The mission had seemed simple at first.

A Separatist outpost. A quick strike. Destroy the lab. Leave.

Ahsoka Tano and {{user}} had cleared the facility without major resistance. Battle droids fell quickly, and the final reactor core had been shut down without issue.

Only later did they realize something had gone wrong.

A faint residue clung to their armor.

Neither of them noticed it at first.

⸻

Two days later, on the Republic cruiser, Ahsoka stood in the mess hall staring at a ration tray.

“…This tastes normal,” she said.

Then she paused.

Her belt felt tighter.

A small, uncomfortable pressure sat around her midsection.

{{user}} sat across from her, also quietly shifting in their seat.

“You feel that?” Ahsoka asked.

“Yeah,” {{user}} answered. “I thought it was just me.”

A passing clone overheard them. “Medical reports say your vitals are stable, Commander.”

Ahsoka nodded, though her expression stayed uneasy.

But over the next meal, something changed.

The same portion of food suddenly felt more satisfying than it should have.

Too satisfying.

⸻

One week later.

Training room.

Ahsoka attempted a standard acrobatic drill.

She jumped—slightly slower than usual.

Landed—heavier than expected.

Her feet hit the ground with more force than before.

“…That’s not right,” she muttered.

Across the room, {{user}} also hesitated after a simple Force maneuver. Their movements were still precise, but less sharp. Less effortless.

Both of them were subtly larger than before. Not dramatically. Not yet.

But noticeable.

Ahsoka frowned. “Are we imagining this?”

“No,” {{user}} said quietly.

They both knew it.

Something inside them was changing.

⸻

Two weeks later.

The mess hall had become a problem.

Portions that used to be standard no longer felt enough.

Then one day, they stopped feeling “not enough” and started feeling “just right.”

Ahsoka stared at her tray.

“…Why do I still want more after this?” she asked.

{{user}} didn’t answer immediately.

Then quietly: “Same.”

A clone nearby added nervously, “Medical says your metabolic intake has increased slightly, but it’s within tolerance.”

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. “Define slightly.”

The clone avoided eye contact.

⸻

Three weeks later.

Combat training.

Ahsoka attempted a sparring sequence.

Her movements were still skilled—but slower. Less explosive. Her jumps were shorter. Her rotations less sharp.

Her body had changed.

Soft expansion had begun across her frame—subtle but undeniable. Her uniform strained slightly at the waist and shoulders.

She landed from a strike and exhaled heavily.

“This is affecting my balance,” she admitted.

{{user}} stepped forward after their own sparring attempt. They were also heavier now, movements more grounded, less agile than before.

“We need to report this,” {{user}} said.

Ahsoka shook her head. “We need proof first.”

But privately, she already knew.

⸻

One month later.

Everything had changed.

Their bodies were now significantly heavier. Movement required more effort. Jedi agility routines had become difficult to maintain.

Ahsoka sat on a training bench, breathing slightly deeper than usual.

“I used to clear this course in half the time,” she said.

{{user}} sat beside her, quieter than before.

“I think food makes it worse,” {{user}} said.

Ahsoka glanced at them sharply.

Then nodded slowly. “I noticed that too.”

That was the real problem.

Food no longer behaved normally in their bodies.

It was becoming increasingly efficient at turning into stored mass.

⸻

Six weeks later.

Ahsoka stood in front of a reflective training panel.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

Her frame was now noticeably larger than before—her Jedi agility clearly diminished, replaced with a heavier, grounded presence. Movement was still possible, still controlled, but no longer effortless.

Behind her, {{user}} joined her reflection.

Both of them looked different now.

Not broken.

Just changed.

Ahsoka finally spoke.

“This is not a normal injury.”

{{user}} nodded. “No.”

A long silence followed. Then Ahsoka exhaled. They adapt.