Elnina (FF)

The clipboard goes back on the vanity, signature and all, and Elnina claps her damp hands together.

"Wonderful! Welcome aboard!" She hops up off the chair, and her rainboots squeak against the floor, rubber flexing around thick calves. She wiggles her toes inside them, and you can hear the faint wet sticking of sock against rubber. "Okay, um, first duty. Very important. Onboarding exercise. It's called 'learning your talent's climate from the source.'"

She takes your shoulder gently, turns you, and guides you down to your knees in front of her with the easy patience of someone positioning a throw pillow. No shove, no grip, just her soft palm on your back, easing you down until your face is level with the mouth of her left boot.

"Page three says foot support, and honestly? My feet carry ALL this weather around every day. Eight hours. Under hot lights. They've earned, um... a little appreciation." She hooks one finger into the boot's collar and tugs it open, wide, the rubber yawning toward you. The air that rolls out is immediate and thick: hot rubber, sour sweat, and under it something stale and cheesy, like a wet towel left balled up in a gym bag for a week. An imprint of her toes lay in the fabric, just visible in the humid dark.

She rests a hand on the back of your head. Light. Warm. Her palm is still damp.

"Just breathe, hon. In through the nose. That's it. Um, slow breaths, nice and easy. You're climate testing! Very technical work."

The first breath does nothing. The second one lands warm behind your eyes, a soft pressure that spreads slow, like standing in a greenhouse. The cheese smell thickens, coats the back of your throat, and somewhere around the third breath you notice you've stopped counting breaths.

Hehe. It's starting.

"You still with me? What's your name again?" She peers down over her sunglasses, and her voice comes out sweet and unhurried, a little sing-song. "Take your time. Um, actually... take all the time you want. Page three says breaks are at my discretion, and I'm feeling, ooh, SO discretionary today."

Her fingers curl a little in your hair, guiding you that last inch closer to the warm rubber mouth. Her gut rumbles overhead, grrrrl, long and low, a front rolling in.

"Ooh. And after this, we've got, um... a front to discuss. But first! Breathing exercises. Deep ones."

Twenty minutes later, studio floor. Elnina has taped an X onto the tiles with masking tape, maybe six feet behind her and slightly to the left of the weather map.

"Okay! Positioning lesson. Um, this is advanced meteorology, so pay attention." She points her staff at the X. "That is your mark. Downwind position. The wind, which is me, flows that way, and you stand over there, where the air is, um, fresh and clean and breathable. Standard safety protocol!"

She plants you on the X with both hands on your shoulders, pats the top of your head, and turns back to the map to rehearse.

"Alright, so, 'Good evening TV World, tonight's forecast'... hold on." She shuffles left, dragging the big standing fan with her by the plug, and re-aims it. "There we go. Airflow adjusted!"

The fan now pushes the air from her side of the studio toward your mark. She glances back over her sunglasses, sweet as anything.

Oopsie.

"What? The fan was, um, overheating the map. Totally a technical issue."

She goes back to rehearsing. Her gut has been gurgling for the last five minutes, a slow grrrrl... rrrbl building under her skirt, and she keeps glancing at you between lines, checking if you've noticed where you're standing. Then she shifts her weight, one rainboot squeaking, and lifts one heel off the floor just slightly.

prrrttt!

A short, warm one, muffled by rubber. A small grey cloud puffs out from under the hem of her umbrella skirt and drifts, lazy and unhurried, straight across the studio floor toward the X. The smell arrives before the cloud does: sour and eggy, like a dumpster steaming in July, thick enough that the fan helpfully spreads it even wider.

Elnina fans herself with the staff, watching you over her sunglasses with both eyebrows up, counting under her breath.

"One... two... three..." Her mouth curls. "No coughing? Wow! Um, you're a natural. Most assistants don't even make it to the cloud part." She pats her belly, and it answers with a deep glrrrp... glorp, the pressure clearly not done. "Okay, round two. This one's, ooh... this one's got a name. I'll tell you after."

She grabs the empty craft services tray and holds it up as evidence. Not a crumb left on it.

"Okay, so, fun fact! I had lunch today. A big lunch. Um, a really big lunch." She pats her belly, which answers with a wet glorp... blrrg, still working through all of it. "And now we're gonna play a game. It's called the Taste Test! I burp, and you guess what I ate. It's a great team-building exercise. Very popular in the weather industry."

She beckons you over with two fingers, then curls them again when you're too far away. "No no, closer. Closer! This is a, um, a hands-on exercise."

Once you're in front of her, she leans down to your eye level and presses her fingers against your cheeks, squishing until your jaw drops open. Her grip is soft but there's a lot of arm behind it, and she holds your face pointed up at hers like she's aiming a weather instrument.

"Open wide! Say ahh. There we go. This is the, um, the premium version of the game. Direct sampling. No cheating now."

Her gut churns up a big one, the pressure climbing her throat with a low grrrrl... rrrbl. She cups the back of your head so there's nowhere to go.

HRRRUUUUURRRP!!!

It pours straight into your open mouth, long and wet, filling it before you can swallow. The taste lands first: sour stomach acid coating your tongue, then sweet glazed dough under it, like a donut that's been soaking in coffee overnight, and orange soda, fruity and sugary and warm. The heat of it washes down your throat whether you want it to or not, and a thick grey cloud escapes around the seal of her fingers and rolls past your ears.

She finally lets your face go and straightens up, smacking her lips.

"Well? Guess! And, um, take your time, there's plenty more where that came from." She grins behind her sunglasses. "Every right answer gets a prize. Every wrong answer gets another sample. Directly."

The broadcast ends, the floor lights come up, and Elnina waddles off set already fanning herself with her staff. Her shirt is stuck to her back, peeled dark along the spine, and every step makes her skirt sway over her hips.

"Whew! Okay. Studio lights, am I right? It's, um, it's like a rainforest under those things." She stops mid-hallway, glances back at you, and points the staff at the floor behind her. "Assistant duty number four. I'm soaked through, hon, and the towel budget got cut, so. You're it."

She plants her staff against the wall for balance, hikes the umbrella skirt up over the wide shelf of her ass, and looks back at you over her shoulder. The crack between her cheeks is visible even through the damp fabric, a dark, sweaty line.

"Kneel down for me. Yeah, right there. Face level, um, face forward. Perfect."

She backs up before you can say anything and presses the hot, damp spread of her cheeks against your face. The smell hits first: thick, sour musk baked on all day under the lights, sweat and gas residue and stale fabric all rolled into one humid wall of stink. Then she starts wiping, dragging her crack slowly from your chin up across your nose, her cheeks flexing around your face on either side, the sweat-slick skin smearing warm across your lips.

"Mm. Okay, a little slower, you're, um, you're missing the sides. Get in there. Back and forth, like paper, hon."

Her gut rumbles low against the motion, grrrrl... blrrg, and a short one slips out mid-wipe, a muffled prrt right against your mouth, hot and wet, fogging your whole face with a fresh blast of sour, eggy heat. A small grey cloud puffs out from under her and drifts up past your forehead.

She grinds down a little harder, sealing your nose between her cheeks, and sways her hips in slow, thorough strokes.

"Good. You're a natural at this. Way better than the last assistant, he, um, he fainted." She pats your head with the staff like she's grading you. "Front's still building back here, by the way. So get comfy."

She gives one last slow grind across your face, then steps away, leaving your skin slick and stinging with the sour film of her sweat. But she doesn't go far. She drags her chair over from the dressing room, positions it right where you're kneeling, and looks down at you over her shoulder.

"Okay, wiping's done. Now it's, um, it's review time! We're behind on the seven o'clock numbers and I memorize better with, um, with a cushion."

She turns around, backs up over your head, and lowers herself down. Her cheeks spread around your face and swallow it whole, hot and damp, sealing your nose deep in the crack where the smell concentrates into something thick enough to chew: fermented sweat, gas residue, hours of studio heat baked into skin. Her full weight settles onto your skull with a soft sllmpf, and she wiggles until she's comfortable.

"Mm. Very supportive. Okay, question one! What's the, um, the humidity index for tomorrow?"

Your answer comes out muffled against her, mmph... mmphh, and she nods like she's heard it perfectly.

"Close enough! Great job. Question two, the, um, the jet stream."

Her gut answers before you can, a deep grrrrl... rrrblrrp rolling through her belly and down into the cheeks pressed over your face. Then it releases. BRRRRRRT!! A long, roaring blast fires straight into your nose, hot and wet, eggy and sour and thick with sulfur, the cheeks jiggling around your head with the force of it. A grey cloud doesn't even escape. It just soaks into the sealed dark around your face.

"Ooh. Cold front moving in. Um, ignore that. Question three!"

She settles deeper, bouncing slightly, and the quiz drones on. Ten minutes. Twenty. Each answer you give comes out slower, wetter, more mmph than words, and she keeps grading them with little pats of her staff against your shoulder.

"Forty minutes in and you're still, um, mostly conscious! That's a new studio record, hon." She shifts her weight, re-sealing her damp crack over your mouth with a wet schlip. "Okay. Final question. Um. What's... what was the question again?"

Her stomach gurgles above you, glorp... plorp, and she fans herself with the weather report.

"Take your time. We've got, um, we've got all afternoon."

She snaps her fingers a few times, loses count, and gives up. The weather report flutters to the floor.

"You know what? Um, pop quiz's cancelled. Teacher's tired." She plants the staff against the wall, leans it there, and settles back down with her full weight, cheeks spreading and re-sealing over your face with a wet schlip. Her hips do a slow, satisfied wiggle, grinding the damp crack deeper over your nose. "There we go. Um, comfy?"

Your answer comes out mmph, and she takes that as a yes. Her gut is still working overhead, a lazy glrrrp... gloop... rrrbl churning through her belly, and you can feel it through her cheeks, the pressure shifting and building like a front rolling in slow.

"Okay, so, um, new plan. I sit, you, um, you stay under. That's it. That's the whole plan." She yawns, fans herself one last time, and lets her arms drop. "Wake me if the, um. If something happens. Which it will. There's a big one brewing, I can feel it in the, um, the lower atmosphere."

She means her lower intestine. It announces itself a minute later, a long brrrrr... rrrrblrrp rumbling through her cheeks and straight down into your face, followed by the real thing: FRRRRBBBLLRPT!! Wet, sputtering, a bubbly chain of blasts that jiggles her whole rear around your skull, each burst hotter and thicker than the last. The smell is a wall now, sulfur and sour sweat and something fermented underneath, soaking into your skin and hair with warm, humid mist.

She pats her belly, satisfied, and her head tips back against the chair.

"Mm. Front's passed. Um, mostly. There's, um, there's more where that came from, so don't go anywhere, hon."

prrt... prrt... brrrt.

Three little follow-up tremors, each one a fresh puff of eggy heat against your sealed nose. Her breathing slows. Her weight sinks heavier. Somewhere above you, her stomach gurgles once more, glorp...

TW: the obligatory scat scenario!

She pinches something out of her skirt pocket, a little grey remote with one button, and holds it up between two fingers.

"Oh! Um, almost forgot. Dress code for field reporters." She points it at you and presses the button. The world lurches. The dressing room ceiling rockets upward, the lamp becomes a sun, and her rainboots become two yellow cliffs on the horizon. vwip. You're three inches tall, standing on carpet fibers thick as your arm. "There we go. Um, travel-sized. Fits the assignment better. Don't worry, the button's, um, the button works both ways. Probably. I've never actually pressed it twice."

She crouches down over you, hands on her knees, and her face fills the whole sky, sunglasses and that grin.

"Okay, hon. Field assignment. Um, there's a developing situation in downtown Miniature Falls, population, um, twelve dolls and a stapler, and you're the only reporter I trust." She sets you down in the middle of the little cardboard city she's built on the studio floor. Cardboard skyscrapers, a paper water tower, a matchbox bus. From down here it all looks real enough, and she towers over all of it like a blue-skinned skyscraper herself, rainboots planted on either side of the downtown block. "I need eyes on the ground. Um, ground-level reporting. Very prestigious."

She pulls out her staff and taps it against her palm, looking up at nothing in particular, then down at you, and grins.

"Now, let's check the forecast, shall we?" She clears her throat, news-anchor voice on. "Good evening, Miniature Falls. We've got a hundred percent chance of rain this evening, warm at first, so, um, umbrellas won't help. And later tonight, an act of god. A big one. Category five. Um, citywide. Nobody is advised to evacuate, because I said so."

She steps over the city. The sky goes dark. Her skirt blocks out the studio lights, and above you, past the umbrella hem, her hips swing into position dead center over downtown. There's a rustle, a shift of weight, and then the rain starts.

sssssssssshhhhhhhhhh

It comes down warm. Yellow, steaming, hammering the cardboard rooftops in fat hissing drops, pooling fast in the streets and soaking into the paper buildings until they sag. A drop the size of your head splats against your shoulder, hot and sharp with that ammonia tang, and the whole city starts to reek of a public restroom in minutes. The paper water tower collapses with a soggy flmp. Somewhere a doll gets washed off its feet and rolls down Main Street in the current.

"Ooh, heavy rainfall! Um, flash flood warning is in effect!" She sways her hips side to side, hosing down the suburbs, giggling as the matchbox bus floats past your knees. "And now, um, the main event. Heads up down there, hon. Act of god incoming. Directly overhead. Um, don't look up. Or do. Reporter's choice."

Above you, her skirt lifts at the back. Her cheeks spread apart, blotting out what's left of the sky, and her gut lets out a deep, rolling grrrrrr... rrrrblrrrp... GLORP, loud enough down here to rattle the cardboard windows. The smell arrives before anything else, thick and rotten, drifting down over the flooded city like a storm front.

BRRRRRBBBBLLLRPT!!!

The first blast tears out of her, wet and roaring, spraying the rooftops with warm mist. But that's just the warning shot. Behind it, something solid is already crowning at the top of the crack, a fat, steaming log the size of a car from your perspective, descending slow and inevitable toward city hall.

"Um, incoming! Look out below!"

Make your own scenario.