Among the Avengers, the same situation was the same, though...some amusing variations seemed to be appearing. For example...
"Why Me?" wailed Tigra, as she stood before a mirror. "I mean, I look ridiculous!"
"We're all under the same strain, Tigra." sighed Janet Van Dyne, as she inspected her own form. She was so bottom heavy and fat-bellied that she could hardy waddle about, and so full and round she couldn't reach her belly button.
"Yeah, but look at me!" Tigra cried. To be honest...she had a point. She was far fatter than Janet, but she'd changed in other ways as well. Her fur was white, thick and fluffy, making her look like an absurd humanoid Persian cat. All she lacked was a jeweled
collar.
"We're all laboring under a strain..." said Pulsar. Poor Monica Rambeau, who'd thickened all over. Her ass was like a shelf, her belly like a bowl and her breasts had become swollen bags of fat. "...so let's just try to hold it together."
"That's easy for you three..." pouted Miss Marvel, who felt had it worst of all. She'd fattened...but she'd also shrunk. She stood no taller than 5 feet even, and her muscles had all but vanished, leaving her a wobbly, dimply little doughball, who weezed,
sweated and gasped when she waddled. She was sitting down now, her costume shed in favor of an ill-fitting pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that left her spare tire of a belly exposed.
Reports of such things kept comming in. It seemed that each persons personal opinions were...manipulating both physical and mental changes in a way that seemed almost...sadistic. The worst part seemed to be a slow, building acceptance that crept into the
minds of the victems. For example...
Carol couldn't believe this had happened to her! She wasn't just fat, but also seemed to be weaker and...was something wrong with her head? Fat broads always seemed to be such pathetic losers...such stupid, wastes of space...
She cracked open another beer - her 5th of the morning. She chugged it, wiping away tears. Flipping on the television, she rolled through the channels till she found some nicely distracting reality television. She smiled, watching people who had problems
worse than hers. Another beer was opened, and a warm, dulling blanket seemed to pass over her mind. She felt so lazy...and slovenly. Just like...
Jus' like dose fat broads, whut she'd a'ways seen on duh teevee. Day waz jus' a buncha lazy slobs, an' shit likes dat. Jus' like her...
Meanwhile...
Hank Pym couldn't believe his luck! He'd hit on the right combination of waves and energy displacement at his first try, allowing him to (if his theory was correct) reverse this situation with the girls. He'd done it...and before that overrated blowhard
Reed Richards! He couldn't wait to show the rest of...
"Oh, hello dear." a voice chirped, and he lookd about, to see a fat, pompact little woman waddle into the lab, her hair was styled into an updo, pearls about her neck and her rotund body packed into a prim, proper house dress. She held a tray of sandwiches
and cookies in her hands, and looked just as domestic and homely as could be. She was Janet. Janet Van Dyne. "I know you're working so very hard trying to help us girls, and I thought I'd whip my man up a nice snack."
"Oh, uh...thanks, Janet. But...we aren't married anymore."
She smiled, and beamed with happiness. "Oh, that's silly, Hank. Of course we're married. I'm your wife, silly. I'm Jan Pym. Just plain, simple Jan Pym. Why, what would I do without my wonderful husband to think for me? Make my dicisions? Handle the checkbook?
I'm just a house wife, after all. Hardly a big, important man like my big, strong hubby. Oh, that reminds me...I want to have all that cumbersome and confusing money transfered into your name. It's mans stuff, and I'm just a wife after all. Just allow me a
few dollars a week for groceries and maybe a new dress now and again, and I'll be contented."
Hank gaped at the submissive, passive woman who snuggled against him...and closed the computer. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He could get used to Jan being so fat, if he could finally be in charge. And you know...she was rather cute, with her
dimples and apple cheeks.
Tigra was having such a hard time of it. First had been the change, then...she couldn't seem to get energized by anything. Now, she'd dropped to all fours and couldn't rise. It was as if her body was changing again. She padded on all fours into the living
room, and saw...a slovenly little woman dressed in old, stained clothes and slouching in the chair before the television. She padded up to her, seeing her dirty hair up in curlers, the smell of her so pungent and raw. She tried to speak, but all that came
out was a plaintive "Meow?"
The woman - whose face was all jowls, chins and a huge, pugged nose, sneared "Ged outta heah, yuh stoopid kat! I ain'ts gots no time fer duh likes o' youse!" as she opened another beer (there were crushed cans scattered all over the floor) and take a bite
of a huge, hero sandwich. She looked piggish and stupid...and utterly unconcerned about her appearance. What a slob. Tigra smirked, and turned away as Carol switched over to the Jerry Springer show and bellowed laughter like a classless oaf. She sauntered
out of the room, and into the kitchen, where Monica Rambeau was waddling about, singing and bumping her cumbersome butt in time with her singing. She wore a big, black dress, an apron and a head scarf. Her features were the same, but set in a big, jolly smile.
She noticed Tigra, and she burst out with a "Lawsy mercy, Tigra. Does yo' be needin' you breakfast?" she cried, and burst into laughter. She looked like some lunatic version of Aunt Jemimah, and Tigra tried to tell her so, but again...only a pleasant little
"Meow" came from her mouth.
The smell of canned tuna distracted her, and she saw that Monica was opening several huge cans and dumping them into a bowl...a bowl marked "Tigra". She started to pace and rub-up against Monicas legs. The obese woman laughed and said "Jus' you hold yo'
horses, Tigra. I'm movin' jus' as lickety-dang-split as I can. Heah you goes, Tigra. You is such a sweat, pleasant cat, yo' is."
She didn't want to argue the point. What she wanted to do, was get at that delicious tuna. She purred and rumbled as Monica stroked her head and scratched her behind the ears, before turning away and finishing the sandwiches and potatoe salad she'd been
working on. When the men got back from announcing what had happened to them, they'd be hungry...and Monica wanted to make sure they were happy. It was so important to her...to serve others...to do just as she was told...some tiny part of her mind struggled
against this desire, and she quietly hoped that once the boys got back, they could cure her...but another part of her - a growing part - didn't care in the slightest...
Meanwhile...