Others weren't nearly as lucky.

One Cultist, having crawled splat in the middle of enemy territory, was about to give her life away for the ruinous forces. She'd already given away a lot for Chaos, including:

-her belongings, save for some black scraps protecting her modesty and limbs, held by rummaged-together crimson belts;

-her fear;

-her hygiene;

-her name;

-several fragments of her teeth;

-her throbbing, passionate heart; and

-most of her other organs, at least once.

Yet, far rarer where the opportunities the cannon-fodder cultist could *claim* something for Chaos. Maybe a waffle. Maybe a backfiring laspistol a loyalist threw out. Maybe some toilet paper. After all: her loose, untrained squad mainly served to swarm together and clog enemy tank treads. Despite that, her zeal burned with flamer-like intensity. So in her final moments, she was proud to just barely plant a flagpole in a strategic point. She bore her heretical, toothy grimace to the Guardsmen ambush surrounding her, screeching in jubilation their aimed weapons.

"Hwee cap-toored eet--!"

And thus, the cycle began.

The Four Dark Gods, summoned by her waving Chaos Star-marked flag, convened to bestow a consolation prize to their doomed underling. A small boost in her strength, for a quick joke. They focused their unnatural powers on her, warbling echoes of their maddening chants flowing through bloody veins and sinews under the universe's skin, peeking out in whispers on the solar flares...

Thus spake Khorne: "I FUCKING SWEAR IF YOU GIGGLE LIKE LAST GODDAMN TIME YOU RAZORBLADE-SPEEDO-WEARING GOBSHITE"

Thus spake Slaanesh: "ufufu, wouldn't you like that, big boi~? scream louder for me daddy OwO"

Thus spake Tzeentch: "You fools - your pieces are in place, exactly as I plann- wait, I changed my mind, that plan's even better- Or is, now-? Hmhmhmhmm-"

Thus spake Nurgle: "Relaaaax... Let's just take our tiiiime... We ooooughta get together more ooooften... I got new carbuuuuuncles..."

And in a burst of Warp energy, the cultist sprouted upwards. Her too-wide eyes bulged out, pupils shrinking from the sudden pressure surging through her, gifting her joints with massive amounts of pressure. "Aaauugh-?" The masses of brittle bone, olive flesh, pulsing organs, and leathery clothes all stretched out beyond their natural shape. It sent waves of growing pains across Cultist's shuddering frame, tingling at her multiple scrapes and scars. To the pace of her rapidly-beating heart, she stretched higher and higher, and yelped louder and louder, her shadow and her presence blocking out the mass of enemies. Like a daemonette's embrace, it had agony and pleasure in harmony; an addictive sting that numbed her senses to the battlefield around.

"Eet... Ah! Eet eetches zo mahch..." Her black-gloved fingers clawed at her exposed neck and shoulders. "Baht hwee need more...!" They flung out, fists squeezed tighter and tighter - scraping a nearby cliff side.

At her ghastly squealing, the forces stepped back. One of the jumpy Guarsdmen fired at her in fear. His commissar summarily executed him for breaking formation; then ordered the rest of the squad, "Attack!"

A thousand pinprick flashes from their lasrifles and pistols lit up the bottom portion of the rapidly-growing cultist. Blasts ricocheted off the scapulas and boot sole, held to her stockings by thickening strings. The gunfire eventually snapped these holds, and ripped holes into the night-black material itself. The makeshift footwear gave way, quickly crumbling to disconnected platforms beneath her newly-exposed feet, right sole bearing the mark of Khorne.

Yet, few shots reached far above the cultist's ascending ankles; and none pierced the dirty stretches of skin that presently stretched outwards. Her toes burrowed through the paved road and dirt below, which were unable to support the fleshy boulders' girth. With every writhing wiggle of discomfort, ruptures like those from the Adeptus Mechanicus' Termites formed beneath their quaking boots, sending their gunfire off-target.

Soon, the toes' disoriented squirming became stretches outwards, pleased at the relief of the open soil, trekking into unfamiliar territory. "Hhhh... hwy... Hwhy deedn't hwee die? Hwee were all ready to be purged-!" Every second, every shot was more ticklish, every devoted war cry below less audible. Gazing at her body as it scaled outwards, she waved her hand ahead, trying to balance her new scale - and to make sure this wasn't a Shadowseer's illusion.

To her surprise, as the long arm swung, it sliced through the wing of a Lightning aircraft. The pilot had been a safe distance away, overhead even, ready to unload; but now, barely had time to open his parachute, as this goliath, prying hand twisted through cold steel behind him. The monster rattled it in confusion, alarmed that the ship got stuck in her hand's wraps. A little, subtle pinch from their chaotic opponent was enough to compress the rocket launchers right into the fuel tank - and make the aircraft into a little explosive *POOF* in her face.

Cultist blew the ashes off, and rubbed her face. That "boom" was real. About the same firepower as a party popper, but enough to convince the colossus that she was, in fact, a colossus - and not delirious.

"Hwe've... huge-ened?"

At slightly over 45 meters, or 159 feet, the single jolt of growth had transcended the Cultist past multiple classes of Titans - she would now be able to comfortably rest her elbow upon a Warmaster-class mechs. She looked at her body with discomforted taps and touches, like it was completely foreign to her. A glistening aura had surrounded her; as if her body temperature was passively generating a musty mist. The glow extended from her confused, wide-eyed face, high above; to her torso, flesh peeking and poking from under shredded garments, tattooed marks of decay and scheming stretched out to new scales; to her thighs, one now proudly revealing the sigil of indulgence over the soldiers firing at her; and, finally, the icon of fury on the base of her sole's ball. One digit extended above the troops, experimentally drawing a trench. Everyone below either fell amid the fissures in an attempt to retreat; or elected to spend precious ammunition lighting up the reddened flesh, granting a better view of the various dirt flakes that had grown with her, the new bits of wreckage she'd gained, and the excited smile between her toes.

"Hwee... can't feehl eet. At all!" As the sole lowered, her toes wiggled teasingly, making the blasts ricochet about. "Don’t hyu have behtohr than those flashlights?"

At that command, a single shot burst out from the well-oiled Volcano Cannon below. It collided with her heel right as she pressed down on the hard material, its explosion traveling into its fully-charged capacitors; shattering it apart. The force of its impact, mixed with the surprise, sent the colossal Cultist wobbling. "Hwoah -!" Still unsteady with her body's new dimensions and weight, she collapsed backwards.

*POMF!*

Imperials had barely any time to run from the oncoming, lumbering backside, dark rags flexing around the rotund curves. It created a thundering, quaking impact with the ground, instantly shattering any materials and weaponry unlucky enough to be in the shadow of the chaotic posterior. Even those who remained standing and sturdy during the earlier carnage fell limp, helpless. The commissar from earlier, bravely providing an example of discipline and skill for his men, ended up screaming directly into her crack. Two of the surrounding guardsmen were pancaked into the soft folds of butt cheeks, flaking him in perfect defensive positions. The full weight of the Cultist's warp-fueled body upon them, they were preserved in the spongy flesh and well-loved fabrics; but had barely any room to move their limbs, and could barely breathe in anything but the very odor of chaos that permeated in her. That meant, for the most diligent servant of the Golden Throne, an absolutely foul, humid stench; for the less loyal who had already given his mind and body to the Old Gods, an intoxicating and pacifying fragrance; for the undecided, an aroma faintly resembling bacon.

- Art by MostlyFunStuff

When she stood back on her wobbling, destructive feet - causing more retreats - the tonnes of backside had left 80 square meters of devastation beneath. Two round craters sinking into the earth. In a single flick, she casually brushed off the wiggling soldiers, along with the soot that she'd scrunched underneath it. Looking upon the width of the destruction she'd caused, her red eyes glowed slightly. "Hwee really deedn't mean to - unless - thees ees the will of Kay-oss?" She held her posterior over the surrounding forces, hands clutching at her thighs, feeling it shake. To nobody in particular, she asked: "Eeez thees... zhe gods blessing us weeth a new abilitee? Hwee... Mahstohrs, hwee are zo greatful!" She bounced down in jubilation, soles flinging out in celebration, hands pumping up in joy -

- as anarchy reigned below, trying to dodge the wide-spanning reach of her celebratory kicks and incoming butt. Among lesser men, the sight of an enemy they thought destroyed, now reigning over them simply by taking a seat, was humiliating - and a multitude of hushed prayers for protection spread through the ranks. Among the more observant, instead, a question:

"Is her ass... getting bigger!? Oh, throne..."

And yes; right beneath the plump rump, the absolute territory between her ragged skirt and high legwear began glistening harder, itching, twitching, expanding. The conditions within the warp activated a chain reaction, far beyond the power that the bickering gods had granted her. It absorbed more and more of the harsh ground in its sweltering grasp. Their only hope was to, as usual, hold the line until reinforcements arrived; a task made more difficult still by the repeated splits, waving, and swinging her lengthy limbs did, redefining the aforementioned line. Guardsmen rushed to reclaim territory and buildings that had been smeared beneath her thighs; only for another happy swing of the Cultist to reclaim that land again, burying their hopes (and occasionally bits of their machinery).

It was nearly impossible to measure the scope of her growth or her celebratory dance’s destination. While perhaps not unprecedented, this type of chaotic attack had absolutely no counter in official Imperial military doctrine, and the Guardsman primers absolutely did not cover combat against such an unpredictable and massive foe. They could only look up and fire useless blasts, as her purple-haired head grew nearer and nearer to the clouds, those below wondering what manner of insidious schemes had been whispered in her ears and brewing in her colossal cranium...

She squealed. "Hwee! They loohk like leetle toys!"

At just barely under 299 feet, and a smidgen over 91 meters, the Cultist's scale compared to everyone else on the battlefield was about 1:56. Indeed, they were like figurines, spread out on a playset; and unable to resist her palms as they stretched out to pick them up and place them about.

She lay on her back, the Chaos Star flat on the soil. Taking a Guardsman in one hand, she began walking him along her stomach, into the tattoos - navigating around her expansive torso. He struggled to break free from her grasp; the sickening squelch of his flailing boots in her skin below driving him mad. Another hand, next, grabbed a fellow Guard - who she made frolic about with him. She started (poorly) mimicking lasgun noises, while peeking them out from between her boobs - as if they were sniping each other. After many rounds of exchanging fire, she pressed them close together, their helmets crashing; proudly declaring, "lahv *can* bloom on thees battlefield!"

One kept thrashing. "You maniac! You'll pay for this - this - heresy!"

The other quaked in place, even as her hands left his armor. "Forgive me... forgive me, Emperor... for my acts and thoughts… my most grievous thoughts..."

The hard grasp of her fingers, each almost twice the size of a Primarch, was like an oppressive stranglehold. Every time they began fleeing, or firing back up, she stuck them deeper in place - burying their soles in the sinking ground. "Loyaleests should maytayn their posts!" It occasionally took a small lick, or a dab of saliva, to keep them stuck in their spot. Nobody could flee the long reach of her gloves, capturing all the foes of Chaos in a sickening diorama. It was practically a mockery of their own formations, with people facing each other, lying on top of one another, privates in obscene gestures towards their commanders At first, she only moved infantry. But as her size kept pulsing out - towards a 1:64 scale - she began grasping Leman Russes, making them spin like tops with her fingers.

As her growth continued to jolt, one of those majestic tanks crumbled to dust beneath her hold. She looked at the scraps, and giggled. "Eet was worthless anyhwey. Zhe paint wahs too theek!" It took no effort for her toss it in a scrap pile of other wreckage, like a tinfoil wrapper. With a flick, she had the next escaping tank do a sick wheelie, and jump over its companions remains in a somersault.

By the time she'd settled at a 1:72 scale - over 115 meters - the display was complete; a small Chaos star, arranged with figure-scale people, and machinery, squirming in place. A few finally managed to crawl out from the muddy ground, and swore upwards; or prayed in the distance, to Terra, that being in such a shape hadn't corrupted them.

But, even glancing among the Imperials, the Cultist paid them little mind. She looked left and right, smile slowly giving way to worry, finally speaking: "Hwhere deed our brothers and seesters go? Hwee want them to see the glory of thees art! Eet's hard to keep track hweeth all theese leetle green theengs..."

Like a dog trying to dig up a bone, she began clawing through chunks of the landscape. The black palms sifted through assorted loyalists, brushing them aside like toys in a bin. One brave Guardsman, seeing his life flash before his eyes, threw a frag grenade at her approaching face. It landed right in her nose, and detonated; triggering a sneezing fit that sent many of them flying. And she only seemed to become more towering, still, with each sneeze...

***

Unknown to her, at the camp, hobbling cultists gathered around their boss, who'd commanded the attack - sitting in his ornate World Bearer armor. The smoke of a good cigar floating about them, they gave assorted reports on the situation:

"We were broken, but-"

"She's huge! A miracle, a miracle upon us!"

"Whaht do we-"

The boss' voice was a muted, groaning boom, but made them all silent. "Leave her to it. We're getting off this shithole."

They stared at his face, which bore no signs of humor.

"She can take them all on?"

"Do you trust the cultist that much?"

His red fist crushed the burning embers. "No, I don't trust her. I don't fucking trust her with anything, damn it. The shit I've gone through already with that extra-heretical squeak toy - and they're making her even *louder* and *more annoying*? What kind of a fucking prank is Tzeentch trying to pull with this?" Dranon's ancient veins pulsed, hands tensing. "I've already given up too much of my cigar budget on her. I am *NOT* paying for an extra-large room, extra-large food, or extra-large janitors to mop up her drool!"

One raised a spindly arm. "But - the rehinforcements?! The loyalheests?"

"Good point." Dranon already began sending orders for takeoff, his swinging arms making the rest run for shelter. "All forces, clear a space for the Imperial landing! Roll out a welcome mat! Fuck it, wire that Cultist's coordinates to Cato! We'll be in the next quadrant by the time his smurfs are done with her shit!" Seeing her massive eyes on a monitor, glowing with the same curiosity as when they first met, the Chaos Marine added on: "And for Khorne's sake, turn on the fucking cloaking device!... Yes, you fucking heard me, we're retreating for Khorne's sake!"

***