Idea I had:

A rogue trader finds an STC for producing junk food from air, endlessly. Her ship basically shuts down as her mostly female crew gluts themselves into immobility, with her waddling to get to the navigator to get out a distress call.

Later an Inquisitor warband and sobs are dispatched....

>>3928
Interesting. Maybe there could a conflict of interests between the Inquisitor and the Adeptus Mechanicus over the STC. The Inquisitor will probably declare the STC heretical because it caused her retinue to eat themselves into immobility just like the Rogue Trader's crew, but the Adeptus Mechanicus will want to protect it at all costs, even if that means rendering an inquisitor too fat to run back to her Ordo and tell on them.

The Circus Obeseus

Deep inside the twisting labyrinths of Commoragh, a new trend has taken hold of the drukari upper crust. Having grown bored with the usual gladiatorial games between the strongest and most fearsome creatures and warriors the galaxy had to offer, the Archons of the Dark City demand that their houses’ haemonculi and slave masters search for more novel and devious ways to tormenting their captives. Enter the newest blood-sport craze, the Circus Obeseus. Rather than the normal procedure of starving, beating, and drugging the participants before every match, the haemonculi strap female warriors from a number of races into infernal machines which force a thick slurry down their throats and into their stomachs. Composed of a cocktail of fat, sugar, and drugs, this sickeningly sweet mush is not only highly fattening, dragging the metabolism of whoever consumes enough of it to a crawl, but also highly addictive, breaking down their victim’s will until all they can think about is gorging themselves on more of the mush.

Once quick and agile Howling Banshees are left barely able to waddle. Sisters of Battle burst out of their armor who’s leg servos squeak and groan under the weight of their owners. Female tau pilots have their battlesuits returned albeit with much of their cockpit stripped away to better accommodate their operator’s bloated bellies and breasts. By the time the contestants are ready the arena, they are bloated parodies of their former selves.
The rules for each match are simple, no weapons and the last woman standing wins an extra-large serving of the addictive mush while the losers go hungry. For the audience, the ensuing battle is part adrenaline pumping sport and part comedy for errors. The citizens of Commoragh laugh and jeer at the fighters struggling against not only each other but their own bodies. More than once, a combatant has broken down in tears of shame in the face of this relentless ridicule only to become easier prey for her fellow contestants. Surprisingly, there are very few deaths in the Circus Obeseus as one misstep or well-timed blow is all it takes for a fighter to be eliminated.
While a few trueborn still consider these games to be a passing fad which will fall into obscurity once the crowds have gotten their fill, the increased interest in these games among several prominent gladiator stable managers and the growing number of stables who cater exclusively to the Circus Obeseus speak otherwise. If the whispers among dark spires and undercity are to be believed, even a handful of Wyches have fattened themselves up to participate in the games either to maintain their superiority in the arena or for their own pleasure.

>>3931
As the popularity of the Circus Obeseus increases so too does the complexity and variety of its offerings. To keep the matches somewhat sporting and to cater to different audiences, captives are divided into weight classes and made to fight amongst their class.

Skimmer weights are the lightest combatants. Although they are still overweight by the standards of their own races, skimmer weights are mostly freshly taken slaves who have not had the chance to properly bulk up yet. At this weight class, the matches largely resemble traditional gladiator combat but are considered a good place for stable masters to suss out which girls carry their weight the best and are ready for the higher divisions. Skimmer weights do, however, have a reputation as the feistiest both on the field and off due to their relatively spry bodies and unbroken wills.

Light weights are those who have cut their teeth in the arena and are deemed worth the expense to recieve the haemonculi’s weight gain treatment. Gone are the muffin tops and pot bellies of the skimmer weight as even the scrawniest girls have properly fat guts, thunder thighs, and ballooning utters. At this point, the effects of the fighters burgeoning figures become an increasingly important factor for how the matches play out as most have yet to adept to their new bodies and struggle to keep their balance. More importantly, the combatants, whether consciously or not, begin to yearn for victory and more of their lord’s fattening brew. Even so, many may still find themselves reaching to protect their modesty while blushing furiously as their bellies burst through another set of armor or are forced to go topless after outgrowing another bra.

Medium weights make up the bread and butter of most lower-end tournaments. Matches at this level are considered a good balance between the scrappier brawls of the lower weight girls and the spectacle of the true heavy weights. Medium weight fighters offer a great diversity of figures and features, from bottom-heavy pears, hour glasses, flabby apron bellies, jiggly bingo wings etc. Once a combatant crosses the threshold into this weight class, she is effectively useless for anything else other than more matches in the Circus Obeseus or, maybe, a trueborn’s personal pet. As for the girls themselves, months of feeding sessions and battles in the Circus have left them utterly shameless about their bloated, flabby bodies while their experience pushes them to actively use their massive weight as weapons in the form of body slams and tackles.

Heavy weights, by contrast, make up the bulk of the competitors in high-end matches where the Circus Obeseus truly comes into its own. Here the fighters regularly push the limits of what would be considered “natural” or “survivable” for their species. Fortunately, the haemonculi handlers are able to mix in specialized medications into their slop which protects their charges from the worst effects of their massive weight, although not enough to keep them from becoming gasping, sweat-soaked piles of woman flesh at the end of every match. Even with this knowledge, first timers to a match between heavy weights are often dumbfounded at how the combatants can even stand, let alone waddle towards each other. While most girls at this level are simply roundish blobs of fat with very little discernable form, a growing number of stables have begun developing “signature styles” where their girls’ fat is molded into a specific shape such as, boulder-like asses and hips, bellies that touch the ground, massive lactating breasts, etc. The fighters, now painfully aware that their transformation is irreversible, enter the arena as miserable wrecks who’s only solace is the sweet, fattening mixture waiting for them back to their stables.

Super-heavy weights are by far both the biggest regular appearing fighters and the biggest crowd pleasers in the Circus Obeseus. As the name implies, the super-heavy weight division takes all the elements of the heavy weight and pushes it to truly absurd levels. Few girls make it to the super-heavy weight class both due to the physiological limitations of growing to the required size and the high investment on the part of the stable. Even so, those who do make it are little more than fighting, eating machines consumed by an omnipresent hunger which fills their every waking moment. Due to the unique physical challenges associated with getting what amounts to mountainous piles of blubber to fight each other, a unique set of rules have been introduced to aid in the process. To help preserve their increasingly limited stamina, the combatants are carried in on modified Raiders who have had their troop compartments emptied out and expanded to accommodate their new occupant with minimal chaffing. Another key difference in super-heavy weight matches is the large transparent tank of fattening mush suspended in the center of the arena with a single tube underneath which serves as added incentive to force the combatants to immobilize the others. Matches between super-heavy weights are typically reserved as the main event for tournaments and surprisingly short, although half the spectacle is watching the winner greedily suckle on the tube while the others lie on the ground, mewling in hunger and frustration.

Titan weights. Since the first tournaments of the Circus Obeseus were held, fans of the games have longed for the stable masters to push the limits of sentient obesity to the next level of depravity and obscenity. Those who can still remember the last days of the Eldar Empire will recall the heights of hedonism their forebearers indulged in. Though currently existing only as rumors, the theoretical titan weights would embody glutton not seen on a level since the days before the birth of She who Thirsts tore the Old Empire asunder. How the Haemonculi intend to accomplish this is any one’s guess, though many suspect that the alien known to the Mon-keigh as Tyranids may be involved.

OKAY YOU DEGENERATES

a long time ago (5 years?) I was in a short-lived Black Crusade campaign (ie; 40k RPG but CHAOS). I was a Pirate Prince(ss) of the Ragged Helix; the others were a khorne guy, a plague marine and I think a fallen Guardsman. Because Pirates start with a ship, I got everyone onboard and convinced them that the first thing we should do in our quest for INFAMY was to throw "a bitchin' party".

So we went around, stole some slaves, stole some booze and drugs and just generally fad fun. There's a bunch of rules for eating and drinking contests across all the old 40k books but more importantly, Tome of Excess has the Six Designs of Slaanesh and I was going to use the party to complete them all.

The second Delight? The 'Delight of Gluttony'. Character eats until they pass a shitton of toughness tests or explode. You get the gist.

>>3914

>If anyone has stories or ideas for stories, please post them here

https://www.deviantart.com/m00nliner/art/Salvation-Demands-Sacrifice-40k-WG-OC-part-1-788465226

Would be nice if we could get the guy to write some more.

>>3997
Yeah, look at me samefagging and shamelessly self-promoting. Yay. I'm so kewl.

>>3928
>>3929
Decided to give those a try. Not sure if I'll finish it, not sure if I can incorporate the latter part, but I liked the idea enough to actually think some of it through and start writing some words. Got four pages so far, might post it here once I get to the end of first chapter.

Once again, expect long ass exposition, lots of 40k fanservice, and "why it's happening" tramping over "what is happening". Can't help it, that's just how my brain works.

Alright, here goes.
Couldn't come up with a name, so fuck it.

PROLOGUE

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy.” ++

“Any idea what we’re up against this time?”

“Not really, ma’am. Could be literally anything. This sector has been quarantined for ten thousand years, and not without a plethora of good reasons.”

“Then give me a run-down on our findings so far. Maybe we could figure something out.”

“Our obvious source of distress call is this ship right here. Siluria-class light cruiser, parked in a geosynchronous orbit over the fourth planet of this star system. Her transponder is down, so there’s no way for us to know neither her name nor who the captain is.”

“Hardly surprising, all things considered. That’s a rare and venerable type of void vessel, though. Not many of these are still around. I’m assuming Rogue Trader. Now, what’s her condition?”

“Quite decent. Scans indicate some damage to the hull, yet her superstructure and internals appear to be intact. Her reactor is still fully operational, and her angular thrusters fire orbit correction pulses from time to time.”

“Life signs aboard?”

“That’s... still open to debate, ma’am.”

“How so?”

“What we can be certain about is that her internals are still pressurized, her arboretum is still functioning somewhat properly, and her atmosphere is still breathable, albeit with a little too much methane and hydrogen sulphide in the mix.”

“A biological contamination?”

“Entirely possible, but not quite likely. If there is or was some sort of pandemic, we’d have much higher concentrations of those gases, as well as a whole bunch of other markers of mass biological decay.”

“Right.”

“We can also be certain that there are life-indicative thermal signatures present aboard, and the oxygen from the atmosphere is being consumed around them. Yet, said signatures also appear too static, too misshapen, and too distorted to pass for human beings.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I wish I could, ma’am. Entire sensorum is trying to make sense out of those readings as we speak, though with little success so far.”

“Can we try to pick some of their vox chatter? Or, better yet, tap into their comms?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. These ships are notorious for their state-of-the-art communication systems shielding and encryption protocols. It’s this short of being pronounced bona fide archaeotech and we don’t have enough decryption capacity to bash our way through these old and stubborn machine spirits.”

“Anything else I should know about the ship?”

“There seems to be an anomaly in her power grid, one that even her venerable spirit can’t properly hide. Up to eighty percent of her reactor output is currently being rerouted to a small area just below the arboretum. There seems to be a lot of vox traffic going through that area, too… yet it’s far too jumbled to make any sense of it.”

“Do you have any estimate on how much power is being sapped there?”

“Tens of gigawatts, ma’am.”

“Well… that’s something. Seems like whatever caused these poor bastards to cry for help from deep inside the quarantine must be in that place.”

“It certainly seems so, ma’am.”

“And it virtually screams trap. Keep scanning. Our work is never this easy.”

“I shall pass the order, ma’am.”

“And the planet?”

“A habitable low-gravity tundra world with extensive ruins in the equatorial regions. Our probe has picked up a weak energy signature on the surface, right below the parked vessel... and that’s it. No thermal readings, no comm traffic, no distress beacons, no crashed vessels, nothing. Persistent heavy overcast severely limits the observational capabilities of our probes, so we might get more conclusive readings if we get in orbit and utilize the full capacity of our augur array.”

“Right. Tell the Voidmaster to deploy a quarantine beacon and to bring us in high orbit. Tell the Chief Cannoneer to lock onto the unknown vessel with full broadside and keep the gun crews on high alert. Lastly, tell the Arch-Militant to prepare a first encounter recon company for landing and site inspection.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be responding to that distress call, ma’am?”

“We are responding, but not at the reckless expense of our lives. Until we find out or get a clue about the thing these imbeciles dug out and hooked up to their ship, nobody gets close. For all intents and purposes, assume the presence of dormant Terminus level threat aboard, as well as possible presence of Terminus level threat on the surface. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

>>4008

PART I

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “If a job's worth doing, it's worth dying for!” ++

The air within the gold-adorned walls of the briefing room aboard the Silver Dart was filled with sweet smell of perfume, rich aroma of freshly-boiled recaf, bitter hints of lho-leaf smoke, and with uneasy silence.

It has been nearly seven months since Agatha Caffarael was proclaimed a new captain of the Silver Dart and embraced her birthright as a lawful holder of the Rogue Trader Warrant.

It has been nearly seven months since the she set sail towards the depths of the Ghoul Stars, drawn into the vast uncharted expanse beyond Imperial reach with the promises of grand adventure to be had, untold riches to be plundered, and eternal glory to be made.

It has been nearly seven months, and so far she found next to none.

Of course, it would be quite an understatement to say that her endeavors were entirely fruitless. Aside from stellar charts and planetary survey data, maps of Warp passageways, and rows upon rows of research samples, which were already more than enough to cover their travel expenses, there actually were some genuinely valuable finds to turn up for some profit.

Yet those were too few and far between to truly satiate young Trader’s ambition.

And so, it was always “one more”.

One more faint signal to investigate.

One more system to jump.

One more planet to survey.

One more surface expedition to mount.

One more shovel to dig.

Gathered at the long wooden table were, indeed, a chosen few – for no ordinary crewman cold ever hope to be up to their task. Together, they held a nigh-absolute power over affairs aboard and beyond – and together they carried the burden of nigh-absolute responsibility over anything and everything that happened within their reach. These were the Rogue Trader’s most trusted confidants, partners and friends – her Seneschal, Becca Meyers, her Voidmaster, Henrietta von Fjund, her Magos-Explorator, Ryza Twenty Six, and her Missionary, Sister Ellyn.

“We must pull the plug,” stated Seneschal, a short, tan-skinned, white-haired woman in her early thirties, clad in free-fitting long-sleeve dress and quilted leather vest. “And we must pull it now.”

“Go ahead,” replied Voidmaster, a tall, blond, slightly chubby, middle-aged woman, dressed in lavishly decorated naval uniform and silver-lined green cape. - “I’ve tried. She won’t listen.”

“Then help me make her listen!” Seneschal clenched her fists, giving everyone in the room a quick angry glare.

“Calling for mutiny, are we?” Voidmaster grinned sarcastically, placing her hand on a holster.

“I’m calling for reason and common sense!” Seneschal retorted. “If we stretch the rations any further, we risk starvation! And the mutiny you speak of will inevitably follow!”

“I must agree,” calmly replied Missionary, a young, pale girl, clad in over-sized Ministorum robes, cowl hiding most of her face. “It takes a special kind of faith and devotion to overcome hunger, and I’m afraid few among the crew may claim to possess such virtues.”

“Ladies,” with a brief hiss of opening doors, Rogue Trader Agatha Caffarael entered the briefing room, immediately followed by her Navigator, Florence Brabazon, and her Astropath. Neoma Custa. Dressed in overly elaborate suit of faintly glowing lumin-cloth and spun gold, with hereditary kraken tooth dagger on her belt and opulent tricorn hat with rainbow-colored feahers over her head, tall, sleek, slightly tan, with nigh-perfect feminine silhouette and a quite a profound rack, further accentuated by a deep decolletage of her mock corset, the Trader was indeed quite a sight to behold.

“Let me be clear,” she stated, taking a seat at the head of the table, “I fully understand your concerns over our lack of proper supply, and I have already given the orders to prepare our return to Port Wander.”

“Oh, praise the Emperor,” muttered Seneschal.

“However,” Agatha continued, “we won’t be making a direct jump. There would be far too many temporal holes on our path to consider that option even remotely safe, and even Lady Brabazon’s skills can’t guarantee us safe passage.”

“A detour, then?” Voidmaster raised her eyebrow.

“Precisely. We have plotted a jump right through this system in the middle of Nineteenth Sector.”

“I formally object,” retorted Seneschal. - “It’s deep within the quarantine zone. If we’re caught there...”

“No arbiter, no servo-skull, no crime. If anything goes wrong, we can always forge a story of misjump and tech malfunction, as well as provide the interested party with plenty of “hard evidence” to boot. Seneschal, how long can we last on our supplies?”

“Four weeks. After that we’ll have to cut daily rations to seventy five percent of minimal daily subsistence, and cut vitamin supplements to twenty five percent.”

“Splendid. With two jumps approximately a week each, that gives us about two weeks...”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s quarantine. And it’s quarantine for a reason.”

“We’ll be careful. Besides, it takes about twelve hours to cool down and charge up our Warp drive. Plenty of time to scan for signs of trouble, right?”

“I suppose so. Still... Lady Brabazon, are you sure there are no other detour options?”

“Not within the given time constraints, no,” replied Navigator.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” stated Seneschal, letting out a defeated sigh.

“Noted. This meeting is adjourned. Back to your posts, ladies.”

>>4009

PART II

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Brave are they who know everything yet fear nothing.” ++

“Alright, Magos, we got the picture. What exactly are we looking at?”

“Based on the evidence we’ve found so far, I may conclude that it is some sort of a energy to matter conversion device, Lady Caffarael,” a synthetic, yet distinctly feminine voice replied. “A technology many within the Cult Mechanicus believe to be scientifically plausible, but practically impossible, even for our ancestors. Yet… here it is.”

“What exactly does it do and what value it may hold for us? In layman’s terms, if possible.”

“It converts energy to matter. No extra steps. Electricity comes in. Something solid comes out. If it is still functional, it’s bona fide STC. If it is not, it’s still an extremely valuable find, one that will prompt a lavish reward if turned over to the Cult Mechanicus.”

“Right. Any idea what this particular device converts energy into?”

“It is directly connected to what appears to be a packaging and handling area, so it must be a self-contained product. There is lot of ancient refrigeration machinery present, so whatever it might have been, it is was supposed to be stored cold. Inside said machinery, we have observed a lot of markings that indicate decayed organics. Thus, it is only logical to suggest that this particular device was primarily used to create foodstuffs.”

“Come again?” Seneschal blinked and shook her head in disbelief.

“The purpose of this device appears to be a direct conversion of energy into human nutrition.”

“Of all the things they could have made with this wonder, they chose... food?” - Voidmaster’s voice sounded just as surprised. - “Why?”

“Panem et circuses, I guess,” replied Seneschal. “Bread and amusements. It was pretty much a motto of Mankind back then.”

“It certainly is amusing,” stated Agatha. “Magos, is there any chance this device can be salvaged and brought aboard for further study?”

“The device itself appears to be perfectly salvageable. Its’ power source, however, is not. It is also unclear whether it is possible to obtain any of the machinery that was used to control it – unlike many relics of the Dark Age, this one does not appear to possess any built-in human interface devices.”

“Lady Caffarael,” pleaded Seneschal, “I must advise against such decision. It would be much safer to at least attempt to study it there instead of just bringing that thing aboard. STC or not, we’re in the middle of a quarantine zone, and those are not created without a reason.”

“I understand your concerns,” Agatha nodded. “Yet, imagine this. We bring down some heavy equipment, set up shop, our Magos starts doing her thing, and then we are jumped by a Navy patrol. How are we going explain a field lab on a planet we’re not supposed to be on, because we’ve “merely misjumped” into the quarantined system and are “performing wilderness repairs” at the moment, huh?”

“That’s… a fair point, actually.”

“Besides, if that happens, I’d rather have that thing sealed in a scan-shielded storage, not laying in the open where it could be pulverized by a single lance pulse. Do I need to continue?”

“You need not, ma’am.”

“Good. Magos, prepare the device for shipping and expect a shuttle to arrive at your coordinates within one standard hour. After that, you may proceed with the search for the missing components or whatever techno-babble you’ve just mentioned. I’m sending down additional salvage crew and some scanning machinery, make use of it as you see fit. Seneschal, if you so insist of acting as carefully as possible, I task you with overseeing the loading operations and with maintaining the strictest isolation protocols you can come up with. Everyone else, back to your posts.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

Seneschal’s hopes that this device would become just another ancient oddity she would have to sell to the highest bidder quickly faded, as the entire planet the Trader decided to “take a quick sneak peek at” turned out to be a bizarre open sky showcase of ancient technology. Even though most of it was well beyond salvage or repair, Magos soon found herself in possession of everything she deemed necessary to conduct her research. She did just that – but even at the height of religious fervor only the chosen few servants of the Omnissiah at the far end of their Quest for Knowledge could exhibit, it wasn’t enough. She needed just a little more time – time they no longer could afford, as provisions aboard the Silver Bullet have finally ran dry.

Still, there wasn’t much Seneschal could do. All of her talents were nowhere near enough to break through the combined willpower of Trader and Magos and make them see reason – for even a tree would consider stepping aside should it find itself rooted on a trail between Rogue Trader and profit, and even a boulder would roll away if it crossed path between Magos and ancient tech. Though Seneschal managed to enlist help from most people in Trader’s retinue, as well from the lot of the more common folk, but the battle she fought was far too uphill. Having secured a writ that exempted her from any responsibility regarding possible consequences of Trader’s decision, Seneschal begrudgingly gave her blessing, and Magos gleefully returned to her work.

A week later, they’ve gathered again – though this time, it was Magos who called for a meeteing.

“Are you absolutely, one hundred percent, hand on a holy scripture, sure there is no other way to test that thing?” pleaded Seneschal.

“I need more power,” Magos replied blankly.

“How much?” inquiried Voidmaster.

“Fifty to eighty gigawatts.”

“A full half of our supply? Just to make food?”

“Yes.”

“What’s our worst case scenario?”

“Moderate damage to testing area and immediate vicinity. Possible fires in the areas used for power linkage. Local energy grid overloads alongside. Estimate crew loss… five hundred to two thousand.”

“Will our reactor hold?”

“We have literal layers of failsafes to prevent critical overloads and meltdowns.”

“If I gave you a green light,” Agatha rubbed her temples, “where would you set up shop and why?”

“Common leisure area two decks below arboretum. It’s far enough from most crucial components aside said arboretum, but that has little use as of now. It’s not linked to any major power nodes, so there is no risk of cascade overload. It’s easily contained and it won’t cause major depressurization should the worst case scenario occur. It’s near geometrical center of the vessel, so it’s not easy to scan and quite easy to shield from one. And we don’t have enough length of high-grade superconductive cables to place the device in any of the cargo holds that would fit the safety criteria described.”

“Sounds fine enough,” Trader smiled. “Any objections?”

“Loss of the leisure activity area will not do wonders to our crew morale,” sighed Seneschal. “Well, if we jump as soon as that cursed thing backfires...”

“Watch your language,” Magos snapped angrily. “That “accursed thing” may be the most important find in the entire history of Mankind, and I won’t have neither of you screeching profanities at it.”

“Easy there,” Agatha gestured Magos to stop. “If it works, supplies and morale will no loner be a problem. If it doesn’t, we’re starting jump preparations right away. There’s nothing that can go wrong, so it’s a win-win deal in my books. Right?”

“Remind me to put those words on your tombstone, Lady Caffarael.”

“Very funny. Now get to work.”

Had a thought for fantasy:
A halfling chef is captured by some sexy vampiress who, out of amusement, orders him to cook for her. Turns out he's a magicaly/divinely gifted chef and his food is not only addictive and super fattening, but it interacts with the magic in teh vampire turns her into a powerless, immobile human. The Empire's spy service black mails him into bulking out various high/dark Elf sorceresses, Brettonnian damsels, heretic female warrior priests, norscan championesses and vampires into powerless uselessness.

>>4022

PART III

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Only the insane have strength enough to prosper. Only those who prosper may truly judge what is sane.” ++

“Emergency life support systems checked and ready to engage.”

“Damage control crews and tech teams stand ready.”

“Security detail reporting armed and ready.”

“Medical bay stands ready.”

“Chapel is packed full, chorus is assembled, ready when you are.”

“Reactor control. All readings nominal. Ready to proceed.”

Amidst the shelves packed full with ancient computational machinery, amidst the floor covered in chaotic maze of wires, amidst the glow of dozens of screens and flicker of hundreds of tiny colored lights, linked to her data-throne, amidst the quiet cacophony of hissing, buzzing, beeping and occasional screeching, linked to her immense data-throne, Magos was getting ready to make one final step towards her ultimate goal, offering final slent prayers to the Omnissiah. Just across the wall, in a wide empty hall that used to be officer canteen, stood her life’s crowning achievement – a living myth straight from the Dark Age, a wonder of technology long lost, a Standard Template Construct that many didn’t believe existed, and many more thought to be impossible. And while it certainly didn’t look like a vaunted relic – to a less enlightened observer, it was just a large boxy metallic thing, quite akin to a household fridge in shape and girth, with a handful of blinking lights on the left side, small rectangular window towards the top, and a simple mechanism to unload whatever happened to be inside the said window – it was the inside that mattered most to Martian Priesthood, and what was inside this machine was nothing short of a miracle.

“You sure about this?” Rogue Trader’s voice inquired over a portable vox, crackling with interference from all the machinery around.

Ryza Twenty Seven knew full well that she didn’t have to be there. In fact, she was the only living being on the entire deck – had she given an order, her ad-hoc control center could have been relocated to a safer place within a couple of hours. Yet, she chose to remain – she would be the first to see the living glory of the Omnissiah, or she would be the first – and, hopefully, the only one to perish. Besides, there were plenty of things that could go wrong with all that ancient tech she had been tinkering with for well over two weeks at that point.

“Never more in my life,” Magos replied in grim tone.

“It’s been an honor.”

“Likewise. Reactor control, engage power linkage.”

“Linkage engaged. All readings nominal. Conductivity test successful. Clamp temperature within acceptable parameters. Waiting for power input.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“Emperor preserve us,” muttered Seneschal.

“Glory to the Omnissiah!” exclaimed Magos, placing her cybernetic hand over the big red switch and jamming it down.

Inside the briefing room, the rest of Trader’s retinue heard a long, low, ominous growl, coming from deep inside their vessel. Lights dimmed. Pict-screens that they used to monitor the relic flickered and died. A series of hisses and pops followed, together with a bitter smell of burnt electronics – all over the Silver Dart, electric fuses were fighting a losing battle against immense power drawn into the ancient machine. Then, the lights inside died altogether – yet, before the room could be filled by the crimson glow of emergency backup illumination, the light returned.

“Status report!” barked Agatha, staring into the white noise on celling-mount screens.
“Praise the Omnissiah!” Magos’ voice roared triumphantly. “The Energy Converter Standard Template Construct is now online and operational!”

Her triumph, however, was a hollow one. The relic was bleeding their reactor dry – it didn’t take one third of Silver Dart’s power output, but rather left just one third of it available for the entire vessel to operate. Moreover, they soon found themselves unable to safely shut the STC down – in part because Magos was unable to data-mine the proper operational rites from the unpowered device, in part because her custom power clamps quickly welded themselves shut to Silver Bullet’s reactor – they simply weren’t made to withstand electrical torrent of such magnitude. Simply cutting a cord was not an option, either – for there was no telling what damage it would cause both to STC and the ship, and neither Magos nor Trader were willing to take that risk.

Still, their situation wasn’t as grim as it could have been. Sure, running a ship only on a third of proper power supply was a quite tricky affair, but it was well still within the realm of possibility, with only major problem being them unable to power up Silver Bullet’s Warp drive and her Gellar Field at the same time. They no longer had to worry about their supplies, either – the STC was capable of producing food as fast as it could unload its’ fabrication bay, and after some rather thorough testing Magos confirmed that it was perfectly safe for human consumption. With a planet beneath them still ripe for plunder, with quarantine beacon in the system “mysteriously going missing”, with Magos re-assuring everyone that she will do her best to find the way to safely unhook the device, Agatha ordered a feast made of freshly fabricated food to be served across all decks – in part to improve their crew’s somewhat lacking morale, in part to hide the fact that they were stuck deep inside quarantine zone and had little to no means of escape if things were to go south.

And the crew did indeed took up on that offer. Happy as they were to hear that strict food rationing was finally being uplifted, upon seeing the full magnitude of what was offered by their masters, many went downright ecstatic. Imperial society was not known for providing high standard of living to its’ common folk – bland and tasteless goo commonly known as “corpsestarch” was usually the only thing many a commoner would subsist in their lifetimes, with only real choice being that between a daily tub of corpsestarch and death from starvation. Even the denizens of sparsely-populated agri-words, planets dedicated solely to agricultural production, usually found themselves on a same boat as people they fed – for all their rulers cared about was quantity, and that usually meant growing one single crop or breeding one single species that yielded most nutritional value over the course of a standard year. Only the wealthy few across Imperium of Man were able to afford some choice of their diet – and even among these, eating things genuinely organic on a regular basis was a rare occurrence. And so, despite being offered only a single dish – because Magos was yet to find whether the STC was capable of producing anything else – for the vast majority of crew members aboard the Silver Dart it was the very first time in their lifetimes they’ve tried bread, or meat, or cheese, or vegetables, or spices.

Of course, Agatha and her inner circle did not pass the opportunity to have a taste of genuine Dark Age of Technology cuisine for themselves either.

Or, at least, most of them didn’t.

“Gotta admit,” said Voidmaiser, taking a napkin to wipe the sauce off her mouth, “these things are good. Better than anything I’ve tried from here to Ultramar, actually.”

“A taste truly befitting of a divine gift,” Missionary added. “Truly a blessing from our Savior, bestowed upon us at the rightest of times.”

“Glory to the Omnissiah,” mumbled Magos.

“Indeed,” Agatha took a sip of brandy. “Any idea how should we call it?”

“Rough transliteration into modern High Gothic would be ‘chiz-borgha’, Lady Caffarael.”

“Sounds exotic enough to be true, I suppose. By the way,” Agatha turned towards the Seneschal, “you’ve barely touched your plate today, Master Meyers. Is something wrong, I wonder?”

“Aside from us being stuck in a place we shouldn’t have stayed longer than twelve hours?” Seneschal replied in grim tone, “I’m being offered food made by a machine found deep within the quarantined space, a machine that sucked our reactor dry and is now preventing us from leaving. Call me paranoid, but I’m not going to trust even the most sophisticated poi-savant on this side of the Galaxy to tell me it’s safe to eat. So yes, there’s plenty wrong, and I lack the capability to fix any of it.”

“You are paranoid,” Trader smirked, “Fortunately, starting tomorrow, you will be putting this quirk of yours to good use.”

“Beg pardon, m’lady?”

“Since there’s not much for us to do until Magos finds a way to safely unhook the STC from the ship, and since there’s plenty of ancient tech below us waiting to be plundered, someone will have to oversee the excavations… and enforce safety protocols.”

“Aren’t we already rich beyond our wildest dreams?”

“Plenty can go wrong during the exchange. After all, it may be the most valuable relic on this side of Galaxy. Better to have some reassurance of profit, right?”

“This won’t end well.”

“Noted.”

Finally took the time to look into this and I'm glad I did. Its fantastic and beautifully paced. Do you have a Deviant Art by any chance so I can sub?

>>4031
I still have no idea why people would hold such a praise for my shit-bricking senile scribles, but you certainly are welcome.
https://www.deviantart.com/m00nliner

>>4029

PART IV

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Ignorance is a virtue.” ++

“...sixty one, no. Sixty two, no, that’s trash. Sixty three, no, already have enough of these,” sitting in a dimly-lit cockpit of a cargo shuttle, Seneschal spoke into a portable vox, swiping her hand over a dataslate. “Sixty four, no, that won’t fit, but mark it for possible disassembly. Sixty five, no. Sixty six… what’s this… yes, bring it aboard. Sixty seven, yes, load all of those. Sixty eight, take one from the pile and mark the rest for next pickup. Sixty nine, no. Seventy… hm… yeah, load. That should take up most of our cargo capacity, so let’s wrap this up and I’m calling it a day.”

“As you wish, Master Meyers.”

For a while, things went quite smoothly, given the situation at hand. For a while, even Seneschal’s concerns seemed to ease their grip on her soul – with herself usually staying a hundred miles away from the source of her worries, sometimes weeks at a time, with her mind being mostly preoccupied with meticulous management of salvage operations and daily minutia that followed, and with plethora of ancient trinkets waiting to be excavated, examined, evaluated, shipped, studied, documented and stored, it was quite easy to forget just how helpless they all were if anything went even slightly wrong and just how powerless she was to fix any of this. Still, she pressed on, puting most of her hopes and offering most of her daily prayers onto Magos, for if it were her talents that managed to bring the accursed relic to life, it would be her talents to lay the ancient device back to slumber.

Yet, as days turned into weeks and weeks collected into months, she couldn’t help but notice that life aboard the Silver Dart was changing. It was a slow and subtle process, almost invisible at times – but it was there, it was happening, and to Seneschal, it certainly was not a good sign. One matter of her growing concerns was Magos. While it was worrisome enough that noble priestess of the Machine Cult effectively isolated herself within the section of a ship where STC was located, completely foregoing all manner of personal interactions with the rest of Trader’s retinue aside from short and increasingly rare status updates via vox-comms, it wasn’t a behavior entirely unexpected from the members of Adeptus Mechanicus, especially from those who got to work with holy relics of ancient technology. It were the results of her work that bothered Seneschal so much – for all the efforts Magos put into her research, the only results she seemed to produce were new types of ancient foodstuffs coming out of the device. That was the second matter Seneschal was getting increasingly worried about – while she still refused to eat any of it, subsisting only on pre-packed rations they still had left, virtually no one else aboard the Silver Dart seemed to share to her convictions, happily consuming up to four full meals a day and even snacking in-between. Much to Seneschal’s dismay, that also included her companions within Rogue Trader’s retinue. Every single time she would return from the surface, Trader would order a celebratory banquet comprised almost entirely of fabricated foods, a banquet Seneschal had to attend as Trader’s master of ceremonies, though, quite soon, with absence of proper guests to amuse, with live music being replaced by that from the ancient records and with other means of entertainment being superseded by plethora of unearthed holographic projections, the only real ceremony Seneschal had to arrange became her listing most recent finds on the planet and their estimated prices on Imperial markets. Cheers and applauds that followed left her with little room to actually voice her concerns – although when she did, her words fell on deaf ears, even as said concerns were becoming increasingly apparent on their waistlines, as well as on the waistlines of mostly female crew all across Silver Dart’s decks.

It was a simple biological formula, one that didn’t require profound knowledge on matters scholastic or technical to comprehend. Human bodies require energy to function, energy they obtain by breaking down organic matter they ingest. If the amount of energy expended exceeds the amount of energy obtained, it’s called malnutrition, it forces human body to obtain energy from the reserves it previously created, and if those get expended too, human body ceases to function. If the amount of energy obtained exceeds the amount of energy expended, it’s called overeating, and it forces human body to store the excess energy in the form of adipose tissue. And so, while the ancient device enabled denizens of the Silver Dart to greatly increase their caloric intake, it also deprived them of nearly every strenuous activity aboard – there simply wasn’t much to do on a static, severely under-powered vessel, and the common leisure area they had to disassemble to house the STC also contained the only major gym aboard. It wouldn’t be a problem on a newer, more common vessel, as those were quite labor-intensive in a dormant state like this, but Silver Dart was neither – for when the last ship of her class rolled out the Ring of Iron over Mars sometime in the final decades of Imperial Reforging, words “menial task automation” and “extensive mechanization” were not yet forgotten by Imperial shipwrights. There wasn’t enough entertainment available to the crew to properly distract them from the food either, and there were far too few vacancies for Seneschal’s ground operations to make any difference.

In a way, Agatha Caffarael and her crew unwittingly barged into a perfect storm, only growing in magnitude as they ever so boldly went deeper and deeper inside.

And nobody except her Seneschal seemed to notice or care.

>>4033

Wanky parts finally arived! Took me merely thirteen pages to get there! Woo-hoo!

PART V

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Hope is the beginning of unhappiness.” ++

“Lady Brabazon,” Seneschal spoke quietly, lightly tapping Navigator on her shoulder. “I beg your pardon, but that’s mildly inappropriate.”

Sighing, Navigator slowly put down her utensils and turned her glazed look towards Seneschal.

“High as a kite again, I see,” thought Seneshal.

Clearing her throat theatrically, Navigator let out a mighty belch, making the semi-transparent veil that hid most of her face ride up in the air.

“This is inappropriate,” she stated. “Not arriving on time is inappropriate. Eating when one is hungry? Perfectly appropriate. Any objections?”

“Unless it’s your third meal since the break of dawn,” thought Seneschal, forcing a friendly smile on her face. Few were foolish enough to dare incite the ire of a member of Navis Nobilite – and fewer still lived to tell the tale.

“None, Lady Brabazon.”

“Good… good,” giving everyone at the table a quick glance, Navigator returned to her meal.

Her loose green mantle hid her newly acquired bulk surprisingly well – that is, when she stood, because right now her swollen midsection and bulging hips were quite visibly protruding through the tight fabric.

“Lady Caffarael, why are we doing this?” Seneschal’s voice sounded almost like she begged for mercy.

“Why?” Trader raised her glass of brandy. “To commemorate your valiant services to the House Caffarael, of course! Come on, it’s all for you!”

“Yes, mock me because I’m the only one here actually doing something,” Seneschal grit her teeth, eyes glancing over Agatha. “Something other than glutting myself to oblivion at every waking moment”.

Trader still wore the same outfit, though it obviously was re-tailored at least a couple of times to properly accommodate her recent growth – and though it caused her apparel to lose some of its’ extravagant flair, it was a small price to pay for maintaining decency. Trader’s tailors clearly put a lot of thought and effort into refits – as her elaborate apparel not only maintained most of its’ rather elegant appeal, it also did wonders smoothing her newfound collection of curves. Yet, for reasons beyond Seneschal’s understanding, Agatha’s corset stayed the same – and it revealed the full scope of damage done to her figure. Laced only halfway through, not only did it squish her profound breasts so hard they started to ooze from the top of it, it also revealed a gap of oozing love handle flesh on Agatha’s right side, below which a belt was cutting deeply into her hip.

“S...sorry I’m late...” stammered Voidmaster, appearing in the doorway. Panting for air, her face reddened with exertion and glistening with beads of sweat, she looked down, folding flesh on her face revealing a newly formed double chin. “There were some… pressing matters… to attend to.”

“Is everything alright, Master von Fjund?” asked Seneschal, doing her best to fake genuinely concerned tone.

“Y...yes, just a minor… power grid anomaly, it’s already been… dealt with.”

“Divine Grace, this woman can’t lie to save her life,” thought Seneschal, smiling and showing Voidmaster her place at the table. “That’s good to hear. Please, take your seat.”

Even though Voidmaster did her best to keep her cape in place, Seneschal did manage to get a couple of glimpses of what she tried to hide beneath. Her Navy uniform was still the same, and it was fighting a losing battle against Voidmaster’s notorious eating habits. Her outer jacket was undone, and the white shirt beneath was stretched so much it looked as if it’s been painted on, specks of belly flesh bulging through the gaps in fabric between buttons. Her belt was buttoned into the last hole, and underneath it Seneschal managed to spot flaps of her unbuttoned and unzipped pants, which, in turn, clung to her thighs so tightly she could have sworn she heard a creak or two as Voidmaster awkwardly shuffled to her seat.

“Before we proceed,” Seneschal looked at her companions, a glimmer of hope flashing in her eyes, “did anyone hear anything from Magos?”

“I did,” replied Agatha, “She found four more recipes while you were away.”

“Oh, that’s fucking fantastic,” Seneschal involuntarily clenched her fists, spotting new dishes on the overloaded table, “So… are there news regarding safely switching off the STC?”

“No,” Agatha shrugged, “why do you keep asking?”

“Lady Caffarael, it’s been nearly six months since we’re mothballed deep within the quarantined space, and if anyone jumps into this system...”

“Emperor above, not this shit again,” muttered Voidmaster, her voice clearly irate, “Look, we’ve been through this a dozen of times already. She’ll notify us once she’s done. You get notified first. Let our coghead do her thing in peace, alright?”

“When was the last time any of you saw her? Not heard on vox, not saw on screen – in person?”

“Alright, that’s enough!” barked Agatha. “This banquet is being held in your honor, to commemorate your efforts and celebrate your exploits in the service to House Caffarael! If you are so insistent on annoying us, so be it, but don’t expect me to give you such honors in the future!”

“You know, I might as well accept on that offer,” Seneschal grinned sarcastically. “Because if none of you noticed, let me be the first to enlighten you! This device is tainted! It clearly did something to our Magos! And this food is tainted too! Just... look at yourselves! If that’s not enough, take a trip through the decks and look at your crew! Please, Lady Caffarael, I beg you,” Seneschal dropped down onto her knees, tears veiling at her eyes, “just give the order to cut the cord! This madness has to be stopped! I will do it myself, if needs be!”

“Out,” Rogue Trader pointed at the door.

“Lady Caffarael, I implore you...”

“Get out of my sight. And don’t ever return until I receive a proper written apology. If anything happens to the STC in the meantime, you are getting keelhauled. Dixi.”

With a defeated sigh, Seneschal rose back to her feet, picked her data-slate from the table and left for her office.

“Gluttony is a sin,” briefly stopping by the door, she said to no one in particular, “yet it’s not too late to repent”.

For a moment, an uneasy silence fell upon the banquet hall.

“M-maybe she’s right,” mumbled Voidmaster, “Maybe… we did get… you know... a little bit overboard...”

“Reverent Ellyn, what say you?” Agatha inquiried.

Reverent Ellyn did not look comfortable during the exchange, but not because any of the words disturbed her – Missionary was still painfully full from the morning sermon, and she did her best to appease her bloated stomach throughout, yet had little success so far.

“Many denominations within the Ecclesiarchy do not recognize gluttony as one of the mortal sins,” replied Missionary. “And even if it ultimately is, the food before us is clearly a gift from the God-Emperor himself, so even if we did get a little overboard, it’s not because we wished to commit sacrilege, but because of our righteous desire to take most from the divine blessing that He bestowed upon us.”

“Could not have put it better myself. Say, can you talk some sense into our Seneschal? If you get the chance, of course.”

“She’s overworked and she needs to rest first and foremost. Let’s give her a couple of weeks and see how she fares after that.”

“Fair enough. Alright, that’s enough beating around the bush,” Agatha raised her glass of brandy, “Ladies, let’s dig in already, lest our feast grows stale.”

“We humbly thank our Immortal EmperURP...” folding her hands into the sign of Aquila, began Missionary, only to be interrupted by an ungainly belch. “Ahem. We humbly thank our Immortal Emperor for the food He provided for us today, and we pray we can serve Him like He serves us. Amen.”

>>4034

There was something oddly liberating about having a feast without Senechal being in the same room with the. It’s not that the Trader and her retinue showed a whole lot of restraint when it came to food, at least not in the recent months, but the presence of Seneschal was certainly beginning to feel like a burden they all wanted to somehow shed. Without having to listen to her long and boring speeches, without having to feel her her judging eyes silently burrowing holes in all of them, without having to interrupt themselves to cheer and applaud for a cause they no longer truly celebrated, they could just go all in – and they did just that, loading up on delicious treats and expensive alcohol from Trader’s own collection, making small talk, bouncing jokes back and forth, and generally having their fun. What used to be a strictly formal event that took an hour and a half at best now dragged on for hours – with all the first ladies of the Silver Dart gorging themselves with reckless abandon until they finally had to throw in the towel.

“Best… feast… evURRRRP...” mumbled Agatha, panting and gasping for air as her hands tried to alleviate some of the pressure from her overburdened, pregnant-looking belly. “Somebody… buh… carry me… to my chambers… urf…”

“You… hiccurf… don’t say...” replied Voidmaster, splayed helplessly on her chair. “Oh man… I really need to… oogh… go...”

Placing both hands on the table, she actually managed to heft herself up, but that action brought some rather unforeseen and rather unpleasant consequences. Trying not to rustle the swollen orb of her painfully overstuffed gut, she bent just a bit too low, and that became a straw that broke the camel’s back for her pant – the overtaxed cloth split right in the middle, exposing her silken panties and a significant portion of her widened ass. Jumping up to cover it with her hands, Voidmaster involuntarily jutted her midsection forward – which, in turn, was enough for her painfully overstretched shirt to finally cave in. Showering the empty plates before Voidmaster with popping buttons, her gut broke itself free, taut orb dangling in front of her for everyone else to see. And that jostle, far too rude for her overloaded intestines – after a moment of silence, sound of a long, booming fart drowned out everything else in the room.

Beet-red and thoroughly ashamed, tightly rolled into her cape as if her life depended on it, followed by a hearty laughter from her companions, Voidmaster awkwardly shuffled towards the exit, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Seneschal was the last sane person aboard.

>>4035

PART VI

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “The wage of negligence is utter destruction.” ++

From that point onward, things steadily went downhill.

Clothing stores and sewing shops aboard the Silver Dart were the first to face the full brunt of obesity pandemic that slowly crept across the decks – with their limited supply of larger-sized uniforms soon running empty, and with orders of apparel refits flooding in by the thousands, their utter inability to fulfill the demand was becoming more and more apparent with each passing month. While the attempts at enforcing stricter dress codes and dishing out harsher punishments for inappropriate service apparel had some initial success, all that was ultimately bound to fail – for those responsible for maintaining their subjects’ visage rarely fared any better themselves. Begrudgingly, Seneschal had to abandon enforcement of proper uniform altogether, as the only type of clothing her seamstresses could produce quickly enough that didn’t require constant refits were shapeless mummus crudely strewn together from whatever fabrics they still had in stores.

Next on the line were the medical bays – there was only so much stimm they could have administered to mitigate fatigue, and there was simply no reliable way to deal with all the other health complaints they were being constantly bombarded with. The only advice they could give – to eat less and to exercise more – usually fell on deaf ears, as none of the doctors showed any desire to follow up on that advice themselves. While there was a method to at least mitigate the issue, a procedure called “gastric bypass”, and while it did show some promising results on those who volunteered for testing, it couldn’t have been done quickly enough to make any difference, and while it did greatly reduce caloric intake of those subjected to it, it didn’t really do anything to help them to shed the weights they’ve already accumulated, for there was no proper facility aboard for crew to exercise. And without exercise, they soon turned back to glutting themselves on fabricated foods, which inevitably stretched their surgically reduced stomachs back to their original capacities.

Then, it was the officers’ turn. Having repeatedly failed to enforce the proper discipline among rank and file as well as among themselves, they were now forced to face the consequences of their negligence. It was one thing that the mummus they were issued with were not exactly well suited for any sort of strenuous or hazardous activity – but it was entirely other thing that none of them could neither fit into their suits of armor nor operate their weapons properly, and with most of them getting hopelessly winded and doubling down after just a couple of hundred paces of continuous waddle, there was simply no way any of them could force their subjects to do anything. Not that they really could do much around the ship at this point – as most of them no longer fit inside voidsuits or were able to get within the boundaries of service latches without a risk of getting hopelessly stuck, as even bending down was becoming a rather serious issue, it was little wonder that work shifts all across Silver Dart were getting progressively shorter, and maintenance quotas crews claimed to fulfill rapidly declined. Only the extensive cadre of servitors toiled as hard and as tirelessly as they always did – but their labor alone was nowhere near enough to keep the vessel running, and with every passing week it was becoming more and more apparent. Layers of dust silently collected on the unused furniture, heaps of trash littered the hallways, worn-out lights left entire sections to the crimson glow of emergency illumination, stench of sweat and stomach gases filled the air, and there was no one in sight who could fix any of this – aside from a bloated shadow of a lone sailor, gasping for air as she slowly waddled towards her cabin, carrying a box of freshly fabricated foodstuffs in her hands, corridors and hallways all across the ship were empty, filled only with muffled sounds of carnal gluttony.

In just over a year since she’s been involuntarily mothballed, Silver Dart effectively ceased to function.

But nobody except Seneschal seemed to notice or care.

It would be only fair to say that she did her best, yet her best was just not good enough.

Being a de-facto manager of nearly every daily affair aboard, she kept her finger on a waning pulse of their vessel, tirelessly seeking a way if not to circumvent, but to at least mitigate every issue that came to be over the months since she was effectively banished from Trader’s retinue. There were two things that still made her hopes linger, two thoughts etched into her mind that prevented Seneschal from putting a laspistol into her mouth and jamming the trigger down, first being the grim conviction that Magos must eventually fulfill her task, and second being a vain notion that she was capable of controlling the situation aboard, that if she couldn’t reason with Agatha through words, she would make her listen with her actions. And yet, in just over six months that she was effectively the only person in charge of the ship, all she managed to accomplish was nothing short of a catastrophe. It’s not that she had wrong ideas on how to deal with every problem that came to her attention – her solutions were mostly working, sometimes greatly so, but never on a scale that would be relevant enough to make a difference. What she lacked was distinct authority with the crew, one that she could use to directly force her will unto the others – for such was the nature of her position as Seneschal, that of a cautious bureaucratic spider sitting in the middle of a meticulously woven web of agents, connections, rules and regulations, ruling from the shadow, but rarely coming to light.

Thus, having finally exhausted nearly every option and every idea her mind supplanted her with so far, she then tried to address the core issue at hand – the STC, and yet weeks upon weeks of study of ancient data-banks she had unearthed during her planetary endeavors yielded no clue and no insight. Mortally tired from metaphorically bashing her head against the wall for so long, Seneschal retreated back to her chambers and tried to wash her problems away with alcohol – yet even the universal solution managed to last her only for a few weeks, never truly killing the edge or soothing the despair she was experiencing. Having sobered up enough to stand, she went for the shipboard chapel – for if someone in the Universe actually knew how to save them, it must have been the Immortal Emperor. The experience was almost surreal – like a pale ghost she shuffled through the dim halls of a dying ship, greeted only by flickering lights and piles of refuse. Even more surreal was the vision she received after passing out mid-prayer – while she couldn’t recall any of what she saw, she clearly remembered that there were her companions, and that they were full of sorrow and regret, waiting for her to come back and to help them right the many wrongs that happened since then. It wasn’t the gluttony that was killing the ship – it was but a consequence of pride, of sinful pride that clouded their best judgment and led them to this sorry state, yet it was still not too late to atone. Clinging into that thought as if it was the most precious thing in the entire Universe, Seneschal rushed back into her office. Quickly unrolling a blank scroll of parchment and grabbing a quill, she began to write down the words of her long awaited apology, her hand trembling and her eyes watering as she went. Her text was not a long one, neither a complicated one – but she was happy with it, knowing that she had finally did a right thing.

>>4037


But then, just as she was going to leave, something rather unusual happened. With a loud CLANG, a cylinder dropped into her pneumatic mail inlet – a sight once quite regular, but at this point it’s been weeks since anyone sent her any message this way, or, frankly, any message at all.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” were the words that escaped her mouth almost involuntarily as she opened the parcel. An over-sized meat sandwich, akin to those of the first batch of fabricated food, but a few magnitudes more decadent, was crudely jammed inside, smearing the steel container with sauces and oil.

Then, she heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” grabbing her laspistol, barked Seneschal.

With a slight hiss, the door revealed a distorted, blobby figure, clad in a crudely-sewn orange mummu, which did little to preserve its’ owner’s decency – it was ripped halfway across the seam on the left side, revealing the lower part of a cellulite-ridden gut that dangled down almost all the way to the knee, and a lard-pillar leg beneath it with a dimple where said knee should have been.

“Apologies… huff… ma’am,” spoke the figure, gasping for air.

Taking some time to examine the guest, Seneschal finally recognized one of her secretaries.

“Divine Grace… Celyn?” shaking her head in disbelief, she put her pistol back on a table, “Is that you?”

“Pant… yes... huff… ma’am,” the figure replied.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“ApoOURP… oogh… apologies… huff… ma’am,” Celyn put her hand atop the bulge of her unruly, packed gut that protruded a solid foot in front of her, “This is… food delivery… urf… for me”.

Even though it was pretty obvious she had her fill and then some, Celyn’s eyes were dead set on the cylinder, giving it an almost lustful stare.

“Then why is it in my office?” barked Seneschal, daggers in her eyes.

“Sometimes… it gets sent… huff… here, ma’am”.

“Since when is this even happening?”

“I think… a week… urf… or two”.

“Right. Carry on,” Seneschal replied, taking a pneumatic cylinder with her and rushing towards the door.

“But… m-my food...” stuttered Celyn, only to be pushed aside the very next moment.

“GET ANOTHER ONE, YOU USELESS PILE OF LARD!” yelled Senechal, quickly making her way towards the elevator.

“What a bitch,” thought the morbidly obese secretary, letting out a long, booming fart, gleeful expression on her face.

>>4038

PART VII

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Be vigilant and strong. The Emperor knows what evil lurks in the vacillation of a weak fool.” ++

In retrospect, she should have known better.

In hindsight, she should have acted sooner.

It was one thing to let everyone aboard to glut themselves to a point where many of them had trouble walking.

It was entirely other thing to let it slide past that point.

If Agatha knew about this, then she was well past redemption.

If she didn’t, then it wasn’t going to change much.

Either way, Magos had a lot to answer for, and Seneschal was dead set on getting those answers.

Taking a quick detour through the armory, she rushed towards Trader’s chambers.

When Agatha’s father appointed young Becca Meyers into a position of Seneschal, when he told her to watch over his daughter, when he warned her that Agatha, much akin to her absent mother, was by nature a woman very proud and easily addicted, she knew there will be lots of trouble, and it will usually be serious. Yet, in her vanity, in her naivety, she thought that her skills and talents were up to the challenge, that she could prepare herself for anything, that she was able to manage anything new boss would throw at her.

And yet, Agatha never ceased to amuse.

Opening the door to Trader’s private chambers, Seneschal was greeted only with a slight hiss, an empty bottle of wine rolling into the hallway outside, and a bizarre mix of rancid stench intertwining with notes of exquisite perfumes and strong smell freshly-made food. There were no bodyguards, no servants, not even servitors – only a dimly-lit guest room littered with piles of food-stained plates, torn wrappers, empty boxes and other junk that was clogging the hallways of Silver Dart. And then, there was a muffled, rhythmic chanting, coming from somewhere deeper inside. Plasma pistol in hand and litany on her lips, Seneschal stepped inside, slowly and carefully moving to locate the source of these troubling sounds. She didn’t have to go far – though, in a way, she wished she had to, as it would have given her at least some chance to prepare for what she saw next.

The basic setup of Trader’s own dining hall remained pretty much the same – lavish decorations were still in place, their fanfare slightly dulled by a layer of dust, and the long, intricately carved wooden table still stood in the middle, though the duress of piles upon piles of foodstuffs that lay upon it was visibly apparent. The chairs around it, however, were gone – replaced with gold-lined metallic sofas from Agatha’s living room, with several piles of splintered wood and torn cloth telling of their grim fates. And atop these sofas, sat her companions – or so she concluded, for even Seneschal could barely recognize the fat-swaddled faces these bloated, distorted figures possessed.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” cheered Agatha, splayed atop her seat, bottle of brandy in one hand and a giant, sauce-soaked sandwich in the other.

Clad only in a simple, woefully stretched black shirt that barely functioned as a bra and a stained silky white bathrobe with sleeves torn by her bingo-wings, her pear-shaped splendor was out for all to see, her double-layered gut completely obscuring her crotch, hanging down halfway to her fat-swaddled knees, pouring between her legs. She must have weighed at least four hundred pounds at that point – and yet, aside from Seneschal, she was the thinnest woman in the room.

The object of her cheers must have been Voidmaster – though with her face obscured by a metal bucket she was drinking from, it was a conclusion made by exemption rather than by observation, since the other morbidly obese woman, passed out in her seat with her hands resting atop her bloated midsection, was stuffed inside what still looked like Ministorum robes, and neither Navigator nor Astropath, both easily identifiable even in a state like this, were present.

“Glug… glug… glug...” were the only strained sounds the blob of a woman was making, pink goo dribbling down her jiggling triplet of chins, formless, stretchmark-ridden, dimpled mass of her gut that poured past her knees audibly groaning in protest and her fat-encased ankles occasionally bucking.

“Ha… haah!” she moaned, throwing the bucket away, head kicking back and hands slapping the top of her gut, sausage-like fingers immediately sinking into malleable flesh, trying to massage it with clumsy, meek motions. “Too… BHRAUUUURP… too… hic… too much… oogh… hiccURP… too full…”

“You go, girl!” exclaimed Agatha, taking a generous swig of brandy. “That’s… hic… gotta be what… five?”

A blob that Voidmaster has become could only moan and let strained belches in response.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK AM I WITNESSING?!” yelled Seneschal, each word leaving her mouth louder than the last.

“Look who… hic… finally decided to show up!” giggled Agatha, drunken grin distorting her face. “Came to… urf… beg for mercy at last, dear Becky?”

“Here,” Seneschal took a scroll out of her purse and threw it at Rogue Trader, hitting Agatha in the lower roll of her expansive gut. “You can choke on it for all I care.”

“Out,” barked Trader, lifting her arm and pointing at the door with wobbly finger.

“Gladly,” replied Seneschal, pulling out the pneumatic post cylinder. “Only one question before I go. What is the meaning of this?”

“Huh…” Agatha squinted. “Ah… hiccURP… right. Florence… Lady Brabazon… said it’s too much of a hassle to… urf… get off her fat ass and walk all the way here… so Ryza... hic… came up with a solution...”

“Right,” Seneschal smiled through her teeth, “All of you, stay here. Try not to explode while I unfuck this mess”.
She heard Trader yelling threats and profanities at her as she rushed back outside, clenching a pistol grip so tight as if her life depended on it. And yet, she no longer could bring herself to care. She saw too much to feel any pity or remorse. This madness had to end. One way or the other.

“Wha… whazzat?” Missionary muttered, awakened from her food coma by a torrent of Agatha’s insults.

“Nothing,” replied Agatha, trying to fake a calm tone, her voice betraying her fuming state. “Just...”

Suddenly, with a loud SNAP, rear legs of a sofa beneath Voidmaster’s bulk broke, no longer capable of holding six hundred pounds of its’ overfed resident’s weight, thus sending the immense woman down on the littered floor, tilting her back, and making her bloated form erupt in the storm of violent jiggle and wobble. Once again, it was just enough for her her woefully overburdened apparel, this time consisting only of panties and bra, to snap away, making her melon-sized breasts give her a nice slap in the face, and once again, her woefully overworked intestines were unable to hold much longer, simultaneously releasing a loud, wet belch and long, booming fart.

“Oh, that’s just fantasic,” Agatha wrinkled her nose as the stench almost made her retch. “Hey, need… hic… need any help down there?”

“I think… oogh… I think I made… huff… some room”, Voidmaster replied, trying to prop herself up, “Can you… hiccURP… pass a bite?”

“How much… ooh… how much did she chug?” inquired Missionary, still clutching onto her tightly gut.

“Five, I think.”

“Pass me a bucket!” her eyes lit up, “I will not be… oogh… outdone today… ooh...”

>>4047

PART VIII

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “It is not the horror of War that troubles me but the unseen horrors of Peace.” ++

Two Praetorian servitors, hulking humanoid masses of vat-grown muscle thoroughly enhanced with cybernetic wonders of Cult Mechanicus to serve the purpose of guarding the Martian nobility, quickly rose from their slumber and extended their arms, blocking the passage with crosses hilts of their chain halberds.

“I’m sorry,” Seneschal heard a blank artificial voice, “You must turn back. Magos is not accepting any not appointed visitors today.”

“Figures. Appoint me, then,” replied Seneschal with sarcastic grin on her face, already knowing what the lobotomite is going to say next.

“I’m sorry. Magos is not accepting any requests for appointment.”

“When was the last time Magos accepted any visitors?”
“Four hundred and one standard days ago.”

“I see,” Seneschal sighed. “Alright, how about this. My name is Becca Stefano Meyers, personal cognomen T-412-566-10-S-R, I am a contract-bound Seneschal serving Rogue Trader Agatha of the Caffarael bloodline, and I hold the right of free passage to every section of this vessel. I hereby demand you let me through.”

“I’m sorry. Your demand cannot be fulfilled. Reason. Your status as Seneschal has been temporarily suspended one hundred and eighty four standard days ago by order of Rogue Trader Agatha Caffarael.”

“And she didn’t even bother to send me a memo,” thought Seneschal, rubbing her temple.

“Right. And if I try to force my way through?”

“Warning. Threat detected. Use of non-lethal force authorized for first attempt. Use of lethal force is authorized for second and every next consecutive attempt. Please stand back.”

“Fair enough. I’m backing off now, see?” Seneschal made two steps back. “One last question. Can you record a message for Magos?”

“Maximum length is ten standard minutes. Confirm beginning of recording.”

“Begin.”

As soon as a tiny red dot flashed just below the viewing port of Praetorian’s cybernetic eye, his entire head evaporated in a bright blue flash of a plasma charge, and the next one punched a smoldering hole straight through his chest. Second Praetorian fared little better – even though he managed to land half a dozen of potentially lethal hit with his arm-mounted multilaser, all of the red beams merely bounced off the golden sphere of Seneschal’s refractor field, merely scarring walls and ceiling behind her, and doing little to stop her trigger arm.

“Open up!” she barked as smoking bodies fell on the floor.

Instead of hearing an answer she wanted, Seneschal heard a quiet rattle beneath the ceiling. The poor automatic turret never stood a fighting chance – once its’ barrels popped up from the surface, they quickly became a pile of molten slag on the floor.

“You’re forcing my hand, Ryza,” stated Seneschal, quickly replacing the empty canister of her plasma pistol. “Open up, or I’m going in myself!”

“Cease,” Magos’ voice came from the ceiling-mounted vox grill, “You’re interrupting vital efforts. For the sake of this ship and her crew, please, just leave.”

“Not gonna work, dear. Open that door, or I’m doing that myself. You have ten seconds to comply. One… two… three… four...”

With a slight hiss, the door slid to the side. Stepping in, Seneschal was quite surprised to see that Magos’ personal burrow didn’t change much since the last time she was there to oversee the refits – and that Magos herself didn’t change like the rest of her companions. While she also did chub up too, and quite substantially so, her visage was still a far cry from the blobs that Trader and others become, and though her red Mechanicum robes did strain a bit to contain her orb-like gut that spilled onto her lap and had come difficulty handling her magnificently blossomed chest, it was mostly because her body had nowhere else to collect excess adipose tissue - her legs and her arms were long since replaced with cybernetics, as well as most of her face. The accursed STC resided in the room to her left – clearly visible through a large window that used to divide kitchen and officers’ canteen, entangled in the web of cables, surrounded by a humming swarm of servo-skulls, pumping the tainted foodstuffs onto a conveyor belt crudely attached to its’ output.

“I understand your concerns...” began Magos, only to be interrupted by a glob of plasma melting through the window and evaporating one of the servo-skulls, forcing her to twitch as the hit came way too close to the device to be considered safe.

“If I hear this one Warp damn time, this canister gets emptied into the STC,” informed Seneschal, flames of cold fury burning in her eyes. “I don’t care if it blows the ship apart, she’s already dead for all I care. Start talking.”

“You must understand…” Magos meekly replied, only to twitch in her seat again as another glob of plasma disintegrated another servo-skull, specks of molten metal falling onto the surface of the STC.

“Choose your next words with exceptional care, for there will be no more warning shots.”

“Please, allow me to at least turn the privacy field on.”

“Request denied.”

“Fine,” Magos sighed, “Have it your way, then. First, a simplified explanation. Everything you’ve had to witness up to this point is but a carefully planned and thoroughly calculated preservation effort. Everything I have done since we’ve found the STC was being done to save the said STC, to save our ship, and to save our lives, no matter what what it may look like or what you may think of it.”

“You’ve gotta’ be fucking nuts if you expect me to believe this.”

“In-depth explanation would require three to six standard hours.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

Her story was indeed a long one, a detailed one, and a complicated one, conveyed in a lifeless scholastic language few outside the Priesthood of Mars could master or properly comprehend. When Agatha Caffarael publicly disclosed her intentions to set sail towards the Halo Stars, she and her crew unwittingly became a part of a grand conspiracy, trapped in a crossfire of a bitter shadow war between a certain cabal within the Inquisition and a certain sect within the Cult Mechanicus, a war that silently swept across the neighboring region of Imperial space for centuries. There was a cell of Inquisitorial operatives planted aboard nearly every Rogue Trader vessel suspected to traverse this desolate region of Galaxy, their task being to report on anything they could deem valuable enough for the Machine Cult, just so the Inquisition can extort it from Rogue Traders upon their return to Port Wander to use it as leverage in their conflict.
Magos, who just so happened to be a member of that sect, had managed to collect enough evidence of Inquisitorial presence aboard the Silver Dart, yet neither could she deal with it herself, for even her talents and her abilities could not hope match their skill and expertise, nor could she risk involvement of the crew at large. While she could mostly deal with inevitable loss of some of the technological relics they have uncovered during their travels, the functional STC was entirely other league – to let it become little more than a bargaining chip in the hands of those who couldn’t even comprehend its’ value was simply unacceptable.

Fortunately, Agatha just happened to play along – be that her blind faith in her protege, or her greed, or her pride, or any combination of the above, it bought Magos enough time to run some of the most complicated rites of Logis Prophesying ever performed by a single tech-priest, she managed to come up with a plan – as uncanny as it might have seemed, it was the only way that didn’t involve taking the Inquisition head on or having to navigate the very edge of the Galaxy. It revolved around the more or less logically plausible assumption that should they send out a cry for help, only two parties are likely to arrive to this particular place to investigate it – first, quite obviously, being the Inquisition, and second, less obviously, being the Adeptus Mechanicus, as this region of space used to be a point of their major exploratory effort. Nineteenth Sector was not quarantined for ten millennia – only a few systems within its’ borders were – but, due to some obscure discrepancies in older star charts, general lack of newer navigational data, and certain personas within the Inquisition wanting to cause some major damage to Machine Cult’s enedeavors, entire sector was claimed to be quarantined, and every voice that tried to challenge these audacious claims was quickly silenced and forgotten.

Still, as the Inquisition was most likely to arrive first, Magos had to achieve several goals to insure their survival.

First, she had to make sure that the Inquisition won’t decide to simply shoot them down from orbit and call it a day – easy enough, given that they had a functional STC aboard.

Second, she had to insure that they won’t be able to dismantle the STC without destroying it and making Silver Dart’s reactor go nova – her “slight miscalculation” regarding the cable clamps was purely intentional, as well as her decision to bypass existing power grid and link the device directly to their reactor.

Third, something had to be done to prevent the Inquisition from utilizing Silver Dart’s crew to simply tow her away – and even if they were to bring their own people aboard, something had to be done to prevent or significantly obstruct any meaningful attempt at hijacking the vessel within the reasonable time constraints. Silver Dart’s crew had to be incapacitated, and it had to be done both without causing significant casualties and without drawing too much attention from the moles within.

>>4048

That’s when the fabricated food came to play.

She didn’t have to tamper with any it – every item she managed to get out of the STC was unhealthy to ingest on a regular basis and quite addictive by design.

All she had to do was to make sure the crew is hooked up, and the provide what they wanted in sufficient quantities – the former done with unwitting assistance from Rogue Trader, and the latter being covered tenfold by the device.

And she still wasn’t quite done.

It was one thing having to deal with morbidly obese crew barely capable of moving on their own and barely able to perform even the simplest of tasks. Even though they were hopelessly addicted, summary executions and nine-tailed shock whips could still force them back in adequate shape, and the Inquisition rarely showed any restraint in dishing out punishments.

But it was entirely other thing having to deal with utterly immobile, formless piles of human flesh, too heavy to rise to their feet and too wide to fit through the doors of their cabins. Simply cutting their food supply was not going to solve the problem – for that way they would sooner starve to death than regain any form of physical capability, and there would be no plausible way to make them shed their colossal weights within any reasonable time. Even if the Inquisition was to simply put them out of their misery, it would still take far too much time and effort to remove all the excess biomass from the ship.

And by that time, Adeptus Mechanicus would surely arrive, their ships boasting enough arguments to drive any unwanted guests away and carrying enough medical staff aboard to undo the collateral damage Magos had inflicted upon the crew. After all, with a functional STC aboard and with holds jam-packed with ancient tech, they were still rich beyond their wildest dreams, and even though the price of assistance from the Priesthood was going to be high, it was a price they could afford.


“You must be mad,” said Seneschal, rubbing her temple, “literally, mad, if you seriously think that this incorrigible mess we’ve all been led to is the only possible way for us to make it out alive.”

“Omnissiah bear my witness, I sincerely wish I was,” replied Magos. “Yet, I have ran these calculations for months. Used every possible morsel of cogitary power I could get my hands on. Factored in every possible variable and modulated every possible outcome. This way, our survival chances are roughly ten percent. Second best outcome is less than one percent.”

“Well,” Seneschal let out a defeated sign, “Looks like a situation even I can’t unfuck at this point. Killing you would obviously solve nothing. Nuking the ship won’t either. How was it… only those who prosper can judge what is sane, right? And I’m certainly not fucking prospering.”

And then, edge of her lips curled in a twisted smile.

“Roughly ten percent, you say?”

“Nine point sixty eight.”

“Got anything for me to do to get that to solid ten?”

“I think I might need to make some adjustments to my calculations.”

I'm not dead, just bust. And holy shit I'm finishing this.

>>4049

PART IX

+++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY +++
++ “Sins hidden in the heart turn all into decay.” ++

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Wha… huh… ooh...” muttered Agatha through her rudely interrupted slumber.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Somebody… somebody… oogh… answer the damn vox!” she barked, trying her best to ignore the accursed sound.

Surely it was not important enough for her to actually wake up… and even if it was, they could have just brought the receiver to her.

Yet, much to Rogue Trader’s dismay, the beeping continued, forcing her to finally open her eyes.

“Oh… urf… right,” she muttered, finally mustering enough awareness of her surroundings to realize that she was completely alone in her private chambers.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Just… huff… shut up already… oogh… I’m coming, alright!”

For Agatha, it was a task much easier said than done, because at this point even getting up to her feet was becoming a task that demanded almost as much labor as she was capable of exerting. With her days melting together in a haze of reckless gluttony and rampant alcohol abuse, it was hardly surprising that her once lithe and toned physique was long since gone, replaced with hundreds of pounds of excess adipose, collected into assortment of wobbling rolls all across her body. Surprisingly enough, most of it still retained some semblance of shape – specifically, of round shape in all of its’ variety. Still, that offered little consolation to a woman whose face sunk and melted into a triplet of meaty tube-like chins, whose apron of a double-stacked gut stretched well past her knees, whose monumental shelf of an ass stuck a solid foot behind her, whose swollen lard pillars she called legs were forced into a wide spread as she lay down on her bed and whose massive bingo-wings lifted her hands apart from her blubbery sides. She must have weighed seven hundred pounds and then some, but there was no way to reliably tell – Agatha couldn’t even remember when was the last time she bothered to step on a scale. Her overworked intestines still managed to somewhat keep up with the onslaught of calories Agatha inflicted upon herself – but their battle was getting increasingly uphill with every passing day, and even the feeble attempts she made to move herself towards the edge of the bed were punctuated with a series of ungainly belches, as well as with a storm of uncomfortable churns and loud grumbles.

Her first attempt at standing up yielded little more than a storm of violent wobble all across her lard-laden frame, and so did her second, this time followed by a booming wet fart – only third one gave her enough momentum to actually achieve her goal. By that time, she was hopelessly winded, her reddened face glistening with sweat and her insides boiling up a storm. Still, she pressed on – and in time, her ungainly waddle, barely a couple of steps at a time, finally managed to get Agatha to her desk. She tried lowering herself onto her chair, but to no avail – her colossal buttocks could not hope to fit in between the armrests, forcing Rogue Trader to remain in an awkward, semi-standing position just to alleviate some strain from her legs.

“Who… gasp… who’s… pant… that?” she inquired, dripping sweat and desperately struggling for air.

“This is Magos Ryza Twenty Seven. Lady Caffarael, I am happy to inform you that I have managed to find a way to safely unpower the STC.”

“BuhHUUURP... oogh… finally… guh… some good… huff… news…” she mumbled, wiping the sweat off her forehead, “When can we… begin… urf… preparORP… preparations… for that jump?”

“I’m afraid that’s currently impossible, Lady Caffarel.”

“What? How long… did you spend… fiddling with that… oogh… thing?”

“Five hundred and twenty seven standard days, Lady Caffarael.”

“And we still… huff… can’t jump?”

“I’m afraid the crew is no longer capable of performing the tasks necessary to fulfill that order.”

“Where’s… gasp... Seneschal? Why was I not… urf… informed?” barked Agatha, fuming with anger.

“You have suspended her and imposed a restraining order on her. Her current status is... MIA. To my knowledge, she had left towards planetary surface and did not return in reasonable time. In her absence, all crew-related responsibilities were presumed to be temporarily re-assigned to Voidmaster.”

“WheERP… where is she?”

“I believe her current location is your guest room, Lady Caffarael.”

“Then send her in!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lady Caffarael.”

“What?”

“I suggest you see for yourself, Lady Caffarael. Magos Ryza Twenty Seven out.”

“Shit,” muttered Agatha, tendrils of fear wrapping around her mind as she searched her desk drawers for a spare micro-bead.

She was going to see her Voidmaster, there was no denying that. That woman had a lot to answer for, and she would be lucky not to end up keelhauled. But first, she needed something to cover her up – clad only in an overstrained black bra that barely held her mammoth-sized mammaries in place, Agatha needed something to give her at least some decency to show up before her subordinates. Not that it really mattered, though – her belly did an outstanding job blocking her nethers up front, and no panties in existence were up to the task of adequately covering her gargantuan ass. Her efforts in rummaging through her rather expansive collection of clothes yielded no result, either – nothing there could ever hope to contain a blob of a woman she had become. And so, draping herself in a bedsheet, she plodded towards her destination, each ungainly step punctuated with a desperate gasp, a squeaky fart, a small belch, or a combination of the above.
In her guest room, cluttered and stained with what seemed to be a refuse from a thousand wildest parties on this side of the Galaxy, she saw a formless mound of pale flesh, laying on the floor amidst the tattered remains of one of her sofas, towering above piles of empty plates and containers. What once was a proud officer of Imperial Navy and a brave captain of Agatha’s vessel was reduced into a grotesque blob of lard, jamming food into her mouth with both swollen hands, gasping for air in-between bites and passing gas from her behind with a regularity of autocannon fire. Her mountainous gut dominated her figure, stretching forward a solid foot past her useless, lard-encased toes, blocking most of her forward vision as it towered over her head – which, in turn, was propped up in a semi-seating position by her giant ass cheeks, making her face sink in a formless mass of her chins and neck fat. And still, she gorged hereself like tomorrow may never come, grabbing fabricated food from industrial containers wedged in the rolls by her sides, suppressing belches with fresh mouthfuls, and moaning as she managed to swallow another bite to fill her grotesquely overfilled stomach.

“Hey!” yelled Agatha, “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

But the blob, far too engrossed in its’ debauchery, didn’t seem to notice or care.

Fuming with rage, Agatha mustered whatever endurance she still had, waddled towards the wobbling mass of lard as quickly as she could, and gave it a strongest slap her muscles were still capable of delivering.

“BHRAAAAAAAUUUUUURP!” was what she replied with, dropping her tired, nigh-useless hands to wobble in their adipose casings, wheezing for air as more booming belches escaped her throat.

“What is the… huff… meaning of this?” growled Agatha.

“Sho… gasp… shoOURP… full...” mumbled Voidmaster, her half-lidded eyes glazed and her swollen cheeks interfering with her speech, “buUUURP… but sho… hnng… hungry… BHRAAP!”

“Answer me… urf… dammit!”

“AgathHHHRP… Agatha…” Voidmaster meekly spoke, “Isshat… wheeze… isshat you?”

“Yes… what in the... unholy Warp happened to you?”

“I think… huff… I think I… urf… kinda… BHRAAAAP… went over… overboard...”

“What about the… others?”

“Dun… dunnoOORP… dunno… I rememBUUURP… only... eating… and eating… and eating...” she spoke as she drifted into a hard earned food coma.

Finally dropping herself onto an empty sofa nearby, Agatha wiped a bead of cold sweat from her eyebrow and pushed a call button on her microbead.

“Ryza...” she spoke, voice trembling with fear, “Come in… please...”

“Yes, Lady Caffarael.”

“Voidmaster… I saw her… Are the rest of the crew just as bad?”

“Not as bad, but not much better. You and me currently are the only people aboard who are capable of walking unassisted.”

“And you knew? You... just let this happen?”

“First, I have ran thorough tests to insure everything the STC produced was safe for consumption. Second, it was your order allow the crew unlimited access to the fabricated food. Third, I was too busy saving the ship and the STC to address any lasting consequences of your decision. Fourth, it was you who dismissed the Seneschal, who was trying to divert your attention to the growing problem caused by your decision. Fourth, it was you who retreated to your chambers and did nothing to stop this for over a standard year. Fifth, before her self-imposed exile, Seneschal did try her best to manage the crisis, but without your authority, there was little she could do. Yes, I knew. Yes, I let this happen. And I will not be held responsible neither for your fault as a commander of this vessel, nor for your negligence that brought us to this situtation.”

“Fuck...” tears poured from Agatha’s eyes. “Can we… sob… can we do anything?”

“If you can reach Astropath, you can order her to send a distress signal. I can send you a cargo servitor to assist in your mobility and do my best to maintain the critical systems until help arrives.”

“Right… sob… do that… and send me a box of… whatever… the usual...”

“Will do.”

>>4051
>bust
Busy. Also went overboard with alcohol a couple of times.

>>4008
>>4009
>>4022
>>4029
>>4033
>>4034
>>4035
>>4037
>>4038
>>4047
>>4048
>>4049
>>4051
This has been an absolute joy to read. You sir are doing Slaanesh's work.

>>4072
Thank you.

'And what do you call this beverage?' Morgiana, Fay Enchantress of Brettonia asked, drinking up the bubbly amber drink from her tankard.

'Tis called stout milady,' Kurt Helborg told her, the Reiksmarshall stroking his immense mustache as the foreign wizard giggled and drank more beer, 'it is a most...fortifying drink.'

'I think it is perhaps the most delicious thing I have ever tasted,' the gorgeous blonde woman said, taking another drink.

When the Vampire Count Mannfred had besieged Averland, the Empire had put out a call to its western allies for help. It had surprised the Reiksmarshall Helborg that the relief force was not led by a gallant, head strong knight but by a demure, elegant blonde woman who was only an inch over five feet and delicately curvy. The eerie after echo of her voice, the breeze that strummed her hair and diaphanous gown and that her bare feet never quite touched the ground hinted at her power.

'And this?' Morgianna asked, picking up a strange round dish.

'Um, a shepherds pie. Do you not have, food in Brettonia?' Helborg asked as the delicate young lady, well young looking at least, went to town on the heavy pie.

'Only elegant fair for ladies in Brettonia,' Morgianna said, whiping gravy from her chin and pulling over a halfling made fruit pie in front of herself, 'nothing like this simple, filling fare!'

Helborg watched her gorge while calculating in his mind. The Fey Enchantress' gorgeous figure was quite appealing, small but curvaceous, slim yet busty, trim but with a firm behind. A famous ladies man, the reiksmarshall would bet his runefang that he could bed her before the end of the campaign against the vampires.

But it was set to be a long fight and well...the longer it went, the less likely that figure was to survive.

'Pies come with apples in them?' the enchantress cooed, the pie tin empty and her flat tummy round as a cannon ball.

Does anyone have any story ideas involving Tau ladies getting nice and fat? Alternatively, which Tau caste would be the best to fatten up?

>>4080

Stout isn't amber.

(and there's no 'h' in 'wiping', and you mean 'fare' rather than 'fair', and so on. But most importantly, stout isn't amber!)

>>4105
Water Caste ambassador and her cadre of envoys are trying to convert a non-Compliant (not formally a part of Imperium, that is) human planet into the Greater Good. Local authorities don't really mind becoming a part of interstellar empire, and ideology of the Greater Good kinda appeals to them, so they greet alien ambassadors with a royal feast, as human hospitality demands. The kicker: all local cuisine contains chemicals that make it extremely addictive for Tau physiology, and entire embassy becomes hooked basically from day one. Humans don't realize that something's off, since they take the ever growing demand for their foodstuffs as a sign of genuine trade interest, so they play along.

I'm not writing this. Have mercy on my sleep schedule and my liver, please.