New Interrogation Methods

Chapter 1 - Heroine no more

The fluorescent lights of the interrogation room hummed a sterile, unforgiving note. Strapped to a heavy metal chair, Elena Voss remained utterly still, a portrait of sculpted defiance. At five-foot-five and a taut 120 pounds, she was a weapon honed to perfection-a legend in the intelligence community not just for her lethal skills, but for a beauty that could melt the resolve of any mark. Her black tactical pants hugged slim hips, and a white silk blouse, buttoned with precision, skimmed a flat stomach. Even bound, she exuded a feline grace.

Two interrogators faced her. Becker, a bull-necked man with a shaved head, leaned against the wall. Beside him, Dr. Asha Mirza, cool and clinical in a lab coat, adjusted the settings on a sleek, gunmetal-gray device on a trolley. It looked like a high-tech movie prop, all glowing dials and a wide, dish-like emitter.

"Last chance, Ms. Voss," Becker said, his voice a lazy drawl. "The locations of your cell. Give them up now, and we can all go home."

Elena's lips curved into a cold, perfect smile. "You'll get nothing."

Becker nodded to Mirza. "Bring out the toy."

Mirza wheeled the device forward, angling the emitter at Elena's midsection. "This is Project Adipos," she explained, tapping the dial. "A targeted mass-inducement ray. It instantly synthesizes and deposits adipose tissue subcutaneously. In simple terms, it makes you gain weight. Permanently. We can dial in any amount." She paused, letting the words sink in. "Your figure is your primary tradecraft asset. We intend to liquidate it."

Elena's defiant look didn't waver, but a flicker of something-amusement?-crossed her eyes. "That's absurd. Such a thing doesn't exist."

"Thought you'd say that." Becker grinned. "Let's prove it. Start her off with ten pounds. Nothing drastic, just a little taste."

Mirza entered the command. The device emitted a low, resonant thrum. A soft cone of amber light bathed Elena's torso. There was no pain, only a sudden, deep warmth that bloomed under her skin, followed by a subtle, inner expansion. She gasped as her clothes-chosen for maximum visual impact-shifted. The waistband of her pants bit in, the silk blouse pulled just a hair tighter across her chest. When the light vanished, she was ten pounds heavier, a softness blurring the razor-sharp definition of her abdomen. A slight, telltale puffiness pushed over the top of her belt: a nascent muffin top.

"There," Becker said softly. "130 pounds. Ten little pounds, nothing for a gal like you to drop if you tell us now. Consider it a warning shot."

Elena forced a derisive snort, burying the cold spike of alarm in her gut. "A cheap trick. You padded my clothes."

"Every time you deny us," Mirza said, her finger hovering over the dial, "we add another five pounds. And we'll keep going until you talk, or until there's nothing left of the weapon you rely on. The locations, Elena."

"Go to hell."

Mirza tapped the control. Thrum. Another five pounds rolled onto her frame, bringing her to 135. The muffin top swelled into a distinct, pillowy roll over her belt, the button of her pants groaning audibly. Elena's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

"Just 15 pounds," Becker cooed. "A few weeks of salad and you're back in the game. Your comrades-where are they?"

"Rotting, for all I care."

Thrum. 140 pounds. The sound was catastrophic: the tortured button of her pants rocketed across the room, pinging off the concrete wall. Her zipper yawned, and her belly, pale and soft, eased out with a slow, irresistible momentum, ready to settle on her thighs. The pressure in her bra tripled as her breasts surged, spilling over the lace cups, straining the thin silk of her blouse until the buttonholes gaped, showing flashes of overworked underwire.

"That's 20 pounds," Mirza observed neutrally. "Just a little dedication and you're back in mission shape. But that button is gone forever. Look at that tummy easing out. The first casualty of war."

Elena's defiance now required active effort. A muscle in her cheek jumped. "***r machine."

Thrum. 145. A series of crisp pops rang out as two buttons on her blouse shot off, revealing a soft, pale midriff bisected by the angry red line of her waistband. Her breathing grew shallow. She could feel the new heaviness in her breasts, the way her thighs now pressed together intimately.

"23, 24, 25 pounds up," Becker counted, enjoying her visible distress she fought to conceal. "Your shirt's giving up the ghost. Soon that tight little tummy of yours is going to be a full-on belly. Where are your friends?"

"I... I don't have any," she ground out, her voice tighter.

Thrum. 150 pounds. More buttons surrendered, leaving her blouse hanging by the lowest two, framing a round, jiggling belly that rested in her lap. The seams of her pants screamed, threads pulling apart audibly. She could feel the back of her thighs spreading against the cold metal seat.

Becker clucked his tongue. "30 pounds, looking a little tubby now, aren't we? Those thighs are going to chafe like hell when you walk. Can't seduce a man when you waddle. Just imagine trying to slip into a slinky dress for an assignment. The locations, Voss."

A sheen of sweat appeared on her brow. Her fingers, strapped down, twitched as if to touch the foreign mass of her stomach. She was observably upset now, but the spy's mask held by a thread. "Go... to hell."

Thrum. 155. No new wardrobe catastrophe, but the weight settled in her face, softening her jawline into the first hint of a double chin. Her arms looked thicker, and the blouse, what was left of it, rode up over her burgeoning love handles. Mirza circled her, clinical. "Fat distribution is remarkably natural. The increase in subcutaneous tissue is already generating cellulite formation."

Thrum. 160 pounds. A loud, jagged rip split the air. Both side seams of her pants burst open in ragged tears from hip to knee, exposing the dimpled, newly heavy flesh of her thighs. Cellulite puckered the backs of her legs and the lower curve of her buttocks, which had mushroomed wide enough to brush both sides of the armrests. Becker, laughing softly, leaned in and tore the destroyed pants away, leaving her in only her blouse-tatters and black lace panties. The chair creaked under her.

"That's 40 pounds, six zaps after the first ten," Becker said, his tone shifting from mockery to genuine malice. "You're approaching the point of no return, sweetheart. Even if you starved yourself for a year, that cellulite isn't going anywhere. Your career as a seductress is over. You'll never wear a bikini again without making people wince. We're done with five-pound baby steps. Dr. Mirza, bump it to ten-pound increments. Let's speed-run her ruin."

The dial clicked. Elena's eyes widened, but she clamped her mouth shut, burying her terror under a silent, white-lipped defiance. Thrum. Ten more pounds crashed into her, settling her at 170. The remaining two buttons of her blouse exploded, the tattered silk stripped from her by Becker's rough hands. She sat exposed in her straining bra and panties, a soft, wide torso riddled with new rolls that cascaded down her sides. When she shifted, her whole belly and back jiggled. She couldn't stop the tiny, horrified whimper that escaped her.

"Oh, hear that?" Becker mocked. "The mighty spy is discovering the physics of flab. Look at those rolls, the way they fold over. Your bra's the next thing to go. One more zap." He leaned close, his breath hot on her ear. "You'll never pass for a cocktail waitress again. You'll be the fat girl in the corner, invisible to every man you used to twist around your finger. Final chance. Locations."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she shook her head, a tiny, desperate motion. The words "I won't" were barely a whisper.

Thrum. 180 pounds. The change was instantaneous. The overstrained back clasp of her bra, digging into a roll of back fat, gave way with a metallic ping. The cups fell forward, the garment slithering into her lap, leaving her massive, heavy breasts to rest on the shelf of her gut. At 180 pounds, every inch of her was a testament to soft, quivering excess. Her hips fully wedged into the armrests, flesh spilling over the cold metal. The only garment she hadn't burst out of were her black panties, now stretched so thin they were almost transparent.

Mirza silently wheeled a full-length mirror from the corner and positioned it directly in front of the chair.

Elena looked up, and the mask shattered.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger-a bloated, dimpled parody of the lethal beauty she had been an hour ago. Her stomach was a swollen, creased apron of flesh that flopped heavily onto her thighs. Thick love handles burst from her sides, and her arms were thick and wobbly. Her face, puffy and round, was streaked with sweat, a double chin quivering as her breath hitched. Cellulite mottled every visible inch of her thighs and the enormous, spreading globes of her rear. She was fat. Irreversibly, catastrophically fat.

A raw, guttural wail tore from her throat. "Oh god... oh god, look at me! I'm so fat! I'm huge!" The tears came in a flood, her huge body shaking with sobs, every part of her jiggling obscenely. The defiant spy was gone, replaced by a broken woman mourning her own destroyed beauty.

Becker, satisfied, unstrapped her wrists. "You probably can't run fast enough to get away anymore. Go ahead, have a feel."

Elena didn't try to flee. Her trembling hands went to her belly, sinking into the soft, warm mass, then squeezed the rolls at her sides, feeling their impossible heft. She turned, wailing, to look over her shoulder at the mirror, at the vast, cellulite-dimpled expanse of her butt in those straining panties. It was a sight that broke the last shred of her will. "Please," she sobbed, her voice high and broken. "Please, I'll tell you everything, just stop, I'll talk, I'll talk, just don't... I can't be like this..."

Just as the words of surrender left her lips, the heavy door blasted inward with a deafening concussion. Two of her handlers in tactical gear burst through the smoke, weapons raised. The lead operative, a man she had run missions with for years, skidded to a halt, his trained eye scanning the room for the asset-and finding only a hugely obese, half-naked woman weeping in a chair. It took three full seconds of stunned silence before he whispered, "...Voss? My god."

Elena couldn't meet his eyes. She covered her face with plump, shaking hands, a raw sob of humiliation wracking her frame. She was so distraught, so thoroughly broken, she couldn't even stand. When the handlers moved to extract her, her sheer weight became brutally apparent. The lead handler tried to pull her up, but her legs buckled. It took him and both of his teammates, grunting with effort, to hoist her massive, soft body out of the chair. Her flesh yielded and jiggled in their grip as they carried her, a weeping, fat-shrouded ruin, out of the interrogation room and toward the roar of the waiting helicopter. The legend of Elena Voss ended not with a gunshot, but with the labored footsteps of three men carrying 180 pounds of sobbing, shattered beauty into the night.