"TYB. Full disclosure" Chapter 2/3

The outpost didn’t look like a research station. It looked like a bed-and-breakfast someone forgot to advertise. Warm light spilled from the windows. Potted plants lined the walls. The air smelled faintly of something rich and yeasty—like fresh rolls left too long in a slow oven. There was no visible staff. No defence systems. No alarms. Just a front door and a welcome mat. D.O.G. reported the current state of affairs to Fitson, humming them into the receiver in his usual manner. Judging by his voice, the boss was not a fan of D.O.G.’s attitude. “Don't you dare bring any nonsense to the headquarters like you usually do you little bugger” he barked and cut the connection. “That’s what you get for bringing dead pigeon to B.E.L.T. once…”. Oscar politely ignored him and stepped through first. The warmth inside hit like a hug.

There were five rooms, a central hub, and a kitchen stocked to the ceiling with “emergency rations.” But those rations included: Trays of golden-crusted pastries, Self-warming meal pouches that smelled like comfort food, A mini-freezer with “testing samples” labeled with fake barcodes—each one a dessert. Oscar stared looking through those with a foil-wrapped donut marked “Prototype 42 – Glazed Density.” For nutritional testing purposes only, a label read. Authorized for temporary agents. His mouth watered. His stomach growled. His uniform squeezed—gently. He didn’t mean to open it. Not really. But it was there, and D.O.G. was off inspecting the comms array, and the instructions did say temporary agents. He peeled the foil. Pleasure. Sophistication. Glaze that shimmered in the light like lacquered sugar. Just a bite. It tasted like nostalgia… and (Oscar’s big eyes sparked)… And the second bite? Well, that was for comparison.

When D.O.G. returned, Oscar had cleared the evidence. But the scent clung to him like guilt.

“You ate something,” D.O.G. said without looking up from his scanner.

Oscar shrugged. “It was labeled.”

“Still left a scent trail. Artificial sugar, starch stabilizer, dopamine enhancer.”

Oscar blushed and looked away, scratching his head. “It’s just a few bites, you know.”

D.O.G. turned to him, squinting. “That’s what Henry said too.”

“Is… is it a bad thing?”

“Depends of what YOU want, Oscar…” D.O.G. stepped closer, voice softening in an unfamiliar way. He crouched down, at first it seemed that he was about to jump on all fours.

“You all just don’t get it. He smelled like joy. Not happiness—joy. A full-bodied, thick, rich joy. I didn’t even know a human could produce that kind of scent. Not until him.”

Oscar blinked. “You’re... talking about scent.”

D.O.G. nodded, slow. “I remember how he smelled after he stopped fighting it. I remember the change. Like butter melting. Sweet, heavy, and proud.”

Oscar didn’t reply. His scent may not be that powerful, but he wasn’t blind. He tuned in to Henry’s food blog from time to time. He looked… Happier. And heavier, of course. Heavier than ever.

D.O.G. tilted his head. “Do you ever miss him?”

Oscar hesitated. “He made a choice and left the B.E.L.T. You know that man, always does what he wants!” He didn’t want to sound jealous, so he smiled after saying it. With his sweetest smile he always does.

D.O.G.’s voice dropped. “That doesn’t mean I forgot him. And you shouldn’t… I’d even suggest you contacting him about your… well… problems.”

“I don’t have ANY problems, Man-… Mr. D.O.G.” It wasn’t like him. An act of disrespect for the elder, which is not typical for him, he wasn’t raised like this…

“Just D.O.G. is fine.” He got up. “There’s still some stuff I want to investigate, so we staying here overnight. Shouldn’t be A-A-ANY-Y-Y pro-o-oble-e-ems! Right, buddy?” He left the room casually singing those last lines. Oscar was left alone in the room, thinking about Henry and what he saw at Well-Packed society.

Oscar found a second donut pouch later that evening. He stared at it for twenty minutes. By the time D.O.G. returned from mapping the surveillance grid, Oscar’s belly had softened just enough to rest slightly atop his belt. Not enough to be obvious. But D.O.G. noticed. He didn’t say a word. Just watched. Oscar avoided eye contact. His fingers trembled. His uniform felt good. It was tighter now, but not uncomfortably. The fabric clung to his body with gentle firmness, especially around the waist and thighs. It was like the suit knew how to hold him. As if every bite he took came with a reward: a little pressure. A little push. A little feedback that said: Yes. Stay soft. Stay safe. He denied it, of course. He was on a mission. He was investigating. This was all temporary. But when he lay back on the outpost couch, the soft pull of his own weight settled deep into the cushions. And his hand drifted to his belly without thinking.

By the next morning, D.O.G. had questions—and a sample. He’d scanned the uniform while Oscar was asleep. Just a quick read—nothing invasive. The material had nanotension threads—not in the specs. And micro-haptic fibers capable of biometric feedback. Designed to stimulate or suppress physiological responses. D.O.G. connected the dots: The scent activation, The cravings. The food stock, The subtle body changes. And everything is because of the new uniform distributed by special someone… All roads pointed to one man.

Oscar was in the kitchen when the holopad lit up with a priority signal. Fitson. His flickering upper half glared down at Oscar like an angry father over a surveillance feed. “I see you've settled in, Agent Xcites. How’s the uniform holding up?”

Oscar tried quickly remove all the deserts’ packaging. “Perfectly.”

“Good,” Fitson said, voice calm, but coiled. “It's functioning exactly as intended, then.”

Oscar blinked. “Glad to hear, sir!” He pretended to smile so broadly, that he felt his cheeks got a bit chubbier. “It’s a good thing, yeah?..”

“Absolutely! See you during tomorrow Weight in! Hope you won’t disappoint me this time, Mr. Xcites!”

Oscar immediately felt his belly grown a little, just enough so he could hear the belts stretching. He slowly was getting arrosed. Oh, God, please, not right in front of Fitson... Behind him, D.O.G. entered silently, eyes locked on the holo-screen. He sniffed the air once—and stopped cold. “It’s you,” D.O.G. whispered, voice trembling. “You smell like him. Like Henry. The same scent—only rotten. Greedy. Fake.” Fitson’s eyes flickered with rage. “Get that animal out of my signal.” Oscar’s pulse pounded in his ears. The uniform constricted again—more than before. Not comforting now. Controlling. Reclaiming.

“I’m shutting it down,” D.O.G. said. Oscar's eyes darted in horror, and he realized abruptly that the way his uniform was squeezing him was an embrace of lies.

“Such mongrel as you, probably know nothing about discipline! So do not stick. Your nasty nose. In my. Plans.” Fitson growled.

But Oscar had already dropped the holopad. And his fingers were moving—toward the zipper, the wrist link, anything to get the uniform off— But the suit locked in place. And the hunger returned.

“You are mine,” Fitson’s voice echoed, distant now, but pounding in Oscar’s head. “And you were always happiest when you were full.” It sounded like he munched something during last lines. He giggled, then he viciously laughed, but it was interrupted by a small burp. He ended the call rapidly after that.

In this silence Oscar was totally lost, and D.O.G. knew they had an empire to break.