FOR THE CAUSE by Legion 8:30 A.M., DynaGen Corporate Annex "Hey, good morning!" Tom Siedler, Chief Operations Officer strolled right past her Personal Assistant, right into her office. Unannounced. Again. Ordinarily, she wouldn't give it a second's thought; that was corporate culture, and although she had spent over 20 years in a lab coat, Diana Kozan had adapted quickly to the dog-walk-on-dog corporate mindset. But adapting wasn't the same thing as liking, this was probably going to be the toughest day of her entire career - maybe even her entire life -- and it didn't help Siedler's cause any that he looked, walked and talked like Rob Schneider in an Italian suit half a size too big for him. "It's your big day, Mizz Kozan, are you hyped? Huh? Are ya stoked? Ready to carpe that diem, huh? Huh?" "So we're out of decaf this morning, then." Oh, Diana knew her place in the food chain, but that didn't mean she would suffer fools gladly, not even this one. "Ooh!" he winced, laughing. "Well! I guess - " "If you don't mind," she fixed him with a mild glare, "I do have to get my materials together, and coordinate with Peter Strasser to make sure his half of the project is ready. So if you'll excuse me...?" she gestured a perfectly manicured hand toward the door, not so subtly invited him to make his exit. "Okay!" he shook his head, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Okay. Just trying to, you know, rally the troops, you know? But you just go on with..." "Fast is better than slow." She prompted, no longer looking at him. He mercifully closed his mouth and retreated. Satisfied that she was no longer being watched, she went to her mini-refrigerator, a small black case in one hand, and opened the door. With her free hand, she smoothed the inside of her suit jacket just inside the breast where, a few days ago, she had very carefully and very inexpertly sewn a small pocket. She found her hands trembling at the thought of what she was going to do today. Even if it worked, she... she swallowed hard, feeling a small, hard pit of fear reforming deep in her chest, the same one that had both plagued and excited her since she'd realized what would have to be done over a month ago. She breathed deeply, pushing the fear down, out of sight, out of mind, blinked tears from her eyes, and reached for the cellophane-wrapped object on the refrigerator's low shelf. "I just want to let you know - " Diana jumped, nearly screamed at the sudden shock. She turned, fuming, to see Trish Bates, a junior member of her team and consummate corporate shark, standing there, her blonde hair pulled tight by a cheap, garish headband and a smirk of smug derision just forming at the corners of her mouth. Diana straightened and faced her, hands at her sides. "What do you want?" "I just wanted to let you know," Trish started again with sarcastic sweetness. "That we're all behind you, dear. No matter how awfully this goes for you." Diana pushed the refrigerator door closed behind her. "Get the fuck out." Trish's baby-blue eyes widened, a hand going to her cheek. "Now." The younger woman fairly ran from her office. And that was purely all right with Diana. Ohhh, but if this worked... oh, then there'd be a reckoning day for that conniving, backstabbing little bitch. Count on that. Diana thought to herself as she finally palmed the cellophane-wrapped object, placed it delicately in its small black case, and slipped that into the pocket of her coat. Peter Strasser met her on the way to the Amphitheater. "Diana, hi!" he smiled down at her. Between his six feet and her five feet seven inches, they made a perfect pairing. And having thought about it on many long nights at home with a book, Diana wondered if they wouldn't have made more than that... twenty years between them, though, and... and what? She wondered. She was old enough to be his mother, sure, but she wasn't his mother - and she wouldn't pass for her real age even if she flat-out had to. With her long, raven tresses primly pinned in place, olive complexion and dark chocolate eyes, not to mention her painstakingly-maintained figure, well... she doubted if Peter even knew her real age, or would care if he did. Besides, if this worked... "All due respect, Ms. Kozan... are you crazy?" Simeon Gant, her primary research technician. "This stuff... human trials?! Jesus, I could get fired just for saying that!" "So tell me why it won't work." She presses gently. "Well... " he searches desperately for an excuse. Finally, he sighs, shoulders slump. There isn't any excuse. "In... in my professional opinion..." "Yes?" she prods. "It will work. It's just..." "Thank you, Simeon." "So, I've got my side of the presentation for you right here," Peter pressed a jewel case into her hand, the DVD inside marked simply "DynaGen: Antigen Processes And Practices". She gazed up at him in amazement. "A whole DVD? Peter, what did you do?" she smiled. "Oh, it's nothin'." He grinned back, pleased that he'd pleased her. "Just, you know those simulations we ran down in the lab the other day? I, uh... I had screen capture running on one of the monitors, and I kinda used that as the basis for some really good stuff. What you wanna do is just open with the DVD, let the animated part of the presentation run, and then follow right through into your presentation." "I wish you'd let me see it first..." she frowned, then laughed. "But what the hell. I think I can follow this act. Peter, you are a genius." Impulsively, she reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. A few subordinates and members of other teams took notice, but quickly looked away. "Whoa!" he stopped, a concerned look on his face. "What's... is everything okay here? I've never seen you this... uh... " "Nervous?" she supplied. "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm just - " she stopped. "It's a big day." He straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, then reached for the door to the Amphitheater. "Well, okay then. Come on, Diana, let's knock ‘em dead." She had never been this nervous. Not ever. Not for High School graduation, not for her graduation from MIT, not for her first time with a man. Not ever. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse a triphammer she could feel throughout her entire body. Her knees were gelatin, her stomach full of ice and her heart full of fire and trying to crawl into her throat. She was standing on a razor, and on one side of the edge lay a bottomless pit of tears; on the other side, gales of unstoppable crazy-person laughter. And then Tom Siedler was calling her name, and it all winked out like a light whose switch has just been flipped. The trembling hands, the shaking knees, the urgent, screaming need to visit the ladies room despite her bladder being empty already... it was all just gone, shoved aside by the freight train of a notion that it was time to Get This Thing Done. She slid out of her coat, palming the slim black case from the hidden pocket once again, and went to work. The audience sat in hushed awe as she made her way gracefully across the intricately inlaid marble stage, admiring her long black dress as the overhead track-lighting lit her from above like a movie star - admiring her rather impressive bust, as well, thanks to the keyhole-shaped insert that showed off a bit more creamy-smooth curve than might be considered professional - and the way it hugged her full, round breasts, her narrow waist, her full hips. She was grateful to see both Peter and Trish in the front row, and even more gratified by the look of open, lustful admiration on Peter's face, and the look of goggle-eyed outrage on Trish's. Her left hand held the slim black object behind her back, while with the other, she held a remote presenter. "Ladies and Gentlemen... DynaGen." She opened. "I've been one of you for over twenty years. But the dream of a fountain of youth is even older than I am." A quiet laugh from the gathered. "We're here this morning to take stock of that dream. To see not only whether progress is humanly possible, but to gauge whether or not we here haven't in fact made some progress, no matter how small, in making that dream a reality. I believe that we have. The hours have been long. The work has been hard. As the former head of our Research Division, and now as Chief Technologies Officer, I don't think it immodest to say that I have contributed a lion's share of that work." Faintly disapproving silence descended upon the stage. "I have spent more time in our labs than any other single employee but one. It's my privilege, and my pleasure, to share just one of his many contributions with you now." On that uneasy note, she dimmed the lights, and started the video presentation. She was a little bit shocked to hear her own voice narrating the animation, but soon recognized it as an internal speech she had given her division at her announcement that she had been promoted out of the labs she so dearly loved: "The degradation of organic tissue can be directly linked to the processes of atrophy and entropy," her narrated voice intoned as a computer-modeled cell broke down via simulated time-lapse photography - until text was superimposed that clarified: this was the progression as it appears in real time. "The scientific community has always assumed these processes to be immutable, unchangeable." The animation changed, showing the introduction of tiny organisms in a bluish fluid suspension. "We disagree." The virtual camera quickly zoomed in on one of the organisms, showing that it was, in fact, a machine no larger than a single molecule, and that the fluid in which it swam was electrically charged. "By introducing specially manufactured, networked nanotechnology into a living cell, we believe that the ravages of the aging process can not only be slowed... not merely stopped in their tracks... but ultimately reversed." The image rapidly zoomed out to show the cell again, which had now begun producing a similar fluid on its own, while the machines swarmed over and through it, quickly restoring the degraded cell to perfect health. The video faded and the lights came up. This was the part of the presentation that had filled Diana Kozan's nerves with lightning and her heart with blank terror ever since her promotion out of the Division one month ago. "As I've said," she began, noting that of all the faces before her, only Peter's was understanding. "I have fought... I have slaved... I have bled for the success of this project, for over twenty years. But maybe that isn't enough." She set the presenter on the gleaming acrylic podium before her. "Maybe you need more from me than this." She took her left arm from behind her back and set the slim black aluminum case on the podium as well. A grumble of confusion and outrage began to roll through the audience. She looked down at Peter, who only stared back with confused and pleading eyes. She opened the slim black case, knowing now that she had little time before someone would try to stop her. Inside lay a gleaming syringe filled with glowing bluish liquid. She withdrew it, held it up for the audience to see. "Well, I have one last thing to give you." Without another word and with the sight of uniformed Security rushing down the outside aisles, she plunged the needle directly into her neck, slammed the plunger home. "Diana, no!" Peter shouted, trying to make it to the stage. The security guards reached him first, and shoved him back into his seat, then turned toward Diana... ...who screamed, an ear-piercing animal sound, and fell, clutching at her sides, her face contorted in raging agony. The security guards, unsure what to do, kept their distance. "Call a doctor!" someone shouted, "For God's sakes, call 9-1-1! Call somebody!" The audience sat frozen in horrified fixation upon the spectacle on the stage as Diana, still racked with pain, got to hands and knees, then to her feet, her face still a mask of anguish, tears rolling down her cheeks in sobs now gone silent. Only her deep, racking breaths showed that she was... everyone noticed nearly at once. Her cleavage - striking before - was swelling. Her nipples stiffened, grew prominently, unmistakably visible through the thin material. Her dress had tightened around her, was continuing to tighten - slowly, but it was definitely happening! "What..." Peter breathed. "...only happens in movies, no way that - " someone else was saying, but trailed off into silence as it obviously was happening, right here and right now, in front of them all. Her arms and legs, neatly covered by the long sleeves and skirt when she took the stage, now showed plainly beyond cuffs and hem. A lock of hair sprang free of the hairpins meant to restrain it, followed by another, and another, until there was a small, fearful pop! And it all came down, loose and wild, a mane of jet-black, to frame her tortured face. Her breasts pushed into stark relief against the stressed black silk of the dress, now, her hips and thighs immobilized by the constricting fabric as the hem of its skirt rose to just below her knees now, the sleeves pulling at the skin of her forearms. A sound like a pistol shot rang out in the stunned silence of the amphitheater - half a second later, it was followed by another, a button from the dress literally whistling over Peter's head and drilling cleanly through the padded backing of the chair behind his. Her slim, beautiful feet were likewise bound; the once-elegant closed-toed sandals whose laces wound up and around her calves now groaned under incredible pressure as her perfectly red-nailed toes burst through with a terrifying ripping sound, flexing and releasing to regain their circulation. A crackling like small bonfires rose from her. Only Peter, his face ghost-white with terror, could see why; her deep, lustrous burgundy nail polish was cracking. An expensive gold ring exploded from her finger like a ricochet, cracking and singing off to the back of the amphitheater where it fell, ruined. Then another. Another. Crack! Crack! Crack! One of these shot directly upward from her small left toe and struck the overhead lighting like a bullet, exploding the halogen bulb and raining a shower of searing white sparks down on the moaning woman, who only bucked her hips, arching her back and throwing her head back to howl out a shuddering, breathy cry that was nearly orgasmic. Audience members dropped to the floor like frightened children, shrieking and huddling behind the chairs in front of them as Diana's head shook violently from side to side, the mass of midnight hair gaining length and volume as she did so, invisible waves of overpowering pheromones washing over them. The women sensed the unleashed scent first, territorial instinct burrowing from within them to the surface, causing them to unthinkingly take hold of any man within reach... the men, for their part, were speechless, unable now to take their eyes from the woman who could already hold their fragile minds in her hands as easily as she would soon be able to take their fragile bodies. Then a slow ripping sound rose like the dry roar of a chainsaw along with a low, guttural groan from Diana, who slowly flexed arms and legs rippling with new size and muscular definition. The sound grew louder, more insistent, as the strong black silk of the dress finally began to surrender and give way at hip and shoulder. The sound of the stitching as expanding, hardening arms and legs rent it asunder was plainly audible all the way to the back of the room. Bare flesh peeked through, a little at a time. The sandals, it seemed, had had enough as well. A lace snapped violently in two, then another, like the cracks of whips. Then a sound like a small bomb going of echoed through the amphitheater as the heel of the left sandal creaked under the pressure of the expanding foot and finally shattered. No one had yet peeked out from behind whatever they could hide behind before the right heel followed suit, showering shards of broken plastic into the seats. The hem of the skirt gave way, splitting down one long, long, powerfully muscled thigh to expose tattered, shredded nylon stocking. Her breasts and widening back, with slow inevitability, split the sides of the dress, leaving it to hang... until the pressure of her expanding neck snapped the catch of the straps behind it, which fell away to leave her huge, round, firm breasts exposed, steel-hard nipples thrusting feverishly at the cool air. She either didn't notice, or was beyond caring. She was in a world of her own, now; her groans were still urgent, but the timbre had changed, deepened to something that was no longer pain, and not quite pleasure, but spoke of a burning, aching, hungry thing somewhere between them. The dress fell, now, torn and ruined. Her hair was a mass of long, wild waves, her firm, perfect, gigantic breasts thrust heavenward, her back arched in pure animal sensation - every touch, just the caress of the recirculated air on her skin, jamming a million volts of carnal awareness through her, electrifying her, thrilling her, until they coalesced at the one place where she was still of relatively mortal size, her womanhood, heating and moistening it, filling it with a raw, insatiable need. She leapt, roaring, down from the stage, secretly delighting in the screams and terror from the ungrateful brat hordes her work - her work! - had made rich all these years. She lowered her face... opened her eyes and glared hungrily down... down... and down at the few who remained of the cowering, trembling creatures before her. Her bright pink tongue ran mischievously over her full lips. She could do anything with them. Anything she wanted. She could have any man she wanted, whether he wanted it or not, whether he resisted or not... she could play with any of them, man or woman, like toys, if she wanted. She could break them, if she wanted. Or... Peter stared up at his former supervisor... and then realized that Diana Kozan was no more. This giantess, this superwoman who towered over all of them, she had to be seven feet tall, minimum, maybe closer to nine, with a figure that would make a blind man mess his shorts - huge, perfect tits that still fit her perfectly, the skin of them glistening with sweat as they swung and heaved softly with her heavy, animalistic breathing, with each movement she made. A pair of white satin panties clung desperately to her enlarged labia - which were still enticingly tight compared to the rest of her, were soaked through to translucence, displaying the glistening prize of her pussy beneath. Peter Strasser fought like a man possessed to drag his eyes away from that sight before he did indeed embarrass himself; as it was, his slacks were beginning to tent obscenely; he clenched his eyes against the sight, forced his head back... but lost the fight. His eyes snapped open again, and again he stared, this time at the solid, defined slabs of abdominal muscle as she breathed in, breathed out, in great gusts of primal emotion. She had to weigh somewhere between four and five hundred pounds; each of her arms, though merely well-defined in proportion to the rest of her, were bigger than his thigh - perhaps twenty-six inches from peaked bicep to the faint hollow of powerful yet feminine tricep. Her calves were even bigger - Peter felt his mind start to glass over trying to guess her new measurements, because they simply verged on the... 29 inches, easy. His subconscious supplied. They looked as hard as oak. And above them... above them... The last time he'd been to a tailor, he'd had his chest measured. 38 inches. Those thighs he saw before him, from the massive, ropey adductors as thick as his forearm and shining with commingled sweat and the lubrication of her... to the huge, graceful sweep of the abductors... As she turned slightly to her left, he saw the deep, deep crease of separation between quadricep and hamstring; above that, the ridge of muscle at her hip, twice as thick as both his wrists together, but behind that, as ass that swelled with nerve-numbingly huge, hard glutes. Just one of those thighs... his mind flatly refused to supply a measurement. She looked like she could bench press a bus, or... or... crush a bus with those arms or legs without even trying, or... She was looking at him. Looking at him like an animal. Staring right at him, licking her full, luscious red lips and... oh merciful God, was she purring, or was she growling? No - even more frightening, somehow, was the fact that she was doing both. She took half a mind-blowingly gigantic step forward, her thick, wild mane of black curls framing an expression of lust so intense it was spine-seizing terror to look on. She loomed over him, her pheromones bathing him, seizing his will and ripping it away; then she hunkered down, one gigantic, sculpted, naked thigh resting on one powerful calf, which in turn pinned his arms firmly but gently to the armrests of his chair. She still had to look down her prodigious chest at him. "Well, hello there, little man." She purred in a voice that enveloped him like a warm and dangerously comforting wave. perfect breasts, those rock-hard, puckered nipples swaying gently, nearly had him coming in his slacks, so he tried looking straight ahead instead - and caught a glimpse of tiny white satin panties. As he did, she put on a show just for him, flexing the deadly-powerful walls of her adductors - while they only enveloped his shoulders in a firm, warm embrace, the pressure shredded what remained of the soaked white fabric between her pussy and what it wanted. Instantly, he was overcome with the warm, musky scent of her, the vision of that trim, tight snatch dripping, hungry for meat - and there was no doubt , in the spinning maelstrom that she'd made of his mind, that he was what's for dinner. The tiniest flicker of a mind sparked in the midst of this animal frenzy of sensation: Hey, uh... whaddya figure the odds are you'd even survive a roll in the sack with this here goddess, heh? Well; what a way to go... She leaned toward him further, the chair underneath him squealing in protest. Then the curls surrounded him, blacking out everything else as the massive twin orbs of her tits swayed and cleavage engulfed his vision... "Get away! Get away!" a shrill cry went up from beside him - he couldn't see who had loosed it, his gigantic seductress's magnificent legs would have blocked any chance of seeing anything to either side of him, even if she hadn't enveloped him in her thick, soft hair and firm breasts. The globes of her breasts receded, the jungle of dark wavelets turned like a living tidal wave, pulled away leaving him free and her face looked down at him. "I'll be back with you in just a minute." She purred, then unfolded those inhumanly long, muscular legs from around him, standing at her full height. Then like lightning, her left hand shot out, viselike fingers closing on something soft, something slender - something very breakable. Trish's neck. "You've doubted my work from the very beginning, haven't you - little girl?" Trish couldn't speak - couldn't even breathe - only kicked her legs under her leather skirt, her knee-length black boots briefly flashing the fishnet-clad flesh above them. "All that weaseling behind my back..." Diana rumbled, her voice low and ominous. "All the work you took credit for... every single snide remark..." she punctuated these last words by pumping Trish's flailing body up, then down, then up, then down. With the other hand, she pinched the nearly-destroyed fabric of her panties, tensed her fingers, "Well, here's the payoff!" With that, she tore the satin from her body, held it up before her tiny victim's panicked face so she could see the arousal dripping from it. Without further ado she pried the woman's jaw open and stuffed the dripping panties inside, then clamped that jaw shut again. "Enjoy, bitch!" she roared, and flung Trish away, sending her sprawling across the floor and into the near wall. "Now..." she purred down at Peter again, scooping him gently from his seat to hold him under his arms so that they were eye to eye. "Where were we, little man? Hmmm?" she smiled sweetly at him. That's when Trish, huddled in a fetal position against the wall, screamed. "Oh, no..." Diana grinned with surprise, then turned to look. "You have got to be kidding me, right?" The blonde splayed against the wall struggled to sit up, convulsing as wave after wave of excruciating pain racked her body... which began to change. Her long golden hair began to swallow the band that held it, snapping the plastic. As the broken pieces hit the floor at her feet, the toes of her black boots bulged, then finally ruptured, her toes crowding painfully through the holes as the leather at the heel creaked but held, the heel popping away instead as the white satin panties fell from her mouth and she continued to scream...