a couple hundred extra pounds.  If she wanted to make sure those pounds stayed there, Camilla needed to resort to even more underhanded tactics, like the little trinket she brought with her in a velvet box one day.

“Where’s my kitty?” the former criminal cooed as she made loud kissy noises to rouse Lyudmila, even though the criminal was six times the size of a housecat.

When she did not receive a response, Camilla made her way through the gym to the old locker room that Lyudmila had made her bedroom.  The converted bedroom was as much a pigsty as it had been when still used by dozens of fitness freaks, but it was a different kind of mess now.  A trail of crumbs and residue led into a minefield of wrappers, napkins, and towelettes that had lost all their moisture, and at the heart of the mess lay a drowsy, stuffed Lyudmila.  She was never the most beautiful dreamer, but the feline that was sprawled out on the cheap mattress was an absolute sight compared to how she was a couple months prior.

The She-Panther’s fur was never going to win any ‘best in show’ awards, but the silky black pelt was speckled with remnants of food from at least the day before.  Fat encompassed her neck like a brace, masking her chin and filling her cheeks so much that her lips were pushed into a pucker.  Even her simple taste in clothing could not be spared from the new poundage, as her tank top became little more than a bra and her sweatpants grew tight as leggings.  Left unrestrained by proper lingerie, plump breasts sloped off her chest and sloshed like water balloons whenever she turned in her sleep.  A belly big enough to use as a bean bag chair rose from her body like a mountain of lard, and her thighs almost pooled out to the edge of the mattress.

Even now, with revenge in mind, Camilla was in a constant struggle to not grab handfuls of Lyudmila’s blubbery body, so soft and inviting had she become.  She got her jollies where she could, but there was an aching desire to take hold of the plush criminal and snuggle into her like a giant teddy bear.  It was hard to hold back, but she had managed to make it this far; if everything continued according to plan, she would be able to do whatever she wanted with the fat cat before long.  Still, the devious chef felt she had earned a reward for putting so much weight on her former accomplice, and she reached out to give Lyudmila’s belly a firm, gentle rub.

“Mmf,” the fattened furball groaned in her sleep.  Her eyelids cracked open just enough for her to see Camilla by her side, and she murmured, “Hey, ‘Milla.  ‘Cha doing?”

Anyone else, and Camilla might have yanked her hand back, but she simply smiled at Lyudmila and told her, “Giving you a massage.  It’s important to relax your muscles, especially when you’re training, and they’re a great reward for all that hard work.”

“Great,” Lyudmila echoed, stretching out the syllables.  She sluggishly rolled around on her mattress, flab quaking with the slightest movement, in a feeble attempt to get up.  When she found no such purchase, she lazily lifted her hands up and told Camilla, “Too sore.  Give me a hand.”

Considering the only thing that was sore about Lyudmila was her stomach, Camilla could not help cracking a smile as she reached out to help the fuzzy fatty to her feet—something she would not have been able to do before she got her own fitness program started in prison.  It was crucial that she stay strong in order to put the hurt on people as the Geist, but doubly important for when she wanted to enjoy the company of very large women.

Camilla took the furry mitts, but before she pulled, she cooed like a kindergarten teacher and asked, “What do we say first?”

Lyudmila furrowed her brow, though more out of confusion than frustration, before correcting herself and asking, “Give me a hand, please?”

“Good girl,” Camilla replied as she tugged with all her might.  It was no easy task getting such a jumbo girl to her feet, especially when she was getting zero assistance from the butterball, but she managed to get the chunky cat to her feet.

“Time for breakfast?” Lyudmila asked hopefully, a dopey grin spreading across her lips as she pawed at her sagging stomach.  Even her voice had gotten huskier as she swelled up, thickening just like the rest of her body as her chins bunched up at her throat.

“In a minute, pussycat.  First, I got a gift for you since you’ve been doing such a good job,” Camilla hummed in a patronizingly sweet tone, as though she was talking to a toddler.  “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

Lyudmila did as she was told and licked her lips, no doubt envisioning some tasty, ‘healthy’ treat, but it was something all together different.  When she opened her eyes, she found a collar with a golden jingle bell fixed on it, which confused her to no end.  She glanced over to Camilla and asked, “What’s this?  You got me a collar?”

If anyone else had gotten her such a trinket, the She-Panther would have bared her fangs and torn their head off, but as slow as she had become, she was puzzled more than anything else.  Camilla was quick to seize on that confusion and lied, “Oh, it’s not a collar—it’s a choker crossed with a Fitbit!  The bell is just there as an accessory so it looks a little nicer.  It’s going to look so adorable on you!”

“No way,” Lyudmila grumbled, though she flicked the bell around with one of her meaty fingers.  “I’m not adorbadle…I’m a bad g-girl, right?”

Camilla bit back a derisive laugh at her target before answering, “Nonsense!  You’re plenty adorable, with your fuzzy tail and big ol’ paws.  And if I think you’re adorable, then that must mean you’re adorable!  Now, what do we say?”

Lyudmila blushed underneath her furry cheeks and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Good girl,” Camilla replied before giving the She-Panther another pat on her jiggly belly.  “Now, go hit the showers for a bit while I clean up here, and we’ll get some breakfast before your workout.”

The once stealthy brawler clapped her hands together and waddled off to the showers as fast as her keg legs would carry her, leaving Camilla to plot her next move.  She knew it would be easy to break the She-Panther, considering how dim she was to begin with, but she was far ahead of schedule.  Even before this gain, Lyudmila weighed close to 350 pounds, but she had to be teetering close to 500 now that her muscles had melted into flab.  And with how much of a hellion she was in the past, it was a shock to quickly she fell into a docile, slothful role.

“She’s almost perfect,” Camilla mused to herself as she picked up the detritus lining the room, her thoughts on the naked, soaking butterball just a few feet away.  “Time for the Geist to make another appearance, I think…”

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QUEEN CUISINE VS SHE-PANTHER - PART 4

Lyudmila never worried much about proper security for her lair, as her heightened senses and sheer physical strength served her better than any alarm.  Plenty of foolish people tried to invade her space over the years, and few lived to tell the tale; most wound up little more than a bloody stain on the floor or walls.  It was common knowledge that any sane person should stay clear of the gym, just like they would a bear’s cave or a lion’s den.  That was why she felt so secure, even with the threat of the Geist still lingering in the back of her mind; after all, she had been training for weeks in order to deal with the undead creep.

But the She-Panther that lounged on her mattress while snacking on a protein bar was far from the alpha predator that used to sleep with one eye open.  Weeks of Camilla’s ‘training’ and specially prepared meals had bloated the fearsome feline into a flabby caricature of herself, looking far more like a teddy bear with too much fluff.  Pudgy fingers held her protein bar—the fifth that night—in one hand while the other clumsily worked the TV remote as she watched a series of fitness videos supposedly designed to help her get motivated to work out.  Her gelatinous belly pooled out to the edges of her mattress, love handles thick as dumbbell grips brushing against the sides.  Lard-riddled legs lay uselessly behind her, aching just from the brief waddle to the minifridge for another treat.

Her evenings used to be spent pumping iron or busting heads, but such thoughts were far from the formerly ferocious felon’s mind.  Exercise this late at night would only cause more stress on her body and only low-level thugs went out looking for a fight, and Lyudmila was no thug—she was a gosh-darn A-lister, pardon her tongue.  Camilla always told her that self-care was important in training, and when had she ever been wrong before?  That was why she was eating to keep her strength up and watching a Tri-Fit video for inspiration, despite how bad the effects of both had done her.

As the clock ticked on into the night, Lyudmila grew drowsier, to the point that she almost passed out with chips in her mouth until she smelled something rancid in the air.  It was almost like rotten eggs…what was the fancy word for that?  She never had the best vocabulary before her training, but ever since starting, she felt like there was a block in her brain.  Maybe she should have brought it up with Camilla; she always knew what to do.

So caught up was Lyudmila in trying to remember the word ‘sulphuric’ that she failed to notice the sound of approaching footsteps until a shadow darkened the doorway.  She sluggishly turned her head and her heart came to a screeching halt when she saw the Geist towering over her, cracking his gloved knuckles and glowering at her with a deathly stare.

“I warned you I’d be back, but I thought you’d have the good sense to try skipping town,” the deathly vigilante growled down at Lyudmila.  “That’s the last mistake you ever make, She-Panther; time I paid you back for the cut you gave me back in the day.”

It was the rematch that Lyudmila had been preparing for the last few months, so much so that the Geist’s second death was all she could think about the first couple weeks.  She should have been on her feet and lunging at his throat, ready to rip him to shreds…so why did she feel like running and hiding in the corner?  Her hackles stood on end and her claws were at ready, but she wriggled around on her mattress as her fight and flight instincts battled in her head.

“D-Don’t move,” the fattened furball stammered, something she had never done before.  “I’m strong…so strong!  So j-j-just keep away!”

Despite her protestations, the Geist crept closer and closer to her, bringing with him a cloud of pale green gas that choked the super-sensitive She-Panther.  He sneered, “I wasn’t afraid of you when I came here before; why should I be afraid of you when you’ve put on a couple hundred pounds?”

Lyudmila tried to gain her footing, but since her body was too cumbersome and bloated to get up without assistance, she resorted to crawling until she could find purchase.  The bell on her ‘choker’ jingled with each pitiful movement, making her look even more like an overfed pet than usual.  Heart pounding in her chest, she argued with the specter, “It’s muscle!  I’m da strongest girl in Arcane City!”

“Oh, really?  If you’re so strong, why haven’t you stood up yet?” asked the Geist as he strode up behind the struggling superheavyweight and booted her in the booty.  Lyudmila collapsed to the floor in a jiggling heap, ripples coursing through her entire body, and the vindictive vigilante scoffed at the sight.  “Look at you!  I thought you were a cat, but you look more like a cow from where I’m standing.  When was the last time you could see your feet?  When was the last time you went anywhere without waddling?  Face it, panther—you’ve just hit rock bottom.”

The words both barely registered and pierced Lyudmila’s soul as she pawed fruitlessly at the floor in search of an escape.  Though her body was barely chugging along, her mind was racing a mile a minute, struggling to piece together all this new information.  For the first time in a long time, she had to think for herself, and the results were not pretty, like the mad ramblings of a diseased brain.  If word vomit makes you ill, we encourage you to look away now.

Jesuschristjesuschristwhatisgoingoni’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodiegeistishereandhe’sgoingtokillmedeargodinheavendon’tletmediefighthimcan’tfighthimi’mstrongi’mweaki’mstreaki’mwrongamifatwhyamifatcamillawhat’sgoingoncamillahelpmecamillasavemeihateyouiloveyouwhatiswrongwithmesomebodyanybodyhelpmetooslowscaredscaredscaredhungryscaredHELP

Finally, Lyudmila could crawl no further and her aching limbs gave out, causing her to fall into her the mass of her own cleavage.  Her breath was ragged as she panted for air, tongue lolling out and sides burning with a wicked cramp—a disgraceful sight for the formerly fearsome felon.  She tried to push herself just a few inches off the ground, but the attempt was halted by the Geist stomping down on her fat face with one of his combat boots.

“Pathetic,” the vigilante grunted as he ground her against the tile floor.  “You were always the easiest thug to beat, She-Panther, but this?  This is ridiculous.  I could kill you right now and not even break a sweat; you’d be dead before you even got off the ground.”

The flabby furball writhed beneath his heel with no hope of escape and whimpered like a wounded animal, “Not pafetic!”

Before the Geist could do any worse, the gym doors banged open and Lyudmila heard Camilla shout out, “Is somebody in here?  Whoever you are, you’d better run—I’m armed!”

The green ghost glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps before sneering at Lyudmila, “You got lucky this time, fatso, but I’ll be back for you tomorrow—and next time, it’ll be you strung up in Eisner Park.”

With that, the Geist pulled his foot away from her face and dashed out the other end of the locker room, leaving Lyudmila to sob into the tile as Camilla ran in.  She would never have let anyone see her in such a state before all this, but the once mighty She-Panther could not contain herself and allowed Camilla to cradle her head in her lap while she cried tears as fat as her belly.  It took Lyudmila what seemed like forever to finally stop, though the gentle fingers stroking her furry head and the soft coo of Camilla’s voice helped soothe her somewhat.  By the time her tears dried up, the sulfuric odor in the gym dissipated, leaving only a chocolatey aroma coming from the baker’s coat.

 “There, there, pussycat,” Camilla cooed.  “It’s okay…the big, bad Geist is all gone now, and Miss Camilla’s here to make everything better.  Did you get any boo-boos?”

“Y-Yes…I mean, no!  No, pussycat don’t get boo-boos,” Lyudmila muttered as she brought a paw to her head and rubbed at her temple, where she felt ready to burst.  “What’s wrong with me?  Head feels like a balloon.  Why my head hurt, Camilla?”

Camilla put a finger to the furball’s lips and shushed, “That’s because you’re thinking too hard, pussycat, and you know pussycats don’t need to think.  You’re acting awfully funny—are you hungry?  Does kitty want a snack to help her feel good?”

Darn it all, a snack sounded heavenly, but Lyudmila could not give into this animal instinct that had taken over.  She was not some housecat to be b **d and coddled, dang it; she was the She-Panther, the most dreaded of the killers in Arcane City!  It took every ounce of strength and mental fortitude, but she managed to rise to her knees and glower at Camilla, though she looked more like a pouty child than a righteously angry victim.

Putting together an intelligent thought was the most exercise she had in months, and Lyudmila had to force out each word.  She growled, “What…d-did you…do to…me?”

Camilla simply smiled at her pet project and gently stroked under the She-Panther’s chin, eliciting a small, unexpected purr from the felon.  She answered, “Whatever do you mean, pussycat?  You’re the same as always—just a big, fat, flabby tabby!”

“Not fat…strong,” Lyudmila contested, even though her strength had long since dissipated, crushed by her ever-expanding bulk.

“You’ve put on a few pounds lately, but be honest with yourself—you were never all that thin,” the chef teased her former comrade in crime.  “I mean, you were about three hundred and fifty-five pounds when we started training, and no one that’s thin weighs 355.”

That made some sense, right?  A hundred was a big number, but three hundred was at least twice as big, and then you add in another fifty-five to that?  All those numbers made Lyudmila’s head spin, so much so that she forgot that her old weight was mostly made up with muscle and not butter-soft flab.  Yes, she had been big for some time now; she was just a little bigger than usual.  Camilla was right like always.

“Then why train?” asked Lyudmila as she pursed her lips in thought, despite the fact that she was the one who suggested Camilla help her prepare for the Geist in the first place.

“Because you got so scared after the Geist broke into your home, and you wanted me to teach you how to defend yourself,” the devious chef fibbed, leaving out the part about how the She-Panther had once been strong enough to bench press her with ease.  “I tried my best to make you into a better fighter, but you’re just a little too fat for fighting now, pussycat.  That’s what you get for sneaking all those snacks when you thought I wasn’t looking!”

Camilla punctuated this with tickling Lyudmila’s bloated belly, sending the toothless fighter into a giggling fit that had her topple to the floor again.  The tickling turned into a gentle massage and the laughing turned into a steady purr as Lyudmila lazily batted at the bell on her collar.  She was exactly where Camilla wanted her, which was why the former Queen Cuisine asked, “So, what are you going to do now?  You can’t stay here—what if the Geist comes back?  I might not be able to protect you the next time that big bully shows up!”

The thought of ever confronting that masked monster again made Lyudmila whimper in fear, and she clung to Camilla’s hand as it ran circles over her tummy.  She pleaded, “Please, Miss Milla…don’t let him get me!  Geist is scary!”

“Don’t you worry,” the chef hummed softly as she stroked behind one of Lyudmila’s ears.  “I won’t let him get you.  The best thing to do is to have you move in with me: that way, I can take good care of you, and you get to have all the snacks you want.  Would you like that, pussycat?”

Lyudmila could not nod her head fast enough, which brought a wicked smile to Camilla’s lips.  As she continued to pet the She-Panther, she leaned in and whispered, “Good girl…”

***

“—and all the proceeds will be going towards the Quinzel Home for Domestic Violence Victims, along with many other charities and foundations in the city.”

Camilla leaned back in her office chair after finishing her pitch to P hoebe Cuttler, who was almost too busy eating pound cake to take notes—and those she did take were covered with crumbs and flecks of icing.  The reporter was quickly becoming a regular at Queenie’s, between conducting interviews about all the donation drives and charity events Camilla was holding and her own visits for increasingly larger snacks.  Her time at the café was certainly showing on her waist, as her once waifish waist had ballooned into a considerable potbelly that threatened the buttons on her blouse and strained the waistband of her skirt.  Not that she seemed to care about her unfortunate wardrobe, considering how she licked her fingers clean after each slice of sweet, lemony cake.

“Well, this—ulp—all sounds great,” P hoebe replied as she fought back a case of the hiccups.  “And thanks again for the pound cake!  It’s absolutely to die for.”

“You flatter me, Pheebs,” Camilla politely replied, though she basked in the compliment on the inside.  “Please, help yourself to some more on the way out, and I’ll make sure we have some ready for you next time you’re in the neighborhood.”

The roly-poly reported blushed, knowing full well that she would be back the very next day on her lunch break, and shuffled out of the room as fast as her thickening legs would carry her.  Camilla enjoyed watching the curve of P hoebe’s full backside strain against her skirt and imagined what it would be like if she kept coming back for more.  Oh, how she wished she could pin down that little minx and stuff her until that belly popped through her shirt, but she had to keep her desires in check.  She was just starting to win her way back into society; she could not afford to have people find out about some of her kinkier preferences.

Those desires carried on throughout the day though, and between watching Mona’s flabby flanks pop out of her top and Allie ripping through her skirt, Camilla needed some release in a bad way when she got home.  Thankfully, she had just the medicine waiting in her apartment, and it called out to her with a meek mewl as soon as she walked in the door.

“How’s my putty-tat today?” the tired chef asked as she walked into her living room.  “Did she have a good day?  Did she like the yummy treats I made her?”

Seated on a beanbag chair the size of a loveseat was Pussycat—the butterball that used to be known as She-Panther and Lyudmila.  It had been a long time since anyone called her either of those names, as Camilla almost exclusively called her ‘Pussycat’, ‘kitty’, or some other cutesy variation, and she almost forgot she even had another name.  All the hungry hair ball knew was that those names made Miss Milla happy, and that was most important; it was the least she could do after everything the chef had done for her.

Of course, Pussycat might not have been so obedient if she knew what the chef had done TO her, as there was no sign of her old, defiant personality under all her blubber.  It started with wearing a jingling collar, then escalated to wearing a ribbon on her tail, and she now lounged around with a bow in her hair.  Miss Milla convinced her that she needed to do something to clean up her nails, and so she had gotten mani-pedis that made her claws look cute, sparkly, and unable to even cut butter.  The only thing she ever asked about was getting rid of her clothes, if only because they were so familiar to her, but Miss Milla reminded her that cats did not wear clothes, and Miss Milla was always right.

That was what led Lyudmila Kasatkina to where she was now—too fat to get up under her own power and just strong enough to crawl.  All the fat piled around her neck and shoulders threatened to engulf her head, like a cherry sinking into whipped cream, and her cheeks were so full that her face took on a porcine look.  Her arms were bigger around than they had ever been, except there was not a shred of muscle to be found, no matter how deep one searched.  Flab pooled over her elbows and onto forearms as thick as her thighs used to be, trailing down to hands that were just dexterous enough to hold her food and little else.

Left unrestrained, Pussycat’s watermelon breasts sloped down her chest and bobbed just above the floor whenever she moved.  Her belly, on the other hand, dragged across the ground and slapped against her knees on the rare occasion she stood—another of Miss Milla’s coercions, because whoever heard of a cat walking on two feet?  Not that she could walk much, between her thighs being as wide around as her waist once upon a time and sporting a coffee table’s worth of ass behind her.  Everything dragged her down, and it was so much easier to just sit all day long rather than get all sweaty and sore moving around so much.

“Mreow,” the flabby feline purred, waving a plump paw at her loving mistress as she entered the room.  Pussycat licked the pudding remnants from her lips and nudged an empty bowl towards Camilla, her way of asking for more food despite doing nothing but eat calorie-rich pudding all day long.

“I’ll get you some real dinner in just a bit, sweetie,” Camilla hummed as she picked up the bowl and pinched one of the feline’s chubby cheeks.  Seeing the former fireball so chubby and dim gave her a thrill, and to think that all it took was a little smoke and mirrors to get the job done.  Well, smoke and mirrors and hard light holograms, but the result was still the same—one very fat, stupid cat.

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Guest ratetankmark

I seriously hope that Camille gets her just desserts, this is another great part by the way, really well done. 👍👍

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  • 2 weeks later...

DOCTOR VIRTUAL - PART 1

When Olivia Reddy first broke into the tech field, she knew that she would face plenty of obstacles in making her visions a reality.  She was new, and while all companies claimed they wanted forward thinkers, no one really wanted anything too fresh and innovative.  She was a woman of color, which meant that she had plenty of stigma to work through just to be recognized as anything but.  And most importantly, she had zero money to her name, which meant that she had a snowball’s chance in Hell in getting any capital on her own.  Despite all these setbacks, she was undeterred and kept her head down as she quietly built up a portfolio and resume that any developer would be proud of.

Then came the day that she waited for: the day she got to unveil a product that would shake up not just her industry, but the world as a whole.  Olivia spent years working on bringing virtual reality out of simulations and into the real world, and she was finally able to present it to the heads of Jam Inc.  She used projectors around the board room to create solid holograms, from a ceiling fan that actually cooled the room to a ping pong paddle for a quick round with a board member.  It was all going swimmingly, especially when she generated a life-sized Crypture, but the meeting came to a screeching and explosive halt when an uninvited guest arrived.

Nate Russo believed that he was due the world and acted like he owned Jam, despite the fact that he was no better than anyone else in the company.  After being rightly passed over for a manager’s position, he sought revenge and allied himself with a group that would help him—the Demolishers, who were little more than radical, self-proclaimed anarchists with no agenda besides crushing the world.  It was the perfect place for a rebel without a clue, and Nate provided them with everything they needed to cause some serious damage to Jam.

Everything was a blur when the Demolishers attacked the office, with employees flying left and right and equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars crushed into nothing.  What hurt the most for Olivia was when almost all her projectors were taken, with Nate naturally taking the biggest for himself as compensation.  She was assured that the authorities would stop the Demolishers before they could do any more harm, but that was not good enough for the woman who had been robbed of her moment in the sun.  Payback filled her mind as she cobbled together a costume with equipment from her lab, including the few remaining projectors she had left, and sought out Nate herself.

The Demolishers had plenty of firepower to throw at her, but as the misquoted line goes, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  Not even Defensor himself could have torn up that hideout as much as she did, with Olivia using her projectors to launch a barrage that tore apart the makeshift base like a piece of tissue paper.  She put the villains in their place, but it was a hollow victory, as Nate managed to leak out the code and schematics for the projectors to the black market.  Now, anyone with enough knowhow could craft their own VR tech and raise Cain on the world, which meant that Olivia found herself with a whole new line of work as the Technological Titan, Doctor Virtual!

Ever since that fateful day, Olivia Reddy became head of her own division in Jam Inc., where she worked with a team of engineers to create new weapons in her war on crime.  She had been all around the world, seen the Big Bang and the heat death of the universe, and almost married Speed Demon, and that was just in the first couple years of her new life.  When she was not working with her staff, she could be seen stopping the forces of evil alongside Justice United and the Tezuka Zaibatsu, though her knowledge on VR had her partnering with countless heroes.  It was certainly not the life she envisioned for herself when she was in college, but she had been at it for so long that she would not trade it for anything, no matter how strange it got from time to time.

Of course, with so much going on in her life, something was bound to give, and that something for Olivia was time at the gym.  Time and again, she made promises to get back to an exercise routine, but she never carved out enough time to visit one of the many gyms accessible to her.  If she was at the office, she was sat in front of a computer all day; if she was visiting the JU headquarters, she was strictly there for monitor duty or a team meeting.  Her apartment was used for little more than sleeping or prepping quick meals, which meant that the equipment down in the lobby went unused by the busy woman.  Considering how unphysical her powers were, it was not so much a necessity that she work out on the regular, but it was still a concern that reared its head up from time to time.

One such time was a Wednesday of otherwise little renown, when she squeezed herself into a pair of navy slacks and spent the entire day sucking in her stomach.  Olivia could practically hear the button straining around her thick waist, and she fiddled with the fly throughout the day whenever it unzipped of its own accord.  The tight pinch in her middle caused her to awkwardly shuffle around the office, lest the slightest movement cause a blowout.

“Should have bought a bigger pair,” she muttered to herself after clumsily sitting down at her desk again and rolling up to her computer.  “Shouldn’t have had that extra helping of birthday cake.  Should have joined Miracle for a quick workout.  Stupid, stupid Liv.”

Despite her weight proving problematic throughout the day, Olivia would inevitably push the issue to the back of her mind to make room for new schematics or items for the next meeting agenda.  Half-hearted attempts to lose weight would be scrapped after just a few days, and she would skirt around it by purchasing bigger clothes—the easy solution to her problem.  Those clothes would only wind up getting sized out, of course, and she wound up back at Square 1 all over again.

“You really need to get away from your keyboard sometime,” came a lilting voice in the heroine’s doorway.  “Won’t be long until you get too big to reach it.”

Olivia turned her chair to find the only one willing to speak their mind about her gains—Sandra Burke, the second-in-command for Doctor Virtual’s in-house support team.  The two were very much alike between their penchant for overworking and putting their personal lives to the side, but they coped in different ways.  While Olivia had eaten herself into a tight Size 14, Sandra was thin as a rail thanks to a diet of black coffee and sugar-free gum.  Neither one lived a healthy lifestyle, but they believed that sacrifices had to be made to get where they wanted to be; once they reached their goal, they could start thinking healthy.

“There’s no way I’ll get that big, Sandy,” Olivia replied, a shiver running down her spine at the thought of being so rotund that her gut kept things out of reach.  “The last thing I want to do is be the next Marjorie Corrigan.”

“At least you look cute with a little chub,” Sandra remarked, their droll voice making it hard to tell if they was being serious or not.  “You’re like a little, cinnamon Poppin’ Fresh.”

They punctuated their point with a prod to Olivia’s gut, and despite herself, she reflexively let out a giggle.  Her cheeks flushed red and she swatted her teammate’s hand away as she snipped, “You know I don’t like being tickled, Sandra!  How would you like it if I did it to you?”

“Try it, and I’ll have you hogtied,” the stoic researcher retorted.  “What’s on the agenda today?”

Olivia shot her partner a glare before returning to her work.  “I’m double-checking the relays in the V-Glove, since I noticed some delays during yesterday’s testing.  Kalvin’s looking at ways to speed up the system, but I don’t know if the current model has that kind of capacity.”

Sandra studied the schematics on Olivia’s monitor while sipping her fifth coffee of the day, adding, “Think it might be time for an upgrade?  I know we don’t subscribe to Jam’s concept of a new model every year, but it’s been a while since we’ve done some serious overhaul on the design.  The guys down in marketing will love us, since they’ve been wanting to get new merch done up.”

“I just want to make sure we’ve pushed the current tech as far as it can go before moving on,” Olivia answered.  “I didn’t get rid of my first computer until it was literally smoking from struggling to keep up; we can still get some mileage out of this yet.”

Despite the best efforts of Team Virtual, no one had managed to shake their leader’s tendency to cling to old tech, even when she would be better served with an upgrade.  The initial Doctor Virtual suit had been extremely clunky and closer in build to the Black Turtle, and it was only from the suit being destroyed by the Talon did she build a new, superior model.  While Jam was content to release a new phone or tablet every year like clockwork, Olivia had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the next generation of technology every time.

“I’ve said this more times than I care to count, but just let us make you a new suit,” Sandra told the heroine, knowing full well her request would be ignored.  “I can have you some designs in five, ten minutes tops.  Do you have any idea what would happen here if your tech failed while you were out in the field, all because you refused to upgrade?”

“Then one of my trusted and very capable team members would take over,” Olivia muttered, her attention split between Sandra’s chitchat and the code on-screen.  While her own mortality was not an especially fun topic of conversation, she approached it as matter-of-factly as she could and knew that, in the event of her own passing, there were plenty of people to carry on as Doctor Virtual.

Sandra, however, did not share that sentiment, and she furrowed her brow at her partner’s blasé answer.  She asked, “And what about how we would feel if you were gone, Liv?  You think we’re just going to say, ‘Well, that sure happened.  Shame, that,’ and then come into work the next day?”

“Hardly.  The company does allow up to five days for mourning,” the doctor answered without looking away from her monitor.  She gestured to the code and asked Sandra, “Could I get you to take a look at this later?  I’ve cleaned up a few lines, but I think there might be something missing.”

With the topic dodged yet again, the lean Sandra sighed and patted Olivia on the shoulder.  “Sure—I’ll head back to my office and take a look.  Holler if you need anything.”

Olivia watched as her closest comrade depart and wondered if she was a bit too curt with Sandra—something she often had trouble noticing.  She did not want to seem unappreciative with the people on her team, but she ultimately knew the V-Tech better than anyone else, including its limits.  Anyone on Team Virtual could craft her a new suit in a heartbeat, and they had presented her plenty such designs over the years, but there was a nagging feeling in her skull that kept her from accepting any design that was not hers.  It was not so much a matter of arrogance or pride, but the fear that anyone could be the next Nate Russo and ruin her life’s work in a matter of seconds.

“And no amount of team exercises will fix that,” Olivia huffed as she leaned forward in her chair, only for the button on her slacks to finally pop off.  “Or that.”

***

Thankfully, Olivia was granted a distraction from her wardrobe malfunction and interpersonal skills when one of her enemies appeared in downtown Appleton.  The Gatherer was not exactly a Class A-level threat, but he was a threat that warranted attention and offered a nice reprieve from the nagging thoughts of the day.  Coding and fighting criminals was easy for Olivia Reddy; trying to keep up with her weight and dealing with her team was not.  After suiting up and avoiding a sideways glance from Sandra, the Technological Titan was off to put the hurt on her multi-armed foe.

The Gatherer, like so many of her enemies, was using a pirated version of V-Tech that Nate and the Demolishers had leaked onto the black market, and if Black Turtle was to be believed, such foes would not stop coming for the rest of her days.  At least the kleptomaniac was far less creative and diabolical than some of her other enemies, as his biggest goal was simply looting and plundering.  While some of her other nemeses would come after her with fiendish holograms to torment her, he was content to create his means of escape.

True to form, the Gatherer was raiding an armored car when Doctor Virtual arrived on the scene.  His portly body was carried by a set of spindly spider legs, courtesy of the V-Tech belt he wore around his waist, and he rifled through the truck with a pair of vacuum tubes that siphoned all the money into a backpack.  Again, a very simple crime and threat when compared to the Necromancer, who once attacked Jam headquarters with a horde of techno-zombies, or the Fearmonger, who created bogeymen to terrify the public.  One of these years, Olivia would have to send him a Christmas card to thank him for all the times he spared her a major headache.

“What’re you up to, Gatherer?” Doctor Virtual asked as she drifted down to the street and set down behind the greedy criminal.  “As if I couldn’t tell.  I thought you swore off armored car jobs the last time I put you away.”

Admittedly, she did not cut as much of a resplendent figure as she used to, what with the extra inches on her waist, but Olivia still looked impressive.  Her costume was fairly simple, consisting of a violet jumpsuit and black belt, but the additional V-Tech she wore helped to bolster the effect.  She wore a black visor over her eyes that might have given her some anonymity if she did not appear unmasked on tons of magazine covers and interviews, matching gauntlets with projectors built in on top of her hands, and hover boots that went up to her knees.  It was nothing like the Black Turtle’s armor, but at least Olivia did not have to be careful with doors like her bulkier peer.

Of course, it would be incorrect to say that the heroine’s image was not softened when she filled her jumpsuit to max capacity.  The clingy material pinched all across her body, highlighting thickening rolls along her back and the sheer girth of her various curves.  She was packed in so tight that her body barely wobbled when she moved, but unlike her slacks, the jumpsuit was a little more durable and could survive the strain of a few extra pounds.

The Gatherer paused in his plundering and spun around to face the heroine interrupting his work.  He gave a slight wave and greeted Doctor Virtual, “Hey, Dr. V!  Didn’t expect to see you so soon.  What’d you do, boost the horsepower on them boots of yours?”

“I did just give them a little recalibration,” the heroine replied as she tapped her chrome boots on the ground.  Unlike some of her peers, she could not be easily swayed or distracted with flattery, but she knew the Gatherer well enough to know when he had something up his sleeve.  With no immediate danger, she was fine with a little small talk.  “How’s your cousin doing?  Did he get his medical license?”

“Couldn’t pass the final exam, but he’s retaking it in a couple weeks.  I keep telling him he needs to study hard, but he don’t want to listen,” the Gatherer answered with a shrug.  “So, we gonna throw down?  I may not be a tech whiz like you, but I did a little tinkering with this belt and I’ve got a couple new tools I’ve been hankering to try.”

Olivia rubbed the back of her neck and sighed, “If you want to show off your tech, you can always stop by my office; you know my door’s always open for non-violent people.  I don’t see what getting into a fight will accomplish, outside of draining out respective batteries.”

“Yeah, but I can’t exactly go to jail without putting up a fight, y’know?  Now, don’t you hold back on me just ‘cause of my good looks,” the jovial crook chuckled as his spider leg constructs crouched into a fighting stance.  “Come get some.”

If she really wanted to, Olivia could have punted the Gatherer clear across town without breaking so much as a sweat, but she was not in the mood for such a one-sided beating; there were plenty of villains that required such a handling, and the Gatherer was not one of them.  She would entertain the small-time crook for a minute, smash his tech, and then grab a smoothie on the way back to the office to finish the day.  If only all her problems could be so easily solved, she might have found more time for the gym, but she would settle for a brief scuffle to clear her mind.

Nothing ever comes simple for super-people, however, and the duel was finished before it even really started.  Both parties flew at each other and clashed with their constructs, only for sparks to fly from the Gatherer’s belt as he tried to call up a serpent to coil around Doctor Virtual.  When the heroine reached for the belt to try and shut it down, a violent shock ran through her and her opponent, sending both flying to opposite sides of the street.  The last thing that Olivia remembered before blacking out was thinking that her belt felt awfully tight around her middle, but she was in for an even ruder awakening when she finally came to.

The first thing Olivia felt was a light slap on the cheek as someone tried to rouse her.  A gruff voice grunted, “Hey, come on, deadweight, work with me here.”

“Huhwha?” the heroine murmured, her head spinning and ears ringing from smacking into the side of a building.  Groggy as she was, she barely registered that her voice seemed deeper than before—and did she detect a New Jersey accent?

The man who woke her—a police officer, she realized as her vision grew clearer—had her by the arm and was hauling her somewhere.  He told her, “We’ve got your cell all primed and ready for you, G-Man.  You sure must like our hospitality, seeing as you keep coming back here every few weeks.”

It took a moment for Olivia’s brain to start churning, and she soon realized that she was being led into a police station for the first time in her life.  She glanced all around her to get her bearings, and found that something tickled her upper lip and she was in some sort of garish yellow costume with red boots and gloves—just like the Gatherer wore…

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