or "Cloud's Big Surprise" A Final Fantasy VII Alterniverse Fanfiction by The Cloaked Ghost
Two Years Ago.... Tifa dragged herself in the doorway again, after yet another disappointing morning jog, achieving a mere eight-and-a-half laps before nearly passing out from exertion. Stripping nude in front of her mirror, she flared at her body's continued changes. Her cheeks and chin had just begun to soften, a thin layer of fat coating what once had been firm muscle and bone. Her breasts had grown again, slowly, slightly, but the large fleshy mounds were a hassle when it came to tying her shoes. Not that she'd seen her feet lately. Her stomach, as if racing to catch up with her breasts, had plumped considerably, although not like she expected it to. She hefted the heavy, doughy mass that had been her waist. She felt the greasy fat below the skin, the fat that expanded her body, but it did not sag and hang like fat. It stuck out from her body, giving her stomach an almost globular appearance, as though she was being slowly filled with gas from the inside. Dr. Jyingu was baffled. He had probed her doughboy-like midsection, tested her blood, heart, and lungs, but nothing conclusive had come up. He did take a tiny sample of the new fat, and shipped it off to Midgar's research labs, hoping to receive an answer. But he had told her the answer would not arrive soon, if at all. For now, since a high-exercise, low-fat diet had failed, she would have to accept her new look. She squished her plumpness, and marveled how she had yet to have her midsection sag and wrinkle, like all the other fat women she saw. She consoled herself that at least her bulge was unique. Round and smooth rather than stretched and wrinkly. She pulled on a large T-shirt. Or it _had_ been a large T-shirt. Now, it just came down over the top 2/3 large sphere on her waist. She plunked herself down the stairs, her stomach quaking slightly with the impact, and grumbling loudly with the daily hunger. She had given up on the apron. It took too long to try and tie the straps around herself, and if successful, it was terribly uncomfortable to have her stomach confined as such. She set to her tasks, cooking her most urgent orders, of pies and bakery items, things that would be needed early in the day. She had become accustomed to her routine. Her daily jog, the morning orders, a filling breakfast while watching some TransVee, and "work" until a large, indulgent dinner. Stacking the last pastry in the pickup box, which her clients had graciously donated after her endurance no longer allowed her to efficiently run her deliveries across the town, she tapped her full lips, deciding which delicacy she would prepare herself today. Her hands let the cookbook fall open at random. She stared down at what appeared. She laughed heartily and clasped her hands on her heaving gut. "Jelly rolls! Perfect!" she smiled, her mind trying to lighten its strain with her metamorphosis with humor. In minutes, she was rolling the thick, jelly-coated dough into fat lumps, then locked them in the oven and started on her daily favorite: pancakes. Shortly, she laid her "light" breakfast of several rolls and a stack of nearly fifteen pancakes onto her new coffee table, tuned the TransVision to her favorite movie frequency, and dropped onto the soft couch, her bulbous waist rolling forward onto her lap. Just as her favorite Wutai Martial Arts program appeared, she leaned over her belly, which puckered and resisted the pressure, and took the heaping plate of pastries in her hands. Plucking the first roll off the plate, she munched on the sweet, flaky food. She soon found it neater, and easier, to eat with both hands on the roll, and began to use her rounded midsection as a table of sorts, laying the plate on the upper portion of her stomach. Before half-an-hour had passed, nothing was left on the plate but flakes and bits of jelly. She licked it clean, then picked the scraps that had escaped her mouth from inside her cleavage and across the expanse of her waist. She set down the smeared plate, and took up the tall stack of pancakes. Tifa smothered the stack in a sugary syrup, and set into that, soon feeling the telltale pressure in her belly, knowing that she was full, physically. Her mind, noticing that she had yet to dent the pancakes, craved the fluffy circles. Ignoring her body's protests, in the form of the usual abdominal rumblings and burbles, she rammed the food into herself, attempting to sate the unsateable. Before the hour was up, she had licked that plate clean, too, and intently watched her show, deciding to finish it before returning to the orders. As the credits rolled, she stood and carried the dishes to the sink, washed them, then returned to the couch to retrieve the syrup jar and switch off the TransVee. After the receiver crackled and died, she picked up the full jar and returned to the kitchen. Before she reached the cabinet, her stomach, though full and tight with breakfast, gurgled loudly. Instinctively, she popped open the top, tipped her head back, and squeezed the jar. She gulped down the sweet, sticky liquid, feeling it flow down into her too-full stomach, filling in all the little places. She tossed away the empty bottle and burped softly. She took up the sheaf of papers by the stove and delved into the day's orders. Six months later, Tifa heaved herself onto the cold examining table in Dr. Jyingu's office. He had told her that the labs in Midgar had finally returned the results on the sample he had removed from her ever-growing abdomen. She groaned and laid back on the table, hoping for the best. She heard the doctor and his nurses shuffling around in the next room, and craned her head upwards, towards the door. Of course, the towering mound of fat she possessed prevented such, and she let her head fall gently back to the vinyl headrest. Presently, she heard the doorknob turn and the latch click open. She heaved herself to a sitting position, her gut squishing between her muscular thighs and ample breasts, resulting in it flattening somewhat and pushing forward even more, almost to her knees. "As you know, Tifa, the results from the Midgar research lab just came in. I have to say the results can be taken either way." Dr. Jyingu remarked, staring down at the thick sheaf of paper in his hand as the shut the door behind him. He looked up and took a slight step backwards as Tifa's new proportions assimilated themselves into the doctor's mind. "So, what's the problem?" Tifa stared at the papers, eagerly awaiting news of the cure. The doctor sighed. "You've got a very new disease, Tifa. Only a few cases have shown up worldwide." "What is it?" Dr. Jyingu looked away, out the window. "It's called 'JEMS', which stands for 'Jenobite Empath-imprinted Morphic Syndrome'. Somehow, a small group of special Jenoba cells go into your system. The special group is only found in a few people, specifically, those who have had Jenoba implants or some similar biological augmentation with Jenoba cells. These people generate a few packets of special Jenoba cells in their blood and reproductive fluids, which consist of a 'master' and a few 'slave' cells. When a packet enters someone else's system, yours, for example, it will lie dormant for a time; this could be anywhere from an hour to ten years. After it 'wakes', the master cell attaches itself inside the brain, and the slave cells remain in the blood. If the cells aren't "imprinted" within ten weeks, the slave cells induce a sort of metabolic overdrive in their host. Basically, this is why you started wasting away: you were digesting yourself. Imprinting the cells apparently can only be done by the person who generated the cells, and is usually triggered by extreme emotions. It seems that bodily contact is necessary. Whatever the imprinter is thinking of you at that moment is "burned" into the master cell, which has the slave cells attach to the appropriate parts of the body. However, depending on how strong the master was imprinted, the effect is usually magnified from the original intentions of the imprinter, usually with an uncanny focus on the exact opposite of whatever your condition was at the time of imprinting. The master then orders the slaves to regulate cellular processes in their locations to cause a slow metamorphosis into the exaggerated "burn" in the master's encoding. Meanwhile, the master manipulates neural processes, like hunger, anger, adrenaline production, etc., to reach the same ends." Dr. Jyingu paused, face turning slightly blue, waiting for a reaction. Tifa clasped her hands over her doughy midsection. "So, Cloud accidentally gave me a packet of JEMS cells, imprinted them while I was dying, and they starting making me fat?" The doctor nodded. "So, he was hoping I would gain my weight back and live, right?" "Most likely." replied Dr. Jyingu. "And the cells won't let me fight this?" Tifa pinched her flabby stomach for emphasis. The doctor nodded. Tifa's face dropped. "Is there a cure?" "No.. You have to let the cells run their course..." the doctor paused. "However, they should go into remission after it finishes changing you. That means you'll linger at a pinnacle form for a few months, then slim back down a lot faster than you.. expanded. The cells die six months after beginning to remiss." Tifa groaned. "So, how big will I get?" "We couldn't tell without cutting open your brain and analyzing the master cell..." Tifa nodded slowly. "What about liposucking this crap out?" "That's another thing.. That's not fat on your waist." Tifa looked up, eyes fiery. "Then what the hell is it? It feels like fat, it certainly LOOKS like fat, and it behaves like fat!" Dr. Jyingu cringed. "It's a fat/muscle hybrid. 30% muscle. That's why it doesn't sag and pucker like natural fat. You'll just keep getting more and more globular." Tifa heaved herself off the table and padded towards the door. "Thanks, doc." She slammed the door behind her. Dr. Jyingu breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was still alive, which was more than he expected. One Year Ago... Tifa heaved herself out of bed, feeling her incredible mass quake and jiggle. She pulled on the sweatsuit that had hung loosely about her body only a short year ago. It was almost skin-tight about her belly and breasts, though still loose around the rest of her body. She eased herself slowly down the stairs, taking care not to trip and fall, as she had to go on touch; she couldn't see at least seven stairs in front of her. The edges of her stomach just lightly itched across the smooth walls of the stairwell. She put her arms along the sides and squeezed them inward to avoid the irritation. However, her stomach irritated her more than the rubbing. She wasn't even able to touch her fingers around herself anymore. As she opened the door and retrieved the lantern, she glanced at the clock. 5 AM, still totally dark out. She'd made sure no-one had to watch her bouncing blubber as she jogged, hoping not to repulse the townspeople overmuch. Hell, she grumbled to herself, she couldn't even run two laps around the town anymore, and couldn't jog past seven. She didn't even know why she kept running as her mass had doubled and redoubled. Oh, right, the doc had told her to keep the rest of her body slim. Not that that really showed much, she mused. All the jogging had done was keep her legs well-toned and able to support the rapidly increasing weight at her waist and chest. Ten minutes later, Tifa collapsed on the couch, sweat soaking through the already-translucent sweatsuit, angry that she'd barely been able to complete her fourth jogging lap. She folded her hands across the top of her vast tummy, just in front of her enlarging bustline, and flicked the TransVee on. She rocked back and forth, feeling the extent of her paunch slowly caress her knees and the skin an inch below that as well. Soon, she dozed off into a slumberland of food and fat. Hours later, she awoke on the couch, her clothes covered in a salty crust of dry sweat, with the noonday sun blaring in the sky. Thankfully, it was a Sunday, and there were no orders to fill. She pulled the shades on the first story down and peeled her sticky and disgusting sweatsuit off, letting little flakes of dry sweat fall to the floor. She smiled happily. An entire day of cooking and eating lay ahead. Some small part of her brain cried out to diet, as if it would slow her overfilling figure, but the JEMS had infected her, and won out, stimulating her to cook and eat, cook and eat, cook and eat beyond her capability. She brought a thick cookbook down from the shelf and opened to a random page. And stuck her finger at a random recipe. "Seven-layer double devil's chocolate mousse cake." she read aloud to no-one in particular, then smiled evilly. Cake it was. She turned sideways to begin, as it was impossible to cook with her stomach in front of her these days. Soon, the thick, chocolatey batter was being poured into seven molds, then baking in the heat of her oven, while she alternately whipped and drank an entire two gallons of heavy cream. She stirred up the frosting, adding sprinkles of chocolate and nuts to make it more flavorful, then resting heavily on a stool eating grapes while she watched the egg timer tick down the minutes to mealtime. Her eyes followed the little pointer as her hands took on a mind of their own, finishing an entire bunch of grapes, a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream, a spare jar of frosting, and a baker's dozen of pork buns. As the timer let out a loud *ding!*, she leapt, as well as she could, to her feet, donning a mitt, and retrieved the cakes from the oven. She fanned them to cool and set up a large platter to assemble her treat. Fifteen minutes later, she scooped the bottom piece from the mold, laid it on the platter, and smothered it in the thick frosting and whipped cream. The next one joined the first, resting on top of it's brother, and being subjected to a similar confectionery fate. One by one, the slightly-successively-smaller cakes were piled on top of each other and buried beneath an inch or more of sugary sweetness. At the top, Tifa licked her lips and dumped the last of the frosting and whipped cream, forming a three-foot mountain of sugar from the layer cake. She admired her creation for a mere three seconds before eyeing it hungrily. Urged on by the deep, unwarranted roars from the pit of her massive abdomen, she snatched up a fork and set to filling her already-full belly. She indiscriminately shoveled frosting and cake down her throat, lost in a savage frenzy for food, as though starved for weeks. The cake toppled over her belly, smearing her entire torso with chocolaty ecstasy, and she scooped it off herself and pushed the cake in. Soon, with her meal half-done, a dizziness struck. She pulled her stool underneath her firm, lithe bottom, and let her stomach roll onto the table, turning only to pull the platter and it's monstrous orgy of flavor onto her stomach. The sensation of taste bombarded her senses. She lost track of time. Presently, it seemed, she licked her lips and scraped at the streaks of frosting that striped her stomach. Her face was a sticky, sugary mess, covered in the brownish frosting, and she licked her lips clean, but left the ring across her cheeks, deciding rather to lick her breasts clean, reveling in the combined pleasure of sex and food. Suddenly, the VidComm chimed. She paled beneath the brown mask of frosting. Cloud's call was due now, she realized. She grabbed a napkin, smeared as much as she could off her face and softening chin, which was just beginning to develop a tiny crease, and lumbered over to the VidComm unit, angling the camera up so only her head, and not her expansive stomach, could be seen. Cloud's face, slightly weather-worn and reddened with sun, blinked into view. "Hi, doll!" Tifa smiled at him, as warmly as she could, for she almost considered that he had abandoned her to her stomach's urges, were it not for the weekly money he sent back, which kept her in food and clothing. "Hello, dearest.." Cloud seemed to peer at her face. "Is that another chin I see there? Hope you're not getting too big while I'm away, hon, or I'll have to have the doors widened!" He laughed at his own joke. Tifa's cheeks burned, the blood pounding in her ears. She still hadn't told him about JEMS, hoping that it would run its course before he came home. She recalled the figures the doc and Cloud had given her. His tour of duty was scheduled to end in twenty months. The doctor, thanks to a small, painfully-extracted tissue sample, has predicted remission seven months before that, so she'd be slimmed down just in time for him to return to his old Tifa. She let out a small chuckle, to keep up appearances. Cloud beamed at her. "Good news, Tee-chan!" She frowned and nodded. "What?" "They're letting me off of service eight months early for exemplary performance! I'm comin' home in a year!" Cloud was all teeth as he smiled. Tifa almost paled again. She'd still be big... How would he handle the news? She couldn't hide it! It was impossible to miss now, and the doc had told her she'd keep getting bigger until remission began. She held back her almost-tears. "Anyway, so me and the team go after this crazy..." She tuned out Cloud as he launched into his week's activities. The VidComm soon died out, she morosely began to scrub the dishes and bowls as she mulled over her big problem. Hours later, a distraught and frightened Tifa dragged herself up the staircase, deliberately letting the growing irritation from the rough-textured walls as they scraped against her stomach rush through her mind, fanning the flames of self-hate. She laid down, pulling the sheet over her, as best it could, and rocked back and forth, moaning softly. For a second, she lay still, eyes wide and burning, staring out the window. A single star was visible that night. It twinkled softly, rhythmically, as if whispering soft comforts to her. Tifa shut her eyes, squeezing out a batch of tears. Comfort was not what she wanted. She wanted to be normal. Normal. Not this... grotesquely malformed mutant. She rolled herself onto her stomach, creating a vast, soft natural mattress. Muttering words of pain, she cried herself to sleep.
"JEMS : Tifa's Awakening P.3" is © its
creator, The Cloaked Ghost. |