Everyone else had long since fallen asleep. The crew of the Great Fox was spread out in their private rooms, all of them attempting in their own way to maintain something resembling a terrestrial sleep cycle out there in interplanetary space. All of them, save for one. Falco Lombardi was currently pacing in one of the upper level's break rooms, silently psyching himself up for an interaction he'd thought he'd never get an opportunity to have.

The food replicator had been damaged the same way as anything else on the ship was usually broken: by a fair bit of roughhousing that had gotten out of hand. In this case, it was a Lylat ball game that had sent off an unfortunate chain of events that led an unwieldy toss to go sailing right into the machine. Was it a missed catch by McCloud or an unnecessarily forceful throw by Toad that was to blame? It didn't really matter who was at fault there, but that didn't stop Slippy from shying away from the break room for the rest of the night, a bout of embarrassment preventing him from actually using his mechanical know-how to fix the wall panel.

That left a begrudged Peppy Hare to attempt the fix, and as Falco laid eyes on the resulting mess for what felt like the hundredth time that hour, he could very blatantly tell that this kind of repair was out of the rabbit's league. The panel was fortunately still functional, but you would barely recognize that, what with the hunk of wiring and electronics torn out of its broken plastic casing. These wiry guts were practically spilling out the hole in the wall, the replicator's inner workings on display for everyone to see in a mass of chips, capacitors, and most importantly to the avian... tubing.

That long translucent tube was precisely the reason that Mr. Lombardi had snuck out of bed that 'night'. It was a necessary, if usually unseen, component for the replicator to work, delivering liquid and semi-solid materials to the right containers, creating quick snacks whenever the ship's workers felt like having something to nosh on. Holding the hose in a feathered hand, Falco could feel his uncharacteristic hesitation coming back to stagger him, asking him the same question he'd been attempting to answer since he had entered the break room: did *he* want to be one of those containers?

Fingers trembling, he brought the tube up towards his beak; he could never admit it out loud, but the answer was no doubt a meek but confident yes. The pipe felt as about as rubbery in his beak as he expected, though the feeling of finally having it in his maw sent a chill down his spine anyway. A minute of internal debate later, and he was pushing the hose in deeper, down until it was almost in his throat, the opening of the tube practically bypassing his mouth entirely. The setup was complete; all he had to do was to make an order.

The replicator's touchscreen was the only part of the machine still perfectly intact, the sterile menu display's touch-tones briefly being the only sound that resonated through the room as the bird navigating those menus became dead silent. It was a dull kind of anxiety preventing Falco from pressing those last few buttons, one that left him stuck re-justifying his imminent actions every step of the way.

C'mon, man, thought the avian as he navigated through the dessert menu, it's not like you to just stay standing here!

The quick reassurance gave his mind just enough of a jolt to click him through to the pudding section, the many flavors appearing in a concise list. Now or never, either enjoy yourself or go back to sleep!

A selection was made from the list: mocha pudding, Falco's favorite for the time being. The variety that the Great Fox produced was particularly a delicacy for the spacefarer, and with a digital red 'Dispense' button now at his fingertips, the falcon now had a direct pipeline for a personal All-U-Can-Eat special.

Slamming down on the button, Falco was eagerly excited to see how much eating that actually was.

The replicator roared to life with an industrial hum, bruised but not truly broken. The seconds ticked on, Falco watching the system work in frozen anticipation. A small rumble elicited itself from his stomach down below, breaking the tension by reminding the avian just how hard he was waiting for this. A small trickle of chocolaty-brown mass had begun to form in the beginning of the tube, prompting the fire to return to Falco's eyes. There were no other barriers in the way, now all Mr. Lombardi had to do was simply drink.

With the synthesizer picking up steam, it wasn't long now. Falco watched, eyes wide, as the pudding made its way across the tube's length, chocolate running down the path towards its final destination: him. The flow quickly rose past his beak, with one final surreal second passing before he could feel it: warm, mocha pudding pouring into his throat. It was as delicious as he remembered, a complex palette of coffee flavors lighting the base of his tongue ablaze as the gelatin passed through. A smug moan came out of Falco, muffled by the tube, his boastful demeanor returning just in time for him to really enjoy the fun.

The flow increased further; the fabricator now determined to fill the container it was so gracefully provided. Lombardi, not to be outdone, began to suckle from the hose, chugging mocha down in large, consistent gulps. Thirst had taken hold of the blue falcon, and he was determined to drain the dispenser dry, pounding down gelatin like his life depended on it.

Falco's stomach, flat as a board and just as lightweight, was quickly overwhelmed with the onslaught of chocolate. It had filled up in a matter of second of nonstop drinking, and with no end in sight the organ was forced to stretch to contain its new cargo. The pilot could feel the expansion happening deep underneath his G-suit, his belly filling out, swelling out as easily as a water balloon placed on a spigot. The pressure soon became visual as a curve began to form on his midsection, his ballooning waistline stretching the orange latex with ease. His hands moved down to meet this growing bulge, pressing digits into the bloat, taking in his growth. It was intoxicating to the filling falcon, more moans poured out of him just as his dessert began to really pour into him.

With each powerful gulp Falco began to bloat further, his distension quickly forming a taut potbelly on his middle, then a full-on gut. Each inch added to his gut was met with a flurry of cries from his latex suit, the space-age rubber stretching and groaning as the blue mass of feathers underneath rose up and out like baking dough. From a distance it was like the avian was speeding through a pregnancy, a bulge to rival a clutch of eggs quickly filling him out. Lost in gluttony, Falco groped his gut with utmost aggression, taking in the tight sensation around his belly button as he pinched and poked his way down his tum.

That tight sensation was entirely due to his belt, which was decidedly not made of space-age rubber, and was not equipped to handle the inflating mass pressing up against it with ever-increasing force. Falco's gut had ballooned past the size of a medicine ball at this point, his orange paunch sagging down his waist as gravity was granted further control over his middle. The belt's strains were drowned out by both the whirring of the replicator and the squeaks of his G-suit, leaving the hapless accessory to struggle alone as the bird binged, his gulps forcing pint after pint of pudding down into him. Something had to give, and it certainly wasn't going to be his stomach. From the way he was drinking it seemed his belly had unlimited capacity, while the poor was already at its limit, too tight to stretch further, too taut to stretch further, too full-

*PWING*

Falco's belt busted open unceremoniously, his buckle hitting the wall with a metallic slap. Unrestrained, his gut quickly shot out, the G-suit stretching to its own limits as his balloon belly rivaled up to the size of a beach ball. Falco quickly spat out the hose, hitting another button on the replicator to hastily finish his order as well. It was perhaps time to take a break, lest he tear apart his spacesuit in the process.

Taking a break was easier said than done. Falco broke into a drunken waddle across the room, underestimating the sheer weight and movement of the now-colossal dome of his belly. His stomach lurched slightly with each step, throwing off his balance and making his gait look just as bloated as the bird was quickly feeling. It wasn't a awful feeling by any means, though; the avian adored the sensation of nearly a dozen gallons of mocha pudding churning about in his obscenely-overpacked guts.

Taking a seat in one of the break room's dining chairs, Falco began to unzip his suit, exposing the cerulean orb of his belly to the open air. Exhausted, he began to rub himself once more, this time neglecting to prod himself in lieu of taking in the softly stretched expanse of his warm plush. Stuffed fuller than a holiday turkey, Falco was snug under himself, satisfied in the wake of overwhelming gluttony.

I gotta let Peppy know that he can stop trying to fix the replicator, thought Falco. Far as I’m concerned, it’s working better than before!