Chapter 1: The Bursting Point
The park breakroom was a tomb of lost motivation. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glare on the grease-stained countertop where Mordecai was trying to nurse a cold coffee back to life. The air tasted like burnt popcorn and deeper, more philosophical regrets.
Rigby exploded through the door, not with his usual chaotic energy, but with a singular, terrifying purpose. He clutched the paper-wrapped monstrosity to his chest like a holy artifact.
“Dude. Look,” he breathed, his eyes wide with reverence.
Mordecai glanced over. “Is that from that new food truck? The one with the lawsuit warnings painted on the side?”
“It’s the Ultra Meat Burrito.” Rigby said the name like it was a sacred title. He laid it on the stained table with a soft, heavy thud. The paper was already translucent with seeping orange grease.
“It looks like something that died in a swamp,” Mordecai said, taking a sip of his awful coffee.
“It’s a masterpiece.” Rigby’s claws ripped the paper open. The smell hit them first—an aggressive wave of seasoned meat, cheap cheese, and a dizzying chemical tang that Mordecai couldn’t place. The burrito itself was a beige log, bursting at its tortured seams with a bubbling, amorphous filling. Rigby didn’t bother with utensils. He just opened his mouth and descended.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of wet chewing, low groans of pleasure, and the crinkle of aluminum foil screaming in protest. Mordecai watched, fascinated and repulsed. Rigby was eating with a speed that bordered on violence, sauce clinging to the fur around his mouth. He finished the last massive bite, slumped back into the room’s only intact chair—the one duct-taped to the floor—and let out a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body.
“Whoa,” Rigby whispered, patting his stomach. “It’s… warm.”
“Food usually is, genius.”
“No, like… actively warm. Like it’s… brewing.”
An hour later, the brewing had become a simmer. They were on the lumpy couch in the lounge, Mordecai playing a game, Rigby unusually quiet. He kept shifting, a faint, uncomfortable look on his face.
“You okay?” Mordecai asked, not looking away from his game.
“Just… full.So full. It’s a good full.”
Two hours in, the simmer was a rolling boil. Rigby had undone the button of his shorts. His normally lithe frame looked taut, the soft fur of his belly distended. “I don’t think I feel so good,” he muttered.
“You ate a burrito the size of a toddler. What did you expect?”
By the time their shift ended, Rigby was moving differently. There was a waddle where a scamper used to be. He was quiet on the walk to Mordecai’s car, breathing a little heavily. “It’s just… really settling,” he insisted, heaving himself into the passenger seat. The suspension groaned.
The next morning, Mordecai picked him up. Rigby’s doorframe seemed smaller. He had to turn slightly to shuffle through it. His t-shirt was straining across his middle.
“Whoa. Dude.”
“Don’t start,” Rigby grumbled, fiddling with his seatbelt. It didn’t click. He had to suck in a sharp breath and yank the strap hard over the new, soft curve of his stomach to get it to latch. He looked down at himself, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “It’s just water weight. From all the salt.”
The park work was a slow-motion disaster. Every task was an ordeal. Bending over to pick up litter left him winded. Climbing a ladder to change a lightbulb was a perilous, trembling journey. Sweat plastered his fur to his forehead from the simplest exertions. Mordecai watched, doing more and more of the work himself, the initial jokes dying in his throat.
At lunch, Rigby didn’t go for the vending machine. He just sat on the couch in the lounge, staring at his own paws. His belly spilled over his waistband, a soft, dense mass resting on his thighs.
“You want my apple?” Mordecai offered, sitting next to him. The couch cushions dipped severely under Rigby’s new weight.
“I’m not hungry,” Rigby said, which was the most alarming thing he’d uttered all week. He sounded small. “I just feel… heavy. All the time. Like I’m wearing a weighted blanket made of me.”
“Maybe lay off the insane food truck fare, man.”
“It’s not that!” Rigby snapped, his temper flaring. Then, just as quickly, it sputtered out. He looked helpless. “I didn’t even eat breakfast. Why do I feel… bigger?”
The following Saturday, they were supposed to go laser tagging. It was their thing. Rigby was putting on his favorite pair of cargo shorts—the ones with the green stripe. He pulled them up, sucked in, and tried to button them.
The button wouldn’t meet the hole. Not even close. An inch of furry, tense stomach separated them. He lay back on his bed, sucked in until he saw stars, and tried again.Nothing. He rolled onto his side, yanking the fabric. A high, thin sound of panic escaped him.
“Mordo!” he yelled.
Mordecai, waiting in the living room, came in. He saw Rigby on the bed, red-faced, tangled in the denim. The situation was painfully clear.
“We can get a belt,” Mordecai said, his voice carefully neutral. “A big one.”
“They fit last week!” Rigby cried, his voice cracking. He gave one final, furious, desperate tug.
The sound was loud, ugly, and final in the small room.Riiiiiip.
The button shot off like a bullet, pinging against the lampshade. The strained fabric at the fly gave way, a ragged tear opening up.Rigby froze. He looked down at the ruin of his favorite shorts, at the exposed, dense curve of his belly. His face, usually so full of manic expression, went completely blank. The silence that followed was worse than any complaint.
Mordecai didn’t laugh. The horror was too real, too physical. He just stood there, holding a pair of laser tag tickets, watching his best friend come apart at the seams.
Rigby slowly pulled the ripped shorts off, his movements sluggish with shame. He found an old, oversized pair of sweatpants and yanked them on, the elastic waistband folding deeply under the pronounced swell of his gut. He didn’t look at Mordecai.
“I don’t think I want to go,” he said, his voice a monotone.
“Come on, man, it’ll be fun. You’ll feel better if you move around.”
“I said I don’t want to go!” Rigby shouted, turning away. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Just… go without me.”
Mordecai stood in the doorway, the tickets limp in his hand.He could go. He probably should go. But the image of Rigby, alone in his room, silently expanding inside his sweatpants, was an anchor on his conscience.
He sighed, a long, weary sound filled with the understanding that his weekend, and maybe a lot more, was about to be cancelled.
“You hungry?” Mordecai asked, the question hanging in the air between them. It wasn’t about food. It was a white flag. A peace offering that acknowledged the unspoken, terrifying truth. The wrong answer would start a war. The right answer might just break them both. He waited, hoping Rigby would choose sanity, but already knowing how this would end.
He waited, hoping Rigby would choose sanity, but already knowing how this would end.
Rigby’s stomach growled, a low, cavernous sound that seemed to echo in the silent room. It wasn’t a normal hunger noise. It was a deep, tectonic gurgle that made the hairs on Mordecai’s arms stand up. Rigby looked down at his own gut, his expression a mix of fear and a weird, twisted hunger. “I… maybe a little something. Just to settle it.”
They ordered pizza. Rigby ate three slices, then pushed the box away, uncharacteristically disciplined. “See? Control,” he said, wiping his mouth. But his belly, packed tight under his sweats, seemed fuller, rounder, harder. He spent the rest of Saturday on the couch, dozing fitfully, his breathing a thick, wet sound. Every time he shifted, the old springs screamed.
Sunday morning, Mordecai woke up on Rigby’s lumpy armchair to a smell. It was sweet and sour, like overripe fruit and old gym clothes. He followed it to Rigby’s bedroom door, which was ajar.
“Rigby? You okay?”
He pushed the door open. The sight stopped him cold.
Rigby was on his back, asleep, but he was… different. Monumentally different. Overnight, his body had exploded. His once-slender frame was now a hill of pale, fur-covered flesh. His gut was a massive dome, rising high and taut, forcing his legs apart. His arms, resting on the bed, were thick with new, soft weight. His face was rounder, his cheeks puffy, his chin merging with the swell of his neck. The sweatpants from yesterday were nowhere to be seen; they must have split completely. A single, thin sheet was stretched to its limit over his colossal form, digging into the deep creases of his sides.
“Rigby,” Mordecai whispered, panic tightening his throat.
Rigby’s eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up. He couldn’t. He grunted, a strained, piggish sound, and pushed with his arms. The new weight of his chest and stomach resisted him. He rolled onto his side with a seismic thud, the bed groaning in agony, and managed to push himself up on one trembling arm. He looked down at himself.
A long, stunned silence filled the room.
“What the fuck,” Rigby breathed. His voice was higher, strained by the pressure on his diaphragm. “What the actual fuck, Mordecai.”
He swung his legs, which were now thick columns, over the side of the bed. The floorboards protested under the new, concentrated weight.He tried to stand. His knees buckled immediately, unused to the load. He caught himself on the nightstand, which splintered and collapsed under his grip. He went down with a crash that shook the entire apartment, landing on his ass with a sickening, wet thud. He sat there on the floor, a mountain of confused flesh, panting. The sheer mass of him was appalling. The soft, hairy curve of his belly filled his lap, spilling over his thighs onto the floor. His back was a series of rolling hills.
“I didn’t eat anything!” Rigby shrieked, his voice cracking. “I had three slices! That’s it! This isn’t possible!” He tried to get up again, scrambling, his claws scratching the wooden floor. He couldn’t find purchase. He was like a turtle stuck on its shell. A sob hitched in his chest. “Help me up! Help me the fuck up!”
Mordecai moved, his mind blank with shock. He grabbed Rigby’s arm. The flesh was warm, dense, utterly foreign. He pulled. It was like trying to move a grounded refrigerator. He planted his feet and heaved, grunting with the effort. Slowly, with a sound of profound strain, Rigby rose to his feet. He stood, swaying, his base unsteady. He was enormous. He had to be over a hundred pounds heavier.Maybe more.
The rest of Sunday was a slow-motion nightmare. They didn’t leave the apartment. Rigby couldn’t fit through the door to the bathroom without turning sideways and sucking in, which did nothing. He had to waddle, a slow, side-to-side shuffle, his breath a constant, labored whistle. He was constantly hot, sweating a greasy sheen that matted his fur. The sweet, sour smell clung to him, intensifying.
He tried to blame the burrito, the pizza, the air, the water. But the terror in his eyes showed he knew. This was something else.Something wrong.
By Sunday night, he was a prisoner in the living room. He’d gotten stuck trying to sit in his favorite gaming chair and had to be extracted by a sweating, swearing Mordecai. Now he just stood in the middle of the room, a monument to his own disintegration, or he lay on the floor where falling was less of a risk.
“I’m scared, Mordo,” he said, his voice small and lost in the vastness of his new body. He was staring at the ceiling, his massive chest rising and falling with effort. “I can feel it… growing. It’s like there’s a pump inside me, just… just fucking inflating me.” A fat, silent tear rolled down his temple and into the fur of his cheek.
Mordecai didn’t know what to say. The jokes were all dead. All he had was a helpless, rising dread. He looked at his friend—this bloated, struggling creature—and felt a fissure open in their world. This wasn’t a problem a stupid plan could fix. This was an ending. It sat in the room with them, growing heavier by the hour.
Rigby’s breathing evened out into the shallow, ragged rhythm of exhausted sleep. Outside, the moon rose. Inside, the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the floorboards under the unbearable, impossible weight.