This choice: You try to stand, but find yourself glued to the floor. Oh no… • Go Back...
—Heavy Scat Warning—
Adrenaline rockets through you. Watching that horrible mound of scat, rounded by undulation of her intestines, slowly encroach—the bowel walls pushing it towards you—it fills you with a strange, primal fear. You try to stand, to run from the vile mass, but you can't. Foul mud cements your body to the floor. Despite the heat, your veins turn to ice when you realize you can't push yourself free. The disgusting, stinking, wad of horribleness draws closer. It's an arms-length away.
You scream—in equal parts frustration and horror. Your fear had reached a fever-pitch, and like steam in a tea kettle, your terror escapes. But no one heard you. Not even Gardevoir. This deep within the Pokemon's bowels, it's a lot like outer space. It's inhospitable. The atmosphere is unbreathable. And no one can hear you scream.
The mass grows closer. It practically grazes the tip of your nose. It fills your vision like an evil god. You turn your face away, fearing if you let it touch your face it'll be like sticking your nose in the event horizon of a black hole: destroying your sniffer forever. Your nightmare ever-worsens as you realize Gardevoir's scat is an unstoppable force. You won't even be a roadbump. The elegant lady's mess won’t hesitate to devour you as it ambles toward its final destination. If you don't think of something now, you'll be swallowed and enveloped—suspended in foul-smelling slop.
You press your face to the floor. You grit your teeth, ignoring its filth and horrid humidity. A gurgling groan echoes through the tunnel as Gardevoir's tunnel oscillates and squeezes her shit forward. You slam your eyes shut, wrinkling your nose as that nasty thing slides over you. Its sticky mass sticks and smears over your back as the Psychic-type's bowels carry it forward. The peristalsis shifts her intestines up and down, occasionally pressing you into the foulness. As the Pokemon's body groans once more, the bowels press in—hard. So hard, you find everything go brown as you're pressed inside. A reeking smell permeates your very fiber of being, a disgusting melting mud texture oozes over you like gravy. You hold your breath as you pray that you're not abandoned in a literal shithole.
You feel the crushing touch of the bowels recede, slowly returning to their slack position. You slowly are peeled from the bottom of the log, gravity tugging you down. Soon, you're free from its grasp, ejected from its squalid muddy insides. The colon begins to push in-and-out again, ferrying the log of crap along. The abhorrent syrupy sounds it makes as it passes along will haunt you until the day you die.
After an eternity of fetid hell, the clump of refuse finally travels over you. Your back is painted in rancid, brown yuck—but you've survived. For now.
Miraculously, you find the strength to free yourself from the quicksand-like grip of the floor. Standing with a wobbly step, you're not even sure if you're alive. Fitting—because this place certainly is hell. When the tunnel begins to writhe, the walls scrunching closer and closer together, only to expand and lurch forward—blasting a miasma of face-melting gas past you—you're flung backward and smack into the freshly shit-coated walls. That is your breaking point. You weep. Hot tears trickle down your stained face. There is no good in this horrible place.
"Let me out!" You cry. No response. Why would there be? Your feeble words can't escape the dungeons of her bowels. At best, they'll be lost amongst her hellish, sweltering, internal labyrinth—wandering forever until they peter out, indistinguishable from her gasses. You fall to your knees. Your fate isn't looking much brighter.
Suddenly, your surroundings jerk. You're nearly thrown to the disgusting ground as Gardevoir's bowels sway with her step: she's walking. Her composed voice booms through her nauseating chambers as you, her captive audience, is forced to listen.
"I do wonder how my tiny test-subject is holding up!" She chimes. "I'm quite certain they're doing fine! But I must retire. The pursuit of science is exhausting and, frankly, exhilarating." The weird, fairly stilted way she's talking makes you think she knows you're listening…
What does your cruel, green-haired mistress do next?  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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