The Bounty of Peace 1 (Patreon)

The green glow of the camera illuminated the faces of each person who entered the club. Most of the demographic was thankfully human, though that was to be expected so deep into Federation territory. Yet there were a few other species that intermixed with the crowd. A group of Elfin sauntered through the entryway. Samus wiped at her eyes, sore from gazing into the monitor for such a long period of time. 

She grunted, twisting around in her seat. Her engorged stomach was pinched by either of the arms, causing her to strain in the effort to crack her back. A few stray wrappers crinkled beneath her meaty paw. She scoffed, shoving them free from her grasp and down to join the others on the floor below. She tried again, gripping strands of her wavy blonde hair on the armrest bellow but was simply unable to get at the angle. She shuffled her feet and leaned forwards, feeling the seat holding tightly upon her rounded hips before, with a soft plop, her butt came free and the chair thud to the floor below.

She crossed her arms in front of herself, then lifting them above her head. Her biceps had vanished, replaced by layers of flab, and her tummy nearly reached out to the screen. A lock of hair dabbed over her eye while she loosed a tired yawn, going up on her tip toes before her back finally complied, snapping thrice above her tailbone, and she sagged back down to her stance.

She took a moment, ideally scratching her exposed belly. Her orange top only came down to her waist, and her orange tights highlighted every crease in her hammy thighs. She plucked a wedgie from the back of her seat, gazing tiredly to the screen before looking over to the next on her console.

Upon that monitor was a black display that was covered with sharp blue text. A by-product of the ‘Night Mode’ the bounty hunter had recently installed to ensure some rest for her failing eyesight. The text outlined the terms of her mark, a man named ‘John Sauce.’ Mr. Sauce was a conman, wanted for the crimes of time theft, emulation of federation property, illegal distribution of kazoos, and multiple counts of crass language in front of minors. He had several known aliases, accomplices, and even had his own personal website upon which he’d essentially run the equivalent of his daily blog. It was on this page where he frequently referred to his cousin’s club.

Samus groaned to herself, shaking her head. She pushed her chair to the side in frustration. “I need another sandwich,” she mumbled.

Miss Aran hadn’t simply lost her touch in recent years. She’d lost her entire sensation. Peace had done far more damage to her career, and to her body, than any Space Pirate could have hoped. She hadn’t gotten any real work in years, and she was now finding just how hard it was to get back into the dying business.

It seemed almost as if nobody had any use of a bounty hunter anymore. No legal uses, anyways. The only customers still using her old connections were a couple of small-time space station officials, deputies and marshals that had been extraordinarily accommodating to receive services from the legendary Samus Aran. 

She was becoming ever more tempted by the illegal uses her knowledge could bring. She knew more cracks and cervices that a smuggler could make use of in most stations than the architects who put the things together. The odd part being that even the smugglers weren’t using them. Peace was here, crime was on the decline, and the general population was safe to breath another fresh breath of manufacture oxygen.

It made Samus sick to her overblown belly. In an effort to quiet the bitterness on her tongue, she leaned over to her small mini freezer. Her belly bunched up into a wide pair of rolls, pushing harshly onto her rotund thighs and sliding her center of gravity forwards. She let out a mangled grunt, catching herself on one of her plump arms. Instantly, the underused muscles in her arm began to burn. She chuffed, pulling her shirt down to pinch into her love handle before reaching down into the fridge.

She withdrew a chilly white plastic wrapper. After a moment’s hesitation, she fingered for another, before resigning herself and tugging the full box out. She nearly dropped it, but fumbled her grip round the edge, and needing to push off the roof of the fridge before clacking it shut with her chunky leg.

The obese woman fretted her fingers through the box, counting 14 ice cream sandwiches. She groaned, plodding back to her chair. 14 sandwiches would only last her maybe another hour or two, and she had no idea when this bozo might finally show up. 

She returned to her seat, thundering down onto her dumpy backside. The chair squealed in fright and in pain, rocking backward and forth to bear the portly bounty hunter. She ignored its noises of distress, instead fingering her own fat stomach to try and fluff her bulk over the constrictive armrests. Her sun-starved white skin spilled over the chair like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed by a steam roller.

They pinched her sides like a vice, mashing her between them oddly, as her body refused to give it symmetry. She had to dig her fingers into her own love handle, hefting it over either end before being able to almost comfortably settle back onto her fluffy bottom and return to watching the camera.

Her fingers worked without sight, unwrapping the cream-colored wrapper and putting the chocolatey contents to her lips. They were well practiced at the act of snacking without thought, though she made the effort to slowly enjoy the cream as treat pushed around her tongue. Vanilla ice mixed with the soft chocolate cookie, filling out her chubby cheeks while she chewed the snack with a dazed munch. Her mouth worked the bite up and down before it tumbled into her jelly-belly, eliciting an almost feline purr of content from her lips.

Her mouth began to work through each bite even quicker. The first bar took five bites, each thoroughly chewed and tongue tasted over. The next took four, large lips crashing over and demanding more of each mouthful. The third was simply three, the familiar hunger now set in, and the woman lost herself to the bliss of sugar-filled eating.

Inwardly, Samus knew what she was doing. She knew that with each bite, her belly would grow bigger, heavier and more obstructive. She knew her ill-fitting clothing would tear and burst off her, knew her fat fingers would wrongly tack away upon her keyboard, missing their marks for reports. 

But compared to the felicity the sugar gave her, the paradise that came of her constant snacking and warmth of her full tummy, the woman had grown content. Lazy, but content. 

Outwardly, Samus would huff and she’d puff about how things used to be better. When there were battles to fight, monsters to take down, real bounties to capture. She’d loved those years, loved how much she had felt like she had been making a difference.

That difference had come creeping up, before exploding her weight like a red giant star. Samus, who spent her whole life training and learning to fight, simply ran out of people to even contest her. The endless reaches of space had become peaceful, life had grown easy, and Samus had grown overwhelmingly obese.

She shuffled in her seat, leaning back to breathe deeply after sandwich number six. Her piggish eyes scanned the darkened monitor, going over the information once more. 

The bounty for her mark was set at 500 credits. That was hardly enough to stock her fridge, much less re-equip her materials or refit her shrunken wardrobe. She wore the last bits of clothing that would fit over her bulk, though even they could do nothing to hide how wide she’d become. She snorted to herself. A white-collar criminal wasn’t even worth the Federation’s time to send an officer for retrieval, yet here she was killing time in her ship, snacking through another long night watching cameras like a flabby rent-a-cop.

The ice cream didn’t even last her a half hour, which only served to annoy her further. She looked from the barren camera back to her fridge, trying to remember if she’d stocked any other treats to bear the tide of her bored hunger. She needed something to do while waiting. She wiped her chocolate stained hand through her long blonde hair, not paying attention to the flecks it left upon her. Her mind began wandering to other foods. The station offered delivery to the docked ships, maybe she could order something. A platter of barbeque, or maybe a quart of frozen yogurt and some fruity treats on top.

A sharp ping caught her attention, drawing her focus to the green screen. The red text was blurry at first, but she managed to figure the words ‘Target acquired.’

“Finally,” she muttered. She shook her weight forwards, trying to pull herself close to the desk. Her belly pushed her back, but she jammed her gut around it so she could rightly reach the keys.

Her fingers clacked in the practiced program, which rewound the video to a frame still that captured the mark’s face. It then zoomed it in, adding his name and information to the portrait. 

Samus tucked her chin into her chest, feeling a chiding resignation. The picture the program had captured seemed to capture the man’s face mid-sneeze. His short brown hair and his scraggly beard framed his face very oddly, creating a cynical profile. He was dressed like someone who didn’t often leave his own house. Samus flicked through his profile once more.

More likely than not, Mr. Sauce was some sort of shut in. He probably wasn’t the most social creature, which would explain his various misdemeanor crimes. He likely didn’t even have the strength to throw a punch, much less attack Samus. She wouldn’t need her armor for this mission, just a simple blaster.

This last factor was extremely lucky, as Samus was still in denial that her armor couldn’t possibly contain a girl of her size. She had looked at it once in the past year but shoved the thought out of her mind with total discomfort. 

Even her zero suit, the stretchiest fabric she had used to own, couldn’t cover her legs, much less be pulled tight over her fat, round, ass. Her hips would rip the suit asunder, something she learned all too well given the rest of her wardrobe.

No, Samus made ready wearing her two-piece outfit. After dislodging herself from her constrictive chair, she trundled from the bridge of her ship to the armory. The sliding door opened, revealing her war locker and war chest, each in disarray with strewn about equipment. Her eyes scanned the room, picking out the ladder which lead to her varia suit. “I won’t need it,” she breathed to herself, while internally she knew she wouldn’t even be able to fit down the hatch.

Instead, she picked through the piles, tossing bombs and missiles alike aside to find her stun blaster. The mark was wanted alive, so he may receive his fines before a Federation judge. Samus would hear hell if she instead had sent him to a Federation morgue, and her plush rear would be squeezed into a suspect box for a much harsher crime.

By the time she’d found her blaster she was panting, out of breath. When did all of her equipment get so damn heavy? She shook her head, long blonde hair bouncing in unison with her belly. She didn’t have time for this crap, she needed to go and get the mark before he disappeared into another rat hole.

Samus passed by the galley on her way to the quarterdeck. She paused for a moment, looking in through the hatch. The freezer in here had three more packages of ice cream sandwiches. That fact drilled into her head as she looked back towards the quarterdeck, and her awaiting pray. 

She shook her head, trying to steel her willpower. “Come on,” she urged herself. “You can have some more when you get back as a treat for being good today.”

Her feet didn’t respond to her bargain.

As Samus made her way from the ship, she wobbled down the short gangway. At the end of the hall, she deposited three sandwich wrappers into a nearby trash compartment before lifting a forth from her box. The sliding door opened, and she passed belly first out onto the dock of the station, taking another large bite. 

A glance at her watch as she chewed told her that the target was still inside of the club. It was about a five minute walk away, which gave the bounty hunter plenty of time to get to the club before he tried to exit.

She placed the box of ice cream down on the floor and straightened up. Her sides formed two fat rolls, a doughy pair of love handles to frame her large, round tummy. Still holding one of the fatty bars in her mouth, she lifted her arms behind her head and begun tucking her hair back. She pulled it into a ponytail, sliding a red holder from around her wrist. 

She brought her arms back down, tearing free the bite of her sandwich and retrieving the container before beginning the short walk to the club down the way.