Chapter 2 - Chav TF, Weight Gain

               “Heiress Sparks Outcry!” 
 
               Casandra Mannsbury looks disgustedly down at her phone; her steely blue eyes glancing over the headline before her. Scrolling ever downward, through dozens of articles, she finds the same sentiment repeated, again and again. 
 
               “Outcry.” she scoffs. “What’s the world coming to when you cause an outcry when you speak the truth?” Turning her eyes away from her phone, she looks beside herself; through the tinted window of her car as it makes its way through the busy streets of London. Of course - she wasn’t driving; rather entrusting the task to a chauffeur. Such was one of the many privileges Casandra was afforded as the heiress to the fortune of Atlas Developments. 
 
               Atlas had enjoyed an astronomic rise to power over the course of her lifetime - recalling the humble days spent amongst the middle-class before her family’s fortune grew to ever-greater heights. Having been so long ago, and having spent so much time in a world beyond humility, such memories were misty and distant; frankly - she could hardly recall a time when she didn’t live in a mansion. Their official business was that of real estate and development - although, public perception was that their business was gentrification. Many of their projects began in lower-class neighbourhoods; often ousting the poorer residents in favour of inviting in a wealthier population. 
 
               Her father had always addressed such concerns tactfully - but, having fallen into poor health, Cassandra had assumed the position of figurehead. Bearing a rather decorated academic background - though little in the way of work - hopes were high that she would continue her father’s legacy of prosperity and decorum…
 
               And yet, the heiress couldn’t fathom why she was being raked over the coals in her first press conference. In her eyes; some nosy old hag asked her about a recent project that would replace a large amount of council housing with luxury estates - and she responded honestly. 
 
               “We’re building better neighbourhoods; and an instrumental part of that is simply having better neighbours. I wouldn’t invite such filth into my home, and I don’t think a single one of you would either. There are still plenty of slums for the residents we’re displacing to live - too many; but that’s an issue we’ll be resolving in the coming years.”
 
               Cassandra looked back down to her phone. ‘Elitist’, they called her. Classist, callous, and all other colourful names that moved Cassandra little. She didn’t see them as the slurs they were being used as - perhaps if her actions were unwarranted, but she didn’t think she said a single word that wasn’t true. The people that lived in those council houses deserved to be ridiculed; they deserved even worse than what she said! 
 
               When her car pulled to a stop, her eyes were still peeled on her phone. She heard her driver get out - and waited patiently, as she continued to scroll, for them to open the door for her. As soon as she heard it open, she ducked out of the door - her heels clicking on the ground outside. Once she was out, the driver closed the door behind her - and she looked up from her phone.
 
               She distinctly remembered telling her driver to take her home - and needless to say, she hadn’t arrived. The ground at her feet was cracked blacktop - having been unattended for so long that weeds had begun to spring from the cracks. Before her was some sort of loading dock - part of a warehouse she now found herself beholding. Its walls were rusted - a pattern of rust casting a shadow where a sign had previously been bolted to the facility. 
               
               A chill crept over Cassandra - but her first instinct was to possessively clutch her phone. She tried to turn around - but soon, she felt a hand secure her waist; and another fall over her mouth. Before she even had a chance to cry out - a chemical scent invaded her nose and darkness crept upon her vision, guiding her quickly to sleep.
 


 
               Cassandra’s lapse of consciousness was bookended by a chemical scent - a harsh and acrid scent hitting her nostrils and rousing her back into the waking world. Her first instinct - queued from before she’d been knocked out - was to struggle…
 
               But, as her limbs moved to flail about, she found them all restrained in some fashion. Looking downward - the first thing she saw was… Well, herself. Her body - an expanse of fair skin atop a toned body; shaven smooth and immaculately maintained over the course of her life. All of it, shockingly, was bare to see - causing her face to redden as she continued to survey herself. She seemed to be on a… Strange table. It seemed to be built to accommodate a body - having a central platform for her midsection, and extended panels for her limbs; keeping her arms and legs spread. On each of her wrists and ankles, there was a tight leather restraint - which, as she tried to struggle, didn’t seem to yield at all. 
 
               Another thing she noticed was a set of tubing in her nose. She tried to dislodge it by scrunching her nose or exhaling through it - but it didn’t seem to give.
 
               “Ah - it appears our guest is awake.” 
 
               A voice resounds around the room - which, by the sound of it, seemed empty beyond the table Cassandra rested upon. Bearing down upon her was a solitary spotlight - keeping everything else in shadow. 
 
               Having been granted some form of contact, Cassandra promptly lasheso ut. “Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but you let me out right fucking now-” 
 
               She’s allowed to continue on her belligerent tyraid for a few moments longer, after which she seems to have exerted herself. The voice resumes. “We hope you found your outburst therapeutic, Ms. Mannsbury. Now, if you’ll kindly allow us to explain…” The voice seems filtered somehow; its tone droning and androgynous. “Your recent… Remarks have come to the attention of those whom we represent. While some were urged to respond… Belligerently, your remakes have filled us only with pity.” 
 
               Pity? From who - and why? “What the hell are you talking about?” Cassandra groans, her voice hoarse from shouting.
 
               “Your lifestyle has taken an inexorable toll upon your moral and social wellbeing. Those who we represent are a benevolent and charitable lot; and so it has been decided that you’re ripe for our unique brand of social rehabilitation. ‘Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes’, and all that. Namely - that of the denizens of the council estates you seek to displace.”
 
               Cassandra’s eyes balk. “What- you… Are you mad? Social rehabilitation; what’s that supposed to mean - and what does it have to do with that filth?”
 
               “Tut tut, Ms. Mannsbury. That’s no way to speak of your new neighbours. While we would be more than happy to further explain our intent - past cases have proven that it’s infinitely more effective simply to demonstrate.” With that said, Cassandra can hear a mechanical whirring - watching as a pair of mechanical arms extend from the floor on either side of the table. “This will be the last you hear of us for a considerable amount of time. But, remember - we are providing you with an invaluable learning experience. I’m sure an academic like you can appreciate that - for as long as you remain an academic.”
 
               The mechanical arms lower down to Cassandra’s thighs - rolling along on a track. From their heads, they extend a pair of needles - which quickly and relentlessly begin to prod at her thighs, and slowly guide their way upward.
 
               “Hey- hey! Stop that!” she shrieks - not feeling any pain, but rather overcome by the fear of their uncompromising advance. They move up across her stomach, her breasts; and her arms - finally terminating as they poke either side of her cheeks. The arms lower for a moment - and as they do, she begins to notice an odd odor begin to strike her nostrils. It’s heavy - rancid and… Smokey? Cassandra coughs - and as she does so, a small puff of smoke escapes her lips. “What the hell…?”
 
               Drawing her attention away from the smoke was the sight of her legs - where the injections began. She gasped - drawing in more of that smokey scent - as she watched the sculpted muscular structure of her thighs begin to fade. She didn’t seem to be… Swelling any; but her maintained physique seemed to be melting before her eyes - her thighs growing formless; her stomach gaining a light amount of paunch, her breasts starting to sag… But more hideously, the very tone of her skin began to change. She yelped as she watched a hideous orange tone began to overtake the previously light and tasteful tan she’d maintained. 
 
               Coughing again - another bit of smoke escaped her lips. The mechanical arms rose up again - one ending with a comb, and the other with a nozzle. “Oh no, don’t you fucking da- aaah, hey, you bastard!” One of the arms began to gather her pampered blonde tresses - scraping it up into a single ponytail, which the other arm began to spray. She didn’t get a good view - but it didn’t seem like the color was changing much… But the very texture of her hair was changing; growing brittle, frizzy - and greasy. She didn’t notice her roots beginning to darken to a muddy brown - but as she looked back down to her body and saw hair of the same shade beginning to gather beneath her arms and over her crotch, she gave a mournful bellow.
 
               When the arms were done, they managed to secure her now cheaply-dyed ponytail with a pink scrunchie. She didn’t have much time to lament the loss of her beautiful hair before the arms shifted heads again - one bearing a fine set of scissors, and the other bearing another needle. The needle prods Cassandra’s lips - immediately causing them to puff up and purse outward as the other arm trimmed her eyebrows down - switching its heads amid the process to help sculpt them and guide them up into fixed arches. 
 
               Cassandra continues to cough as the arms retreat once more - and when they return, they seem to grab hold of her restraints. To her surprise, they seem to dislodge from the table - but, secured by the mechanical arms, she’s still restrained. She soon hears footsteps - her heart jumps. 
 
               “Hey - hey, who the hell is that? Get me-” she coughs again. “Get me out!” Despite her protests, the figure that approaches seems rather unsympathetic. They seem clad in a white hazard suit; complete with a mask covering their face. Beside them was a cart, upon which she could make out… Clothes? 
 
               As they came closer, she tried to struggle again - but between the arms and the person applying them, Cassandra was powerless to resist. First came a rather plain set of white underwear - or, what was… Supposed to be white. In the powerful spotlight around her table, she could see a bit of discoloration, which made her skin crawl as it rose up her legs and came to rest - tightly - around her hips. Following this was a pair of gaudy pink track bottoms - as they were held up, Cassandra groaned as she saw the word ‘JUICY’ emblazoned upon the rear. 
 
               Cassandra nearly began to sob as she saw her stomach dimple over the waistband of the sweatpants - forming a muffin top. A pair of socks were fitted onto her feet, followed by a furry pair of boots - which were disturbingly warm around her feet. It was by then the… Second-hand nature of the clothes had become clear. The arms secured her legs to the table once more, and moved up to grab her arms - by now, she’d stopped fighting, and allowed her body to be puppeted into the rest of the outfit. Next came a bra - which was easily the most appropriate garment yet - and a track jacket above that; though the zipper being left down enough to expose a fair amount of her off-white bra and her orange-tan cleavage. 
 
               Before she was laid back to the table, however - she felt a tickling around her fingers. She groaned as she saw the immaculate polish of her previously french-tipped nails removed; and her nails clipped short and unevenly - soon to be covered by a brilliant pink set of false nails. 
 
               Only then was she secured back onto the table, sighing deeply - by now, the smokey scent failed to phase her. Before the person in the white suit left - they placed an odd, bulky headset over her eyes; securing it around the back of her head, and put a pair of headphones over her ears. The world around her was muffled - in sight and in sound, leaving her in darkness for a few minutes.
 
               “Hello again, Ms. Mannsbury.” the voice from before chimed. 
 
               “You- what the hell have you done; what is all- what is any of this?” she challenges
 
               “We would advise you not to ask questions; as this is a prerecorded message.”
 
               Cassandra screams in fury.
 
               “Furthermore, we will no longer be referring to you by your prior name. Ms. Mannsbury was a powerful and exceptionally prejudiced heiress to the Mannsbury family. Such is the person you were, and such is the person you will grow beyond, with our help. You were Ms. Mannsbury. You are not Ms. Mannsbury.”
 
               Cassandra furrows her brow. 
 
               “Ms. Mannsbury was likewise an academic, with an extensive education. You were Ms. Mannsbury. You are not Ms. Mannsbury.”
 
               She… What?
 
               “Her knowledge will not serve you. Allow yourself to forget. Savor the scent of cigarette smoke we have provided for you. The scent of smoke will help you forget. Ms. Mannsbury hated smoking. You are not Ms. Mannsbury. “
 
               She… Wasn’t… Isn’t…?
 
               “Your name is Kasey Martin.” 
 
               She… Is?
 
               “You are Kasey Martin.”
 
               She is Cas… Kasey Martin.
 
               “Kasey Martin never completed her secondary education. Kasey Martin is an aggressive woman. She possesses an affinity toward tobacco and liquor. Kasey Martin is a woman of no great fortune or pedigree. You are Kasey Martin.”
 
               She is Kasey Martin. 
 
               “You were Ms. Mannsbury. Allow her memory to serve as the model of that which you never again become.”
 
               By now, Kasey had ceased trying to rationalize the information - rather absorbing it; allowing it to pass into her mind and cement itself. As she did, her plump lips parted - prompting her to drool a little. 
 
               “Now, allow us to begin with Kasey’s history, starting with her ex-lovers. Number one of fifty: Miriam Brooks.”
 


 
               Kasey snorts as she wakes up - reflexively reaching up to wipe drool off of her cheeks. Smacking her lips, she looks around - finding her surroundings… Much like she remembered them. 
 
               Kasey lived in a cramped loft - it wasn’t an absolute slum, but god help her if she didn’t treat it like one. The walls were… Supposed to be white, but as much as she smoked indoors, they’d begun to turn into more of a yellowish cream color. The scent of stale smoke played at her nose - simply existing as an omnipresent feature of her domicile. Reaching down to a glass table before her - careful to avoid one of the chipped edges - she picks up a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter, quickly lighting it and putting it between her lips. After a quick puff, she takes it out - spotting a bit of pink lipstick sitting on the end. Now, when did she put that on…?
 
               Eh, she couldn’t remember. Her memories were still a blur from her… Eh… Re-something? When they brought her to wherever-the-hell and did whatever-the-fuck. “Fack wit’ my head, they did.” she grunts out as she rises from her couch, staggering into her kitchen. Her memories were soupy - recalling two lives. The lower-class life she now lived was the clearest - but so too did she remember that of Ms. Mannsfield. She could hardly remember her old name - but she remembered what her life was like. Living in a mansion, having maids, having nice clothes… God, she thinks; she really had it all. 
 
               The arseholes that did this to her promised her that she was pretty fucked-up from all of it, though; but she couldn’t say she remembered how, or that she would’ve been particularly inconvenienced. At the very least, she probably wouldn’t have to eat out her landlord just to keep a roof over her head…
 
               A crooked smile spreads across her lips. Not like she didn’t enjoy that part. 
 
               Throwing open the door of her cabinet, she grabs a bottle of beer, slamming the cap against the edge of her counter - which was already chipped from having done so innumerable times - to remove it. It takes another try, but eventually it pops off, and she takes a hearty swig from the bottle. 
 
               Returning to her prior seat, she plops down and spreads her legs, turning on the telly- or, trying to, then smacking the remote a couple times until it does. Before her eyes become glued to the screen, she looks out her window - seeing skyscrapers in the distance. In that moment, there were a million places the former heiress wanted to be… 
 
               But, taking another drag of her cigarette, she bitterly told herself that this was the only place she was allowed.