Fast forward weeks and you are now pregnant with Penguin's child. You are fatter and fight over other captives for fish
Time bleeds away in a haze of fish buckets and degradation.
Weeks have carved you into something unrecognizable. Your body has swollen to grotesque proportions—easily four hundred fifty pounds of dimpled, sagging flesh. Your belly dominates everything, a massive sphere that hangs nearly to your knees, stretching skin to translucent thinness. But it's not just fat anymore. Something moves inside that vast dome. Kicks. Rolls. The Penguin's child, growing in the wreckage of your womb.
You squat in what used to be the laboratory's corner pen, now expanded to house multiple "brides." The catsuit is long gone, replaced by a stained nightgown that barely contains your bulk. Your face has become a moon of fat, three chins merging into your neck, your once-sharp features buried under layers of bloat.
"Mine!" you shriek, lunging forward with surprising speed for someone your size. A new girl—some politician's daughter the Penguin snatched last week, maybe sixty pounds into her own transformation—clutches a bucket of fresh sardines. You slam into her, your massive belly colliding with her chest, sending her sprawling.
The bucket tips. You're on it instantly, scooping handfuls into your mouth, scales catching between teeth you haven't brushed in weeks.
"Selina, darling, there's plenty for everyone," Cobblepot calls from his observation platform. He's gotten bolder since you stopped resisting, since your belly started swelling with his spawn. "Though I do admire the competitive spirit."
Beatrice waddles over, her own bulk even more impressive than yours. "Don't be greedy, Sellie. Ozzy says we gotta share."
You bare your teeth at her, fish guts dripping from your lips. Then your body betrays you again—a massive, wet fart explodes from your backside, so forceful it actually shifts your bulk forward an inch. The green vapor is thick enough to see, spreading across the pen in a noxious cloud.
"Christ!" the new girl gags, scrambling away.
Another enormous blast follows, then another. Your intestines have become a factory of humiliation. The child inside kicks at your bladder, and you can't even remember why you once found this horrifying.
"Magnificent," the Penguin breathes. "Viktor, note the gestational progress. I believe we're looking at another three weeks to term."
You finish the bucket, licking the metal clean, then lumber back to your corner. Your massive thighs rub together with each step, chafing and raw. You collapse onto the pile of blankets that serves as your nest, belly heaving with each breath.
A fresh bucket appears at your side. You don't even look to see who brought it. Your hands simply reach, and you begin to eat again.