Chapter 3: Kitchen Catastrophe
The fridge door whined open, revealing a pathetic landscape of condiments and takeout containers. Gwen’s stomach clenched, a hollow, aggressive ache. She grabbed a half-eaten container of lo mein with one hand and a block of cheddar cheese with the other. No time for plates.
She leaned her forehead against the cool stainless steel of the fridge door, sighing as she shoveled cold noodles into her mouth. The enhanced metabolism was a furnace, and she was shoveling coal. For a moment, there was just the sound of her chewing, the hum of the appliance, the distant echo of the city.
Then, the heat returned.
It started as a flush across her skin, a sudden sheen of sweat at her temples. Then it plunged inward, a deep, tectonic warmth centering in her womb. The lo mein container slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. This wasn’t a gradual swell. This was a surge.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she gasped, her words muffled against the fridge.
Her belly, already monumental, pushed forward with a terrifying, relentless pressure. The rounded curve met the open refrigerator door. The metal groaned. She was forced back a step, then another, until the appliance itself began to shift, its feet squealing on the linoleum. The gap closed. Her stomach pressed flush against the cool steel, pinning her there. The door handles dug into the sides of her swollen form.
Simultaneously, a familiar, fierce pull tightened in her chest. Her breasts, heavy and tender, pressed against the top of her belly and the fridge. Before she could even brace, milk let loose. Not arcs this time, but thick, urgent ropes of it. They sprayed across the refrigerator shelves, dousing a jug of orange juice, a packet of spinach, a leftover slice of pizza. The sound was a hissing, rhythmic splatter.
A new sensation, sharp and alien, cracked through her pelvis. It was a deep, internal pop, followed by a grating stretch. Her hips were widening. She felt the bones of her pelvis shifting, adjusting, a brutal, physiological remodeling. The countertop dug into her lower back, and with another muffled crack, her expanding hips met the laminate edge with enough force to make the cabinet shudder.
She was trapped. A human wedge between the fridge and the counter, her body actively warping the space around it. Milk continued to flow, pooling at the bottom of the fridge and dripping onto the floor to mix with the spilled lo mein.
Tears of pure frustration burned her eyes. She was a statue of useless, procreative biology. The heist would be over by now. Someone might be hurt. The dispatcher’s voice echoed in her head. Grenades.
Her phone, abandoned on the couch, was a universe away. She was stuck listening to the mess she was making—the hiss of milk, the creak of her bones, the frantic, thundering beat of her own heart.
The expansion began to slow, leaving her breathless and imprisoned. The pressure against the fridge was immense, a constant, sobering weight. She tried to shift, to create an inch of room, but her body was its own impassable barrier.
“Okay,” she whispered, talking to the children, to herself, to the universe that seemed hell-bent on turning her life into a freakshow. “New plan. We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
She had to move. Carefully, she angled her shoulders, pressing more against the counter to create a sliver of space between her belly and the fridge. With a grunt of effort, she pushed the appliance away—just a few inches—with her own mass. It was enough. She slid sideways, a slow, ungainly shuffle, milk still trickling down her front, until she was free.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, dripping, vast, and hungry all over again. The cold cheese was still clutched in her hand. She took a savage bite.
The bedroom. The suit.
Waddling felt different now. There was a new, wider swing to her gait, a feeling of solidity in her lower half that was as unsettling as it was undeniable. The hallway seemed narrower. Her hips brushed the doorframe with a soft thud.
The closet door was a challenge. She had to turn sideways to face it, her belly protruding into the room behind her. Inside, the black and white suit hung, a ghost of her former life. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric. It was stretchy, advanced, but this was a geometry problem it was never designed to solve.
She pulled it down anyway. Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed—which groaned in profound protest—she held it up. The idea of getting her legs into it was laughable. The torso piece might as well have been a doll’s dress.
But the web-shooters. Those were on a separate band.
She found them in a drawer, sleek and familiar. Strapping them to her wrists was a small victory. They still fit. She flexed her fingers, the mechanisms whirring softly in response.
The mask was next. She lifted it, the wide white eyes staring back. This would fit. This, she could wear.
She looked at the ruins of her suit, then down at the breathtaking, milk-stained expanse of her own body. A laugh bubbled up, harsh and genuine. She was a pregnant woman in a bathroom, leaking, aching, with hips that could remodel cabinetry, about to put on a superhero mask.
It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever considered.
And yet.
The grenades. The civilians. The professionals who didn’t have preternatural reflexes or the ability to stick to walls. Or, currently, to wear pants.
She slipped the mask over her head. The world narrowed to the lens of the eye pieces. Her breathing echoed slightly inside. The person in the milk-splattered mirror was someone else. Spider-Woman. Or a very sad, very round imposter.
She raised a wrist, aiming the shooter at a discarded water bottle on the dresser. A thwip, a fine strand of webbing, a direct hit. The muscle memory was flawless. The power was still there, even if the package was… radically altered.
“Alright, boys,” she said, her voice muffled by the mask, her hands settling on the taut, warm curve of her belly. “Mom’s gotta go to work. And we’re gonna need to get creative.”