Amidala's Amplification

Chapter 1 - Fatme gets rear ended

The air on Geonosis was a furnace, even inside the shuttle. I adjusted the collar of my white field suit, the fabric already clinging to the small of my back. Anakin stood at the ramp, a slash of dark robes and restless energy, his hand resting on his lightsaber as if the hilt were a living thing. There was a tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with the heat. We were here to find Obi-Wan, to walk into whatever trap the Separatists had laid, and yet some traitorous part of my mind kept circling back to the slope of Anakin's shoulders, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. I had known him as a boy, a kind, earnest child, but the man who stood before me now was something else entirely.

And I wanted him to see me.

It was a foolish, vain thought, and I tried to smother it with the practicality that had served me all my life. I was a Senator. I had negotiated treaties, survived assassination attempts, stared down Trade Federation battleships with nothing but a blaster and a prayer. Yet here, in the cramped cockpit with the dust of Geonosis settling on the viewport, I felt sixteen again, worrying if my hair was right. The suit I wore-that sleek white uniform that had become something of a signature-was not chosen by accident. It hugged every line of my body, sleek and capable, the trousers cut close, the fabric practically painted on. I knew I looked good in it. I had caught the eye of kings, princes, artists. So why did Anakin never look at me the way they did?

I stole a glance at him as the ramp lowered. His jaw was set, his focus entirely on the red-rock horizon. Not a flicker of interest. Perhaps he simply didn't find me attractive. The thought settled in my stomach like a stone. I began the familiar, silent audit of my own body, the one I'd promised myself I'd abandoned years ago. Was it my hips? The trousers left no mystery to my shape, and my backside was... present. Some might say full. Too big? I'd overheard a stylist once whisper that I had a dancer's rear, strong and rounded, but maybe it had softened lately. Too many diplomatic dinners. Maybe he preferred the wispy, ethereal silhouettes of certain other Senators. Then my mind, treacherous and hungry, moved upward. My chest. I was not flat, but neither was I particularly endowed. The suit's structured top gave me shape, but underneath, I was modest. Perhaps that was it. I wasn't womanly enough, or I was too much. Too solid. I was five years older than him, a detail that had never bothered me until now. Did he see a matron? A relic of his childhood? I couldn't parse it.

The heat outside hit me like a physical blow, and I pushed the ugly little inventory aside. There was a mission. A friend to save. I followed Anakin into the maw of a cave, the entrance yawning like a throat carved into the canyon wall. The rocks were sharp, the air thick with the smell of ozone and machinery. The cave floor angled down sharply into darkness, and soon the natural stone gave way to durasteel grating and the distant hum of power conduits.

"This isn't just a cave," Anakin murmured, his voice echoing. "It's a facility."

We crept deeper. The tunnels branched, revealing vast chambers where automated lines assembled battle droids in synchronized waves. The sheer scale of it was staggering. I kept close to Anakin, and for a while, the rhythm of our footsteps was the only sound. Then we heard the chittering.

Geonosians. Insectoid, winged, and far too close. They boiled out of a side passage, their pincers clicking a language that needed no translation. Anakin's lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss, casting blue shadows on the walls. "Go! I'll hold them off, find another route!"

I didn't argue. I ran.

The tunnels became a blur of grated floors and blinking control panels. My boots rang against the metal, my breath harsh. I could hear the dry rustle of wings behind me, always just around the next bend. I didn't look back. The suit I'd been so proud of now felt like a second skin, showing every shudder of muscle and bone. I sprinted down a long corridor, the ceiling a tangle of conduits, when something struck me-a sickly yellow beam that hit the right side of my rear with a soundless impact. No pain, just a bizarre, spreading warmth, and a force that knocked my stride sideways. I stumbled, almost went down, but caught myself against the wall. A quick check-no blood, no burn. Adrenaline painted everything in sharp relief, and I kept running, my legs pumping. The only oddity was a subtle pull across the seat of my trousers, a tightness that hadn't been there before. I must have creased the fabric when I hit the wall, I thought. No time to fuss. The chittering grew louder.

I rounded another corner, the path narrowing, and that's when the second blast caught me, square in the middle of my backside.

This one sent me sprawling. My palms slapped the grating, my knees jarring. As I scrambled to push myself up, I heard a sound that froze the blood in my veins: the sharp, high-pitched rip of stressed fabric tearing. The seat of my trousers split open with a violence that felt obscene, cool air rushing against bare skin. I didn't understand. The suit was custom-fit, practically indestructible. I lurched to my feet, a hot wave of confusion overriding the fear, and spotted a heavy blast door recessed into the wall. I threw myself through it, palm-slammed the lock panel, and heard the seals engage just as the first Geonosian body thudded against the other side.

Silence, save for the pounding of my heart and the metallic drumming of claws on the door.

I was in some kind of observation chamber. High ceiling, at least thirty feet, with a single balcony looking down from a level I had no way to reach. A massive durasteel table sat in the center of the room, likely used for assembling heavy components. No other exits. I doubled over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, and that's when I finally looked down at myself.

For a moment, my mind simply refused to assemble the image. The trousers-my impeccably tailored, skin-tight trousers-had torn along the center back seam, a jagged rent that exposed a shocking expanse of flesh. But it was the flesh itself that made me reel. My backside, which I'd fussed over as merely "full," had become immense. I could feel its weight, a new, soft heaviness that pulled at my lower back. My hands, trembling, reached around to touch, and my fingers sank into yielding, plush fat that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. The curve of me was vast now, wide-set and deeply rounded, straining what remained of the trouser fabric to a transparent thinness. I could actually see, through the stretched material, the unmistakable dimpled texture of cellulite-deep ripples and peaks that marred the once-smooth surface. My hip circumference must have increased by ten inches, maybe more. The trousers were a lost cause, nothing short of scissors would ever peel them off; the waistband bit cruelly into my sides, creating the beginnings of soft love handles that puddled just over the beltline, new and foreign.

A scientist's detachment briefly surfaced. The rays. Those Geonosian weapons weren't lethal; they were altering my body at a cellular level, pumping fat directly into the tissues they struck. I'd taken two hits to the exact same area. I did the math in my head, horrified-if each added roughly five inches, then I was carrying... Maker, forty pounds of new weight just on my rear? The number felt absurd, but the mirror of my own touch didn't lie. My hands mapped out the damage: a bottom that was now a pillowy shelf, thighs that had thickened until they rubbed together when I shifted my stance, and those love handles, nascent but undeniable, spilling over the strained waistband like proof of a gluttony I'd never indulged.

My cheeks burned. I imagined walking into the Senate chamber like this, my famous white suits a distant memory unless every seamstress on Coruscant worked a miracle. I saw the holonews headlines, the pitying looks from colleagues who would wonder what had happened to the graceful Senator Amidala. And then, slicing through the professional dread, came a more intimate, sharper sting: Anakin. He already didn't look at me. Now I was a parody of myself, a woman whose body had betrayed her into something soft and sprawling. The girl who wondered if her hips were too big now had a rear that would struggle to fit in a standard chair. What would he think when he saw this?

The banging on the door intensified, snapping me back. A panel buckled. Right. I was still in danger. The thought of another hit seized me with visceral horror. If two blasts had done this, what would three do? Five? I pictured myself wedged in a doorway, too wide to pass, the seams of my top giving way as my entire frame ballooned into helpless obesity. I'd be a caricature, too large to fight, too large to run, a soft, jiggling target for their scientific cruelty. I had to stop them.

I dove behind the heavy table just as the door blew inward, hinges shrieking. Three Geonosians flew through the gap, their wings beating a harsh drone. I tried to roll into a firing position, something I'd done a thousand times in training, but the new mass on my backside killed my momentum. I flopped awkwardly, my engorged rear acting like an anchor, forcing my spine into a slight arch that made it almost impossible to rest my shoulder blades flat on the floor. I drew my blaster anyway, arm strained, and fired. One of the creatures tumbled, shrieking, but the other two separated, dodging.

Lying on my back, I was acutely aware of my rear spreading beneath me like a cushion, lifting my hips unnaturally high. My aim wobbled. One of the Geonosians leveled its odd, bulbous weapon and hit me with a sustained, sweeping burst that raked from my chest all the way down to my lower belly. The warmth was immediate and sickening, a spreading, subcutaneous bloom.

I screamed something wordless and fired blind, forcing them to scatter for cover. That gave me a heartbeat of stillness. A heartbeat to feel the change happening inside my own body.

It began at my chest. My breasts, always modest, began to swell against the confines of my top. The built-in support cup strained, then surrendered, and I felt the flesh push outward and heavy, filling the white fabric until the material creaked. For a fleeting, insane second, a part of my brain whispered, Well, maybe a cup size or two wouldn't be so bad. Then my free hand, dropping instinctively to brace myself, landed on my stomach, and the bottom dropped out of my world.

I'd always had a flat midsection, a source of private pride. There was no flatness now. A soft, thick roll of flesh was blooming just above the waistband of my trousers, a muffin top of undeniable chub. The button of my trousers, which had been strained by the love handles, now screamed in protest as my belly pressed outward. I watched in frozen dismay as the metal button, once securely fastened, began to pull perilously at its thread. My shirt, once so smoothly tucked, was riding up, baring a pale, squishy section of midriff that dimpled when I breathed. I poked it with my finger. The flesh yielded like warm dough, and the sensation made bile rise in my throat. I was soft. Unmistakably, visibly soft. My body had crossed a line from an athletic curve into something people would call chubby.

I think I'm officially a chubby girl now. The thought was distant, surreal, as if it belonged to someone else.

The Geonosians' chittering changed pitch. I heard more wings. Two additional shapes swept into the room, reinforcements, their shadows crossing the table. There were four of them now, and I was lying on my back like an overturned turtle, my enormous rear propping me up, my thickened middle exposed, my ammunition running low. I couldn't aim, couldn't run. Another blast, even a short one, and I would tip over the edge from chubby into fat, really fat, the kind of heavy that would draw stares and whispers. I'd be waddling, gasping for breath, my thighs chafing raw. The horror of it rose up like a tide, and for one despairing moment, I almost surrendered to it. Let them. Let me just sink into the softness and disappear.

And then, a descending blur of dark robes and blue light.

Anakin hit the floor like a meteor, his lightsaber a continuous arc of humming death. In the space of three breaths, all four Geonosians were sliced into smoking sections, their wings still twitching on the ground. He stood amidst the wreckage, breathing hard, the glow of his blade painting his face in stark shadows. He was magnificent. He was terrifying. He was my savior, and all I could feel was a cold, crushing wave of shame.

He turned, deactivating the lightsaber, his eyes searching for me in the gloom. "Padmé! Are you hurt?"

His voice was full of fear and relief and something else I couldn't name. I was still on the floor, propped on my side now, trying desperately to hide the ruin of my body. My face was on fire. This was the moment he would see me. Not the poised Senator, not the girl in the white suit with the clever eyes. He would see the swollen rear spilling through a torn seam, the muffin top that lapped over my waistband like dough escaping a pan, the cellulite that even the thick fabric couldn't disguise, the breasts that now heaved too large and too soft in a top never designed to contain them. He would see me fat, damaged, a stranger wearing Padmé's face.

I clutched a torn flap of trouser fabric over the worst of the rip, my fingers sinking into the pillowy fat beneath. My voice was a croak. "Anakin..."

He took a step forward, his brow furrowing with concern. The blue light from a console caught the sheen of tears on my lashes. I wanted to tell him to look away, to wait outside, to give me a moment to somehow reconstruct the woman I used to be. But there was no fixing this. There was only the next second, and the next, and the inevitable moment his eyes would drop and his expression would change.

The chapter ends here, suspended in the hot, humming dark, before Anakin could truly see what they had done to me.