The Fast Track - Part 1 (Commission for Anonymous)

TAGS: Weight Gain, Hyper Weight/Blob, Gluttony/Endless Hunger

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There used to be a time when people could get promoted without having to subject themselves to increasingly demeaning and preposterously pointless exercises, just because their superiors decided that following the guidelines they helped write no longer helped with keeping the ledgers properly filled out. There used to be a time when Sandra could’ve been given a pay raise and a bump up the ranks on her skill and prowess alone, to say nothing of her service record; but alas, those days were behind her, behind everyone, leaving only… this.

The notice pinned to the wooden corkboard in the officer’s side of the mess hall had to be a joke. Experimental hormone supplements designed to improve combat efficiency, apply now and be fast tracked to a promotion on the next evaluation; no one who read those words wanted to believe they could even be true, given how much of a severe violation of every single rule it was, but, knowing their current leadership, they all also know it very much could be true.

For a few days, the tigress battled with the notion of actually taking up the offer. Most of the resistance came from her own insistence on only being promoted based on merit; she’d had enough of seeing other people being shortcutted to what was her rightful position because they happened to schmooze the right people and rub with the right shoulders. She was the one waking up an hour before everyone else, getting the trainees prepared for the day, then taking up as many tasks as she physically could because someone had to do them. She was the one going to bed long past everyone else had started snoring, just to start the cycle anew the next day.

And for what? A pat on the head and the promise that she’d be the next one being reevaluated “when the chance came up”, which suspiciously never included the many, many such chances that others who did fuck-all were handed while she was watching. Hell, just that thought alone was enough to actually make her want to take the shortcut: if everyone else was cutting through proper regulation and undermining proper protocol, then the least she could do was turn that against them and show them why they should never leave that door open.

Playing with fire, but sometimes, one needed to do what had to be done, no matter how unpleasant it was. Plus, the whole point of the supplements was to make her better at fighting, so surely there shouldn’t be too much of an issue there; worst case scenario, she was still better off physically than she had been going in, which the tigress figured she could leverage to get that promotion in some other way. So she left her name on the volunteers section of the notice and returned to her regular duties, waiting to be called up.

The opportunity came to her a couple of days later. By then, rumours had begun circulating of what the trials comprised, what their goals actually were, rumours of medical malpractice and hidden agendas, an all sorts of nonsense that helped no one but those without the wherewithal to keep themselves busy and away from idle speculation. Sandra made a conscious effort to avoid paying attention to any of it; not only because she found it utterly disrespectful… but partly because she was going to be a guinea pig, and the last thing she needed was to be convinced she was going to become sort sort of mutant before heading into the off-site clinic.

The sooner she was done with the whole thing, the better; Sandra had better things to do with her time than wait in line for a queue of civvies to get done filing paperwork, especially with how everyone was staring at her. Had they never seen an eight-foot tigress before? It was common for her species to reach those heights, for heaven’s sakes; hell, they lived next to an army base, surely musculature and well-toned physiques weren’t anything new… yet, she still had to deal with lurid looks and the occasional catcall, though the latter was adequately taken care of by the immediate application of a death glare.

Once her turn was up, Sandra was shepherded inside a sterile, white-tiled room and asked to wait for her physician. She didn’t know what to expect; oddly enough, none of the rumours seemed to ever make mention of more practical matters, like methods of administration or dosages. Instead, she simply sat there, waiting until a spindly, older man in a labcoat entered the room with a clipboard in one hand and a refrigerated container in the other.

Pleasantries were exchanged, names provided, and soon Dr. Stevenson was pulling out a small bottle of pills from within the cooled box. They were, as he explained, not meant to be kept at room temperature; something about the chemicals inside of them reacting poorly to not being properly refrigerated, honestly, most of it went right over Sandra’s head. What mattered was that they were designed to help boost her muscle development, muscle tissue density, as well as a variety of other parameters that felt too good to be true.

She was sure it was just some whackjob government contract that would end up in nothing, just like they all did. A waste of taxpayer money, explained away as a “necessary investment” in “modernising military response to an ever-changing technological landscape”, last she checked. Sandra had to make a conscious effort not to just roll her eyes and ask the old man to hurry along and give her a pill that wouldn’t do anything; even then, she could sense that the doctor noticed something was off there, judging from their stiff responses going forward.

The “procedure” itself turned out to be anything but: all the tigress did was take some pills, then wait ten minutes before a preliminary analysis was performed on her. She had expected there to be nothing special about it, hence her confusion as to why the physician seemed so utterly disappointed as he checked her vitals and measured her proportions.

“It was supposed to… please hold for a moment, I need to…”

“Is everything alright, doc?”

“No, everything is most definitely not alright” - the old man looked back at his clipboard, readjusting his glasses before peering into the refrigerated container - “The pills were meant to be fast-acting; first signs should be visible within a minute at best.”

Somehow, Sandra found this doubtful. None of the other folk who’d taken up the offer had looked any different than how they were before; still, she didn’t say a word, letting the doctor do whatever it was they felt like they should be doing: checking her pulse, placing electrodes on her head, checking her pulse again, even weighing her for whatever reason, until, a good fifteen minutes after the examinations began, the man clearly gave up.

“I don’t know why this isn’t working. Something about your biology, perhaps? You seem to be resisting the effects of the supplements for… some reason. I’d advise you keep a close look on your weight and physical well-being in the next few weeks, but I doubt anything is going to happen; I am genuinely sorry, this didn’t happen with the other test subjects.”

Sandra waved her hand around, hoping that was enough to help end the conversation while she got up. Some more mindless pleasantries were exchanged, a few cordial apologies, and before she knew it, the tigress was back on the street, heading towards the base with the certainty that she’d just wasted her time. Still, the whole point was to go there in the first place; the shortcut was handed for participating, not for having good results, so she should be fine. Plus, now she had a reason to push her trainees even harder: if they were all actually getting results from the supplements, then clearly she should be pushing them to perform even better than before.

At least, that’s what she expected to do on reaching the base, were it not for a sudden and very inexplicable need to scarf down on something. She’d just had lunch some time prior, but her stomach felt like it had just been vacuumed of all its contents, leaving behind nothing but a gnawing, hungering void that she needed to fill; luckily, she was only due to show up in half an hour or so, and while under most circumstances Sandra would consider this to be late already, she figured a small detour was fine, given the circumstances.

Besides, there was a fantastic sandwich place just down the road from the base’s front gate that the other officers loved to frequent, and she just happened to have some spare change after her last performance review went better than expected (though still not well enough to warrant a promotion, suspiciously enough); the owner was on good terms with most of them as well, all-but guaranteeing friendly discounts so long as things didn’t get too rowdy, or the trainees didn’t get any ideas either.

The tigress thus walked into the establishment, a small and rustic mini-restaurant built into the corner of a large office building, and waved at the staff behind the counter while taking a seat at one of the larger booths. A couple of minutes later, she had the menu in front of her, and a sudden desire to just order everything she saw on it. A strange thought to have, given her usual attitude towards food, but for whatever reason, Sandra needed to eat something, and something substantial as well; likely her predatory instincts kicking in.

Instead, she resolved to build her own custom sandwich. Nothing too fancy, just enough to quench the proverbial thirst: about three feet long, seven types of meat, three sauces, enough lettuce and tomato to open a farm, and throw in some cheese fries on the side as well for good measure. Add some more cheese dip, roasted bread slices, and about a gallon’s worth of soda, and that was her snack for the afternoon; one wondered why the waitress looked so terrified once Sandra was done getting her order out as well, seeing as it wasn’t all that uncommon.

Eating through everything took relatively little time as well. Others might have some trouble with a sandwich of that size, but to Sandra, it was little more than a snack; hell, as she licked her fingers clean of the cheese sauce and then cleared through what was left of the soda, the tigress was left with a profound sense of longing… though, perhaps hunger was more appropriate. She didn’t just want food, she needed the food, she needed to eat, and now that she was outside the sandwich shop, she couldn’t exactly just walk back in; she was five minutes away from her schedule entry time, leaving her little choice but to hope the mess hall had something left for her as she hurried towards the front entrance.

The guards posted there were genuinely surprised to see her there. One of them even went so far as to check his wristwatch, until Sandra shot him a glare powerful enough to melt through steel; hopefully, word wouldn’t spread of her tardiness until she had time to run counterintel on it having been a result of unforeseen medical circumstances. Even worse was how she had an actual job to do; the tigress couldn’t simply walk into the mess hall and demand to clean up whatever was left from lunch, not without raising a few eyebrows as a result, and likely drawing questions from the higher-ups.

What she could do was get the trainees to take their tasks seriously for once, hopefully to get everything finished with plenty of time to spare rather than just on point. She couldn’t technically complain about things being done on time as opposed to having some in advance, but she could absolutely push the people she was in charge of to get more done quickly, as long as she could feasibly justify it if someone complained about it. And with a repertoire of justifications in a binder she kept under her bed, Sandra was convinced she could get away with it, provided it remained within plausible bounds.

Granted, this didn’t exactly endear her to the trainees, but that was the whole point: they were there to respect her, not like her. Sandra was in her position not because of her people skills, but her skills at turning people into soldiers on time for the army’s next deployment schedule… though, in a literal sense, she was in the position she was in because of her people skills, or lack thereof. If she kissed more ass, she’d likely be sitting behind a desk making a whole lot more doing a whole lot less.

No matter. She had her name down on whatever those trials were, so now she didn’t have to worry about having it passed up in favour of people who didn’t know better; she was certain the brass would be more than happy to exploit it, probably believing that she’d finally “broken” and given in to “how things were done”, and the tigress was ecstatic for an opportunity to make them think just that. Lead them to a false sense of security before pouncing on her prey and all that.

For the time being though, she had trainees to guide and a schedule to finish ahead of time. Plenty of grumbling and growling, a couple of incidents where she had to very deliberately word things so as to not run afoul of protocol when someone fucked up, and a whole lot of extra hatred later, however, things were done, and with an hour to spare before dinner as well! Nothing but scowls all around when Sandra gave the order for the trainees to go relax and enjoy their well-earned rest, but they’d learn to appreciate it in time; if not, then clearly they needed even more training.

As for her, the tigress suddenly found herself looking at the mirror, wondering just what to do. The whole point of getting everything done ahead of time was so she’d have more time for herself, but, more specifically, more time to get a snack from the mess hall; on the other hand, it was already so close to dinner time that it’d just be suspicious if she walked in demanding to be given the lunch leftovers… at least before they were reheated and presented as the dinner dish. She couldn’t leave for the sandwich shop either, not without arousing suspicion, leaving her to stew in her own hunger for a good sixty minutes.

Why was she hungry? After her impromptu lunch, the last thing on her mind should’ve been wanting to scarf down even more food, but there she was, feeling like her stomach had been vacuumed of all its contents and was in desperate need of replacements. Seriously screwed with her strict dieting as well; the tigress insisted on controlling her caloric input even more than army budgeting did, and randomly splurging out on enormous meals out of schedule wasn’t something she was keen on doing. The sandwich didn’t count; she didn’t know why, but her brain told her it didn’t.

The rest though? What was she supposed to do, beg for scraps in the kitchen? Not only would it be wholly undignified of her, but the staff would likely just say no anyway; the scraps were for presenting to the trainees so they got used to the average quality of a serving, not handed to an officer just because they were hungry. Besides, scraps wouldn’t even be enough; Sandra could tell that what she wanted was a full-course meal, something big, hefty, meaty, filled with sauces and juices, dripping with fat and ready to utterly ruin her waistline. She didn’t know why she wanted such an horrendous thing, but she definitely did, and she couldn’t ignore the urge any longer.

A minute or so later, Sandra was conducting a surprise inspection of the kitchen. She didn’t exactly have the authority to do so; even dropping by without warning had to go through multiple levels of paperwork and bureaucracy before being approved… for someone who definitely wasn’t her, given she was not the one in charge of logistics and supply. But she did it anyway, mostly on account of the kitchen staff being utterly terrified of her and her reputation for making a big deal out of every spot of dust she found on any given surface.

Thus, no one said anything when the tigress walked into the kitchen. That is, until she beelined for the fridge, opened the wide double doors, gave it a couple of glances, then made off with several plastic containers while mumbling something about needing to have them checked for salmonella, not even bothering to close the fridge back up. Plenty of murmuring after that happened, though none dared to go after the officer, for fear of what she might do to someone who stopped whatever “righteous mission” she was on.

Sandra, of course, had just left to fetch some bread from the mess hall. She wasn’t picky, at least not then; anything made out of yeast and either wheat or rye would do, just as long as she could use it to shove ham between two pieces and call it a sandwich. After all, if it was just a sandwich, then it couldn’t be too bad for her, could it? Nevermind that she had about three pounds of ham and cheese next to her, those were just sandwiches and nothing more: all twenty or so of them, all of which were gobbled down without a single concern for taste.

There couldn’t be, given how hungry the tigress was. She didn’t want to feel the divine flavour of cheap, bulk-bought meat and cheese, she just needed something in her to make the hunger go away, and if one sandwich wasn’t enough, then clearly she needed a second, then a third, and fourth, and so forth until the gnawing void was closed. But the more she ate, the more Sandra wanted to eat; it was as if her devouring far more food than she would normally think to ever even look at was only burning through her calories quicker, leaving her desperate for another fix, desperate for another filling.

Her body, however, disagreed. Much as her mind might be telling the tigress that she needed to eat more, her physical self was mostly just confused as to why its owner was suddenly scarfing down that much food at once. Unused to it, it had no frame of reference for what to do… but plenty of experimental, volatile chemicals coursing through its veins, ready to be pumped into action. There hadn’t been a reason to use them until just then, but now that there was?

Sandra wouldn’t notice it, but her clothes were about to become significantly tighter. Yes, she was eating several pounds of food, but last she checked, digestion was still a thing, and her body wasn’t supposed to just put on those pounds until some time had passed, and even then only a fraction of the full weight. Hence why the groaning seams and creaking cloth went entirely by her without the tigress hearing it; the noises couldn’t be happening, so they weren’t.

Of course, when she got up and walked out of the mess hall, the tears on her pants were there. The ripped shirt was there. The extra pudge on her arms, legs and belly was definitely there. And no matter how much Sandra insisted it didn’t exist, the additional weight was absolutely causing her to go off-balance as her centre of gravity shifted downwards towards her belly, leaving the tigress to try and rationalise it away as just the result of… something.

Worse yet, by the time Sandra was done getting some new clothes and stuffing them over herself, beginning to question why exactly she was having so much trouble doing so, it was already time for her to get back to dinner, and properly that time around. Dreading what the other officers would think of her when they saw her devour whatever the kitchen staff put in front of her, the tigress nonetheless made her way back, sitting at the far end of the table, as detached from the kitchen itself as possible.

With her head down, the officer hoped no one would say anything. It helped that those serving the dishes themselves were only vaguely aware of what had happened deeper in the back, though the one who handed Sandra her dinner was definitely eyeing her like they knew what had taken place. None of the officers themselves, thankfully, seemed to notice anything different at all; presumably, they were too busy trying to kiss one another’s asses for favours to notice the conspicuously larger tigress sitting next to them… or how quickly she was going through that night’s dinner.

Normally she wouldn’t even begin to enjoy the… slop, slop was a word, the slop that she was served. She ate it because she had to, because everyone had to, because army budgeting said this was the most efficient way of making use of resources and no one needed anything fancier. It was food, in the sense that it was edible, tasted of something (though what that something was never quite lined up with how the dish looked like), and provided the needed nutrients required for daily functioning. Apart from that, its enjoyability ranged from “technically possible to eat” to “dubiously edible”, with the variability definitely skewing towards the latter edge.

That night, none of this was true. Each spoonful of whatever-that-was just happened to be the most delicious whatever-that-was that Sandra had ever eaten. Every sporkful was enough to make her knees quiver, as if the taste, whichever it might be, was magnified to such an extent that it almost didn’t matter that the flavour was unrecognisable. And the portions, the portions! The portions were so tiny, so insignificant, so meaningless; she needed more if she was going to live up to her potential, if she was going to be sated, if her hunger was to be satisfied. She needed more, and the kitchen was going to give it to her.

The first casualty of the night was the plate belonging to the officer directly next to her. Sandra wasn’t thinking when she extended her hand and unceremoniously plucked it from where it had been sitting, unguarded; she figured that if the young man next to her wasn’t going to eat from it, she might as well do it herself! Plus, it wasn’t as if anyone really wanted to eat that garbage; they were likely to head out for the night and hit a proper restaurant the first opportunity they had, while she was left behind to handle the mess that was cleaning up the mess hall.

So, why not splurge out a bit? Why not lick her plate clean and proceed to the next one? Why not fight against that odd voice in her head demanding to know what the fuck she was doing, pushing it aside so she could focus on eating even more? Nevermind the weird looks she was getting; let others stare at her like she’d just gone mad, she had things to eat! Hell, after a certain point, the other officers were actually pushing their plates towards her; some looked disgusted, others devilishly curious about the whole thing, their intentions as varied as their ability to stick their muzzles up someone’s rectum for brownie points.

The end result was the same though: more food for her, more food for Sandra to devour, to gorge herself on, to grow fatter and heavier as her improved metabolism went entirely out of whack and shot into overdrive after the unplanned infusion of calories. Perhaps, had the tigress maintained some part of her old self, she would’ve recognised the warning signs; perhaps, she would’ve stopped once the physician’s words resonated within her.

But for now, she was just hungry.