Fat Oscar

Ever since his first appearance, Oscar has largely considered himself as he was considered first by others; the ruthless cold, muscle man of the group. Though he the muscle he held so much pride in before was no doubt still there, it was most certainly buried beneath what looked to be several tons of fat. Looking at him now was a mind bending sight, his waistcoat failing positively to keep his billowing gut inside. His own enormity projected itself far in front of him, his globular gut entering any room long before he did. And that was say nothing of the absolute avalanche of rear that nearly split his pants apart, his twin peaks cresting up and over the waistband almost comically as every part of his uniform practically screamed in its efforts to try and hold together, his gut forcing the rifts between his vest's buttons far wider than ever before, exposing what little it could hide beneath it. You glimpsed him earlier before you dropped in. Just stepping aboard the battle bus was a trial as he struggled to fit himself in any way he could possibly imagine without wedging himself in the doors. He required a specialized glider so that he wouldn't make a crater upon hitting the ground. The bus was nearly empty between just you and him so as to support his immense weight that would have buckled the bus under a normal load. Now you'd both landed, and turned to look at him when you heard him noisily guzzling a chug jug, finishing with a loud "BHUUOOORRLP~" that echoed into the distance, a faint blue glow visible deep in his belly, gurgling loudly. "Alright..." He wheezed, still regaining his footing a bit from the airdrop. "Let's get moving. Everyone else'll be here soon." He spoke, trying to evoke his persona from years ago. Some 500 pounds or more ago on a svelter Oscar, it was a fitting personality. But now, on this huffing, wheezing mess of buttery blubber, sweat streaming down his face just by standing there, it was just silly. It no longer fit him, just like everything else.