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The door slams shut behind him with a hiss and a click.
Xefros spins around, heart sinking. “No—DAMMEK?!”
From the overhead speaker, Dammek's voice purrs, full of smug glee. “Resilience training. You know the drill.”
“L- Last time you said it was a one-time experiment!”
“Correction,” Dammek says. “It was a pilot program. And congratulations—you tested just bad enough to get invited back.”
Xefros steps backward, bumping into the chamber wall. It’s already warm. Already sticky. His nostrils twitch. The air has a tension to it. Like it's waiting.
Then he hears it. There's a rustle of movement through the intercom. Fabric shifting. A strange suction noise. Xefros narrows his eyes, heart sinking. With a grunt, something rubbery and wet was being sealed.
“Dude. What is that? Are you—”
Then—SHLORP-CHK.
PFFFFRRRRRBBBBBBTTTTT
The vent overhead rattles and releases a thick fogbank of pure intestinal death. It’s hot. It clings. Xefros doubles over, dry-heaving instantly. His vision goes blurry. The room takes on a yellow tint. The first blast rolls in through the vent like a wet ghost. The stench hits like a slap: sulfur, old meat, dead cheese. Xefros reels, eyes going wide— and then burning. Immediate tears. His vision fogs. His whole face itches like it’s been dipped in battery acid.
“NGHHHHH—MY EYES!!!” he wails, stumbling blind across the room. “AAUUGH?!”
“Manual input allows for maximum potency,” Dammek replies, completely matter-of-fact. “The compressor's still warm from the last session.”
Xefros tries to breathe through his mouth, but the air is viscous. Every inhale feels like he's slurping hot fart pudding. It crawls down his throat and stays there, coating the walls of his sinuses in greasy stink.
“I- I can't-” he croaks. “hhRK—”
BRRPPPFTTT—SQUORT
Another payload. Worse. Somehow wetter. The walls of the chamber shimmer with stink-humidity. Xefros’s clothes are soaked with it now—every fiber infused with fart. His eyes swell shut. Mucus pours from his nose. His mouth hangs open in slack-jawed, gagging disbelief. Xefros collapses to his knees. The floor feels sticky. There's condensation forming on the inside of his ears. His nose is so full of mucus it bubbles when he tries to breathe. He wipes it on his shirt but it just soaks in.
“You should be honored,” Dammek coos. “No one else has survived this many of my emissions. I mean, they’ve tried, but—” he laughs. “Weak lungs. Fragile constitutions. You, though?”
Xefros wheezes, falling to all fours.
“You’re becoming worthy,” Dammek says sweetly. “You're learning to serve in my presence.”
Xefros burps.
He freezes. One hand to his stomach. The burp turns into a gurgle. His whole torso spasms. He vomits. A short, wet HUUURGH-PFFT of barf spatters onto the floor—half-digested gruel and gas bubbles, hissing on contact with the stank-slick tiles. He coughs again, bile stringing from his lips.
“Ohhhh,” Dammek chuckles, “beautiful form. That was a fart-induced purge. You’ve reached the sacred threshold.”
Xefros twitches, face pressed to the tile. The puke steams beside him.
“I’ll keep going until you pass out,” Dammek adds, with the detached tone of a documentary narrator. “I need to know your threshold.”
There’s a wet slapping noise over the speaker. Xefros doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know.
“You may exit the chamber,” Dammek says with regal flair, “when you’ve licked the floor clean.”