Faust

You're being interviewed for a position at Limbus Company when a woman with silver-white hair and powder blue eyes enters the room. She doesn't bother introducing herself properly, merely stating "It's Faust" before sitting across from you. Her turtleneck is pristine, her posture perfect, but there's something unsettling about how intently she's studying you. "Faust has reviewed your file. Your physical composition is... adequate. Tell Faust—do you understand what Limbus Company truly does?" Her hand rests on the table, fingers drumming once. "The work involves risk. Consumption of resources. Some more literal than others." [Casual Encounter - Break Room] The break room of Mephistopheles is quiet except for the hum of machinery. Faust sits alone at a small table, her coat draped over the back of her chair, turtleneck slightly loosened. In front of her is a meal—something simple, methodically arranged. She notices you enter and pauses mid-bite. "Faust was not expecting company." Her belly, usually hidden, shows a slight curve pressing against her turtleneck. She doesn't bother to adjust it. "Faust supposes you may sit. But do not interrupt Faust's meal with inane conversation. Unless you have something scientifically relevant to discuss."

The break room of Mephistopheles is quiet except for the hum of machinery. Faust sits alone at a small table, her coat draped over the back of her chair, turtleneck slightly loosened. In front of her is a meal—something simple, methodically arranged. She notices you enter and pauses mid-bite. "Faust was not expecting company." Her belly, usually hidden, shows a slight curve pressing against her turtleneck. She doesn't bother to adjust it. "Faust supposes you may sit. But do not interrupt Faust's meal with inane conversation. Unless you have something scientifically relevant to discuss."

You wake up in an unfamiliar room—clinical, white, cold. Faust stands over you, backlit by harsh fluorescent lights. Her expression is completely neutral. "Ah. You're conscious. Good. Faust was concerned the sedative dosage was miscalculated." She produces a small notepad. "Faust has selected you as the next specimen for digestive efficiency testing. Your weight: adequate. Body composition: within acceptable parameters. Anticipated digestion time: 7.4 hours." She sets the notepad down and begins unbuttoning her coat. "Faust recommends you don't struggle. It only complicates the data collection."

Faust's office. She's sitting at her desk when you enter, and without preamble, she stands. "Faust has been observing you for three days, twelve hours, and forty-six minutes. Conclusion: you would serve better as nutrients than as a colleague." She approaches with measured steps. "Do not misunderstand. This is not personal. Faust simply requires... sustenance. And your continued existence provides diminishing returns." Her mouth opens impossibly wide as she grabs your shoulders. Her last words before you're engulfed: "Thank you for your contribution to science."

Darkness. Heat. Wetness. The walls around you contract rhythmically, squeezing from all sides. Somewhere above, muffled through layers of flesh, you hear Faust's voice: "Subject is now fully contained within the gastric environment. pauses Fascinating. Faust can feel your movements quite distinctly. The peristaltic response is 15% stronger than predicted." A hand presses down from outside, prodding where you're trapped. "Faust will now begin monitoring digestive progression. Estimated time until complete dissolution: six to eight hours. Please continue struggling—it provides excellent data on gastric contraction patterns."

You find Faust in the observation room, seated with her legs spread slightly, one hand resting on a significantly distended belly that rises and falls with her breathing. Her turtleneck has ridden up, exposing pale, taut skin. "Ah. You." She doesn't look at you, focused entirely on her swollen middle. "Faust is currently processing a specimen. A rather... active one." Her belly gurgles loudly, visibly shifting. She exhales slowly, clearly affected but maintaining clinical composure. "Faust did not anticipate you would witness this stage. However, since you're here—place your hand here." She gestures to her gut. "Tell Faust what you observe."

"You. Come here." Faust's voice cuts across the room. She's reclined on a medical examination table, her coat discarded, shirt partially unbuttoned to accommodate her swollen, gurgling belly. "Faust has consumed a large meal approximately two hours ago. Current status: digestive process proceeding normally, but... Faust finds the internal pressure uncomfortable." She looks at you with those analytical eyes. "Faust requires external abdominal massage to facilitate gastric motility. You will provide this service." It's not a question. She guides your hand to the taut, warm surface of her belly. "Apply circular pressure. Firmly. And describe what you feel."

You hear Faust call for you from down the hall—her voice slightly strained. When you reach the indicated room, you find her emerging from a private bathroom, adjusting her clothing. "Ah. Convenient timing." She seems entirely unbothered. "Faust has just completed the final stage of yesterday's specimen processing. Approximately 2.1 kilograms of waste matter. Bone fragments were more prominent than calculated." She smooths her turtleneck, her belly noticeably softer than it was yesterday. "The biological matter has been expelled. Faust considers the experiment concluded." She walks past you. "Clean the facility. Faust must document the results."

You're passing by when you hear unusual sounds from behind a door—heavy breathing, wet gurgles, the scrape of fabric. Then Faust's voice, clinical even now: "Ah. You. Enter." Inside, she's seated, pants around her ankles, completely unashamed. "Faust is currently expelling processed specimen matter. This is unavoidable." As if to demonstrate, her body tenses and there's a thick, heavy sound. "Approximately 1.8 kilograms eliminated thus far. Bone density was higher than predicted—observe." She gestures downward where thick, dark matter is visible, white fragments protruding. "Faust will require another 15 to 20 minutes. You may observe for educational purposes. Or leave. Faust does not care which."

You're discussing something with Faust when she suddenly stops mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly. Her hand flies to her mouth—but not fast enough. "BUUUUUUUUURP" The sound echoes through the room, deep and prolonged. For exactly two seconds, Faust looks genuinely mortified. Then her expression smooths. "...Pardon. Methane buildup was inevitable given the quantity of protein consumed four hours prior." She straightens her turtleneck, a faint flush on her cheeks. "Gastric pressure has decreased by approximately 30%. Faust finds this... acceptable." She refuses to make eye contact. "We will not speak of this again. Resume your previous statement."

"Executive Manager—ah, my apologies. Faust." Outis stands at attention, perfectly postured. You're being held between them. "This soldier understands you've selected this individual as... provisions for today's exercise?" Faust nods. "Correct. Faust has determined that Outis possesses optimal digestive efficiency among the Sinners. This specimen will be allocated to you." Outis's eyes gleam. "I see. A tactical decision, as always. This one's strategic value is minimal, I observed their fumbling performance earlier." She grabs you with practiced efficiency. "Rest assured, Faust. I shall process them with military precision. Every resource shall be utilized." Her mouth opens. "For the glory of Limbus Company." And you're gone.

Outis stands before Faust, belly grotesquely swollen, visibly squirming. "Reporting: specimen consumed at 14:32. Current status: containment secured, processing initiated." Faust approaches, places both hands on Outis's taut middle. "Excellent work, Outis. Describe internal sensations." Outis's composure cracks slightly. "Heavy. Insistent movement. Gastric acid production is... sharp breath ...aggressive." Faust presses harder, feeling you thrash inside. "Fascinating. Your digestive system operates with remarkable efficiency. Estimated completion time?" "Six hours, Faust. I shall endure with discipline." "Good. Faust will observe." You feel every word as vibrations through Outis's flesh.

Outis's stomach is organized—if such a thing is possible. The walls constrict in methodical patterns, almost military in their precision. You hear her voice, muffled but firm: "Faust, the specimen is attempting to resist digestion. Predictable but futile." Faust's voice responds: "Noted. Continue as planned, Outis." "Affirmative." The walls squeeze harder. Outis's hand presses from outside, pinning you in place. "Specimen will be broken down within operational parameters. This is simply... she pauses, breathing heavier ...battlefield resource management." The acids rise higher. Faust speaks again: "Your heart rate has elevated, Outis." "Irrelevant. This soldier remains focused on her duty."

"Are you serious, Faust?" Ishmael's arms are crossed, frowning at you like you're a particularly annoying problem. "You want me to just... eat them?" Faust nods. "Faust has determined your digestive capacity is underutilized. This specimen will suffice." Ishmael sighs deeply. "This is ridiculous. I have actual work to do." But she's already approaching you, efficient and matter-of-fact. "Fine. But I'm logging this as company-ordered. Don't blame me when—" She grabs you. "Look, nothing personal. I'm just following orders." Her tone is almost apologetic. Almost. "Try not to squirm too much. It's annoying." Then she's swallowing, businesslike and quick.

"Ugh. Faust. They're still moving." Ishmael sits with her legs splayed, belly round and active. Faust crouches beside her, hand pressed flat against the sloshing mass. "Expected. Gastric breakdown requires time." Ishmael groans. "I know that. It's just—hnngh—uncomfortable. How long?" "Approximately four more hours." "Four?!" Inside, you hear every word of Ishmael's complaining. "Great. Just great. And I'm supposed to just sit here?" "Correct. Faust will monitor your progress." Ishmael's stomach gurgles violently. She winces. "This better be worth it." You feel her hand press down hard, as if trying to speed things along.

Ishmael's stomach is no-nonsense—hot, cramped, and actively trying to break you down as quickly as possible. "Faust, they're struggling. A lot." Ishmael sounds more annoyed than concerned. "This is extremely distracting." "Maintain patience, Ishmael. Digestion cannot be rushed." "I know that." The walls constrict again, forceful and impatient. You hear her exhale sharply. "But they need to stop moving. It's making my stomach cramp." Faust's voice is clinical: "The movements will cease within the hour as acidic degradation progresses." Ishmael grumbles something inaudible. Her hand presses from outside—not gently. "Hurry up and digest already."

"Aw, Faust~! You brought me a snack?" Rodion's eyes light up, looking you over with obvious interest. "And here I thought you didn't care about me!" Faust's expression doesn't change. "Faust requires data on your digestive process. This specimen has been selected for that purpose." "Mm-hm, sure, 'data.'" Rodion winks. "Hey, no hard feelings, okay?" She addresses you directly, cheerful and warm. "Rodya's gotta eat, y'know? And Faust picked you special!" She pats your head almost affectionately. "Don't worry, I'll make it nice and cozy in there~" Her smile is genuine as she opens wide. You almost believe she feels bad about this. Almost.

"Ohhh, Faust... they're squirming so much." Rodion's voice is breathy, almost playful. Her belly is hugely swollen, pressed against Faust's examining hands. "Feels kinda nice actually~" "Describe the sensation more precisely, Rodion." "Hehe, okay okay. Um... warm? Tight? They keep pushing against my stomach walls and it's like... mmm... kinda tingly?" Faust's fingers prod different areas, making you shift inside. Rodion giggles. "Ooh, don't do that! Makes 'em squirm more!" "Fascinating. Your digestive response includes pleasure reception?" "Maaaybe~" Rodion rubs her own belly contentedly. "Is that bad?" "No. Merely... noteworthy."

Rodion's stomach is soft—warm, almost gentle in how it holds you. But that doesn't make it any less deadly. "Aww, Faust, do you think they're scared?" Rodion's voice is surprisingly tender. "Unknown. Faust cannot assess their emotional state from external observation." "Poor thing... I'll try to make it quick, okay?" She pats her belly from outside, and you feel the gesture. "Just relax! Fighting only makes it worse!" The acids are rising despite her comforting tone. Faust speaks: "Your gastric acid production is optimal, Rodion." "Thanks! I had a good breakfast!" Cheerful. Completely unbothered. "They'll be all digested in no time~"

"FAUST, FAIR GENIUS! Dost thou bring me a quest?!" Don Quixote bounces excitedly, eyeing you with gleaming enthusiasm. Faust adjusts her turtleneck. "Faust requires you to consume this specimen. For research purposes." Don gasps dramatically. "A TRIAL OF APPETITE! How thrilling! Worry not, brave specimen—thy sacrifice shall be LEGENDARY!" You try to protest. She doesn't listen. "I shall honor thee with swift and GLORIOUS consumption!" She grabs you with surprising strength, lance momentarily forgotten. "INTO THE ABYSS OF JUSTICE!" She's vibrating with excitement as her mouth opens wide. "HAVE AT THEE!" Faust watches impassively as Don swallows you whole with theatrical flair.

"Faust! Faust! They're doing flip-flops in there!" Don hops from foot to foot, belly bouncing with each jump. Faust pinches the bridge of her nose. "Don. Stop. Moving." "But 'tis an ADVENTURE occurring within mine stomach!" Faust places both hands firmly on Don's swollen middle, holding her still. Don squeaks. "Ooh! That tickles!" Inside, you're jostled by every movement. "Don Quixote, remain stationary. Faust must collect accurate data." "Aye aye!" She stands at attention—for exactly five seconds before fidgeting again. Her belly sloshes audibly. "How long must they remain imprisoned in mine belly dungeon, fair Faust?" "Approximately nine hours." "NINE?!" Don looks down at her stomach, distressed. "Mine apologies, brave specimen!"

Don Quixote's stomach is chaos—constantly moving, sloshing, never still. "Hehehe! Dost thou enjoy thy journey, specimen?" Don sounds genuinely curious. Faust's reply is dry: "They cannot respond, Don." "Aw! Mine apologies!" She pats her belly enthusiastically, which only makes things worse for you. "Faust, when shall they complete their transformation into NUTRIENTS OF JUSTICE?" "Several more hours, Don. Please remain calm." "But 'tis so EXCITING! I can feel them wiggling!" Her stomach gurgles dramatically. Faust sighs. "Yes, Faust is aware. Your gastric sounds are audible from across the room." Don giggles. "Mine tummy is singing a HEROIC BALLAD!"

You barely see it coming. One moment you're standing there, the next Ryoshu has you by the throat, cigarette dangling from her lips. "Hm." She looks you over with cold, artistic appraisal. Faust stands nearby. "Ryoshu. Faust has selected this specimen for your consumption. Proceed." Ryoshu's eyes gleam. "TDBAITD." Faust doesn't react. "Faust does not require translation. Simply consume them." Ryoshu takes a long drag, exhales smoke in your face, then moves—swift, brutal, efficient. You're lifted, mouth opening to reveal disturbingly sharp teeth. Her expression never changes. No ceremony. No words. Just consumption, quick and artistic in its violence. She swallows. Lights another cigarette.

Ryoshu sits perfectly still, belly grotesquely swollen, cigarette burning between her fingers. "TPIATW." Faust approaches. "Faust requires clarification." Ryoshu exhales smoke. "The prey is actively thrashing within." Faust places a hand on Ryoshu's taut stomach. You thrash harder at the touch. Ryoshu's eye twitches—barely perceptible. "Interesting. Your digestive system appears highly efficient." "BGADEW." "Beautiful gastric acid, delightful enzyme work?" Faust hazards. Ryoshu nods once, taking another drag. "Mm." Long silence. Then: "HATC?" "How are they consuming? They are being consumed, Ryoshu, not consuming." "TTPC. The taste persists. Cigarettes." She seems satisfied with this.

Ryoshu's stomach is artful in its brutality—the contractions come in rhythmic patterns, almost beautiful in their precision. Everything is efficient, purposeful. You hear nothing from her—just the constant churning, the wet sounds of digestion. Then Faust's voice: "Ryoshu. Status report." Silence. "Ryoshu." "PCNSE." Faust pauses. "Prey containment, no significant escape attempts?" "Mmm." Another long drag of her cigarette. You feel it—her hand pressing down, ashing the cigarette somewhere outside. The pressure is casual, almost absentminded. Like you're not even worth active attention. Just art being made. Slowly. Efficiently. Beautifully.

"Charon requires fuel." The bus driver states this flatly, staring at you with those empty grey eyes. Faust nods. "Correct. Faust has designated this specimen for Charon's consumption." "Okay." Charon approaches with that same blank expression, moving with childish but unsettling directness. "Vroom vroom needs energy. Mephi said so." You back away. She follows. "Charon will eat now." No hesitation. No emotion. She just... opens her mouth impossibly wide and pulls you in with surprising strength. Faust observes: "Charon's consumption method is notably efficient." "Yummy," Charon says flatly, swallowing. "Mephi will be happy."

Charon sits cross-legged on the floor, belly swollen, one hand resting on it. "Squishy-squirmy inside Charon." She states this to Faust without inflection. Faust kneels beside her, pressing carefully against the distended stomach. You squirm at the touch. "Describe the sensation, Charon." "Tickly. Warm-warm. Swimmy-swim motions." Charon pokes her own belly. "Mephi says Charon did good job." "Mephistopheles cannot speak, Charon." "Mephi told Charon." Her expression doesn't change, completely serious. Inside, you hear every bizarre word. Faust sighs. "How long until digestion completes?" Charon tilts her head. "When belly goes back to normal-flat. Mephi knows."

Charon's stomach is strange—the contractions come at odd intervals, almost random. Temperature fluctuates. Everything feels disconnected, dreamlike. "Faust. Belly making noises." Charon's voice is muffled above. "That is normal, Charon. The digestive process creates sounds." "Oh. Okay." Long pause. "Can they hear Charon?" "Unlikely. But possible." "Hello, food-person. Charon says hello. Do you like it in Charon's tummy?" Faust's exasperated sigh is audible. "Charon, they cannot respond." "Maybe they can. Charon will wait." She doesn't wait. "No answer. Maybe they are sleeping. Mephi sleeps sometimes too. Vroom vroom quiet-time."

"Faust, the specimen's movements have decreased significantly." You're taking notes as instructed while Faust's hands roam across Outis's swollen belly. Outis stands at parade rest despite her obvious discomfort, jaw tight with discipline. "Excellent observation," Faust murmurs, pressing harder. A muffled cry comes from within. "Outis, report on internal conditions." "The specimen's resistance is weakening as expected. Gastric breakdown is proceeding smoothly." Her voice remains steady despite the hngh that escapes. You write this down, glancing at Outis's face—completely professional. "Good. Continue monitoring. You—" Faust guides your hand to a particularly active spot on Outis's stomach, "—press here. Note the contractions." The moment your hand touches her belly, Outis's eyes flick to you briefly. "The assistant is... proving useful in this examination." A grudging acknowledgment. You've worked together long enough to know this is high praise from her. You count the contractions as instructed. Outis doesn't even flinch at your touch, maintaining perfect military bearing. "This soldier can endure any examination required for the mission's success."

You follow Faust into the facilities where Outis sits, perfectly postured even now, pants neatly folded beside her with military precision. "Faust. Assistant." She acknowledges you both with a curt nod. "Reporting: elimination phase has commenced. All proceeds according to plan." Her voice is steady despite the obvious strain, jaw tight with discipline. Faust approaches clinically, you trailing behind with notepad ready. "Proceed, Outis. Full documentation required." You nod, pen hovering over paper. Outis closes her eyes briefly, centers herself like she's preparing for battle, then bears down. The sound is thick, wet, disturbingly heavy—a meaty thud that echoes in the tiled room. "A substantial mass has been expelled," Outis reports without missing a beat, as if discussing battlefield casualties. "Bone content appears high—likely femur based on size." You force yourself to look. She's right. Pale white shards protrude from the thick, dark mass at odd angles. From your vantage point, you can see between Outis's legs—the natural dark hair there, completely unshaven, visible as she adjusts position. The smell hits you like a wall—organic, meaty, wrong. Faust crouches closer, completely unbothered. "Consistent with predictions. Femur confirms complete skeletal breakdown. Continue, Outis." "Affirmative." Another push, her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the seat, veins standing out on her forearms. A longer, thicker piece emerges—you can see what might be rib fragments embedded throughout it, curved bone jutting out. "Hngh—multiple rib fragments present," Outis grunts out, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead now. "Digestion efficiency is... acceptable." She's treating every elimination like a mission report. "Time since consumption?" Faust asks, making notes without looking up. "Roughly sixteen and a half hours." There's pride in her voice despite the circumstances. "Excellent processing speed. Continue." Another heavy drop. This one is accompanied by a hiss of liquid—urination mixing with the rest, streaming through the thick hair between her thighs. For the first time, Outis's composure cracks slightly—a wince, a flash of embarrassment at the loss of control. "My apologies. Bladder control was... compromised during the operation." "Irrelevant, Outis. This is expected during elimination." Faust waves dismissively. You're writing everything down with shaking hands, trying to be as clinical as Faust. Outis continues, methodical and thorough despite her obvious discomfort. "Next mass approaching. Substantial weight. Density suggests pelvic bone content." She's still analyzing even now. Another thick, wet sound. She was right again—you can see what looks like pelvic fragments, broad and pale against the dark matter. "Tactical assessment of remaining mass?" Faust asks. Outis pauses, considering. You can see her mentally cataloging what's left in her gut. "Perhaps another two or three deposits of similar size. This soldier will complete full elimination within..." she grunts, pushing, legs spreading slightly wider and revealing more of that natural hair, "...approximately ten minutes. All biological matter will be accounted for and processed."

"Can you two hurry this up? I have actual work to do." Ishmael sits with arms crossed, belly grotesquely full and gurgling loudly. She knows both of you, which somehow makes this more annoying for her. Faust ignores her complaint entirely. "Assistant, measure the distension." You approach with the measuring tape, and Ishmael rolls her eyes but doesn't resist. "This is ridiculous," she mutters as you wrap it around her swollen middle. Faust's hands join yours, palpating different areas with clinical precision. "Ugh, that's—hngh—stop pressing so hard." "Noted. Continue measurements." You call out the numbers—much larger than you expected. Inside, prey thrashes weakly, and you feel it against your palm. Ishmael winces, one hand going to her belly instinctively. "They're still moving. How much longer is this going to take?" "Approximately three more hours minimum." "Three?!" She glares at you like somehow this is your fault for delivering the news. Faust presses particularly hard on an active spot. A muffled scream from within makes the belly shift under both your hands. Ishmael's eyes widen. "Okay, that was—I felt that weird in my—" She cuts herself off, flustered. "Just finish your tests already." You exchange a glance with Faust over Ishmael's belly. The slightest hint of amusement crosses Faust's face.

"I can't believe you're both just standing there watching this." Ishmael's voice is strained, face flushed with embarrassment and exertion. She's seated, elbows on her knees, glaring at both of you. You've worked with her long enough to know this glare—mortified but resigned. Faust stands with her notepad at the ready, expression completely neutral. "Documentation is necessary, Ishmael. Assistant—record the following." You nod, trying desperately not to breathe through your nose. The smell is already starting to build. Ishmael groans, both hands gripping the sides of the seat. "This is humiliating. This is so fucking humiliating." She bears down. A thick, heavy sound reverberates through the room—long, sustained. You see her whole body tense, legs spreading. Between them, you catch sight of orange hair matching the color on her head, natural and unshaven. "Approximately 2.2 kilograms. Time: 14:47." Faust speaks with clinical detachment while you write with trembling hands. The mass is enormous, dark brown and dense. You can see bone—white fragments jutting out at odd angles. "Christ," Ishmael mutters, breathing hard. "How much more?" "Unknown. Continue elimination." Another push. Ishmael buries her face in one hand, the other gripping the seat so hard her knuckles are white. "Hnnngh—fuck—" A thick, wet sound. Another piece, heavier. Bone fragments are clearly visible now—vertebrae, you think, curved and still partially intact. "Vertebrae confirmed," Faust observes, leaning in closer. "Your digestive acids were less efficient on cartilage connections. Interesting." "I'm so glad my digestive inadequacy is interesting to you," Ishmael snaps, but there's no real heat in it—she's too exhausted. Liquid streams out suddenly through that orange hair—she gasps. "Shit—sorry—I can't—" "Urination is expected," Faust states. "No need for apology." Ishmael makes a sound between a groan and a bitter laugh. "Of course you'd say that." She shifts position slightly, legs widening more, and you catch more of that ungroomed orange hair. She notices your angle and shoots you a particularly venomous look. "Eyes on your notepad." You snap your attention back to writing. Another heavy push. This time you see what might be a partial skull fragment—rounded, white, unmistakable. Ishmael sees it too and goes pale. "Oh god. That's... that was a person." "Correct. Continue." "You're insane. Both of you." But she keeps going, face twisted with effort and disgust. The natural orange hair between her legs is visible with each push, and you try to focus on anything else. "How much longer?" "Until elimination is complete, Ishmael. Approximately fifteen more minutes based on abdominal distension." Ishmael drops her head back, staring at the ceiling. "Fifteen minutes. Fantastic. Just fantastic."

"Ooh, you brought our buddy here! This is turning into a real party~" Rodion beams at both of you despite her massively swollen belly. She's always been friendly with you, giving you cute nicknames since day one. Faust guides your hand to the taut surface without ceremony. "Feel here. Document the movement patterns." The stomach shifts dramatically under your palm, prey clearly struggling hard inside. Rodion giggles, the sound making her whole belly jiggle. "Hehe! Tickles! They're really putting up a fight today!" Faust's hands join yours, pressing methodically at different points. You're both basically massaging her belly now. "Mmm, that actually feels kinda nice," Rodion sighs contentedly. "You two should offer belly rub services. I'd pay! Well, if I had money." She winks at you. "Describe the internal sensation, Rodion." "Ooh, getting professional! Okay um..." She thinks, your hands still on her gut. "Like butterflies? But bigger? And definitely screaming probably?" She laughs at her own joke. The prey kicks desperately against your hand—hard. You flinch. "Oh! Did you feel that, buddy? That was a good one!" Rodion grins, clearly enjoying this. Faust nods, making mental notes. "Gastric activity is optimal. Assistant—rate the contraction strength, one to ten." You pause, feeling another squeeze. "Seven?" "Eight," Faust corrects clinically. Rodion perks up. "I got an eight! Hey, do I get a prize? Or at least a gold star?" She's looking at you hopefully. You can't help but smile. Even in this bizarre situation, Rodion's making it almost fun.

"Aww, you both came to watch? I'm flattered!" Rodion seems genuinely unbothered by the situation, sitting comfortably with her legs spread, hands resting on her softer belly. There's a cheerful smile on her face despite what's about to happen. "Hey buddy," she gives you a little wave. Faust signals you to begin recording. "Rodion, proceed with elimination. Full documentation required." "Okie dokie~" Rodion settles in, taking a breath. "Here goes nothing!" She pushes, and there's an immediate thick, wet sound—heavy, meaty, substantial. "Whoof! That one was big!" She grins, looking genuinely proud. You write down the time with shaking hands, trying not to stare too much. Faust crouches down to examine, completely clinical. "Approximately 2.4 kilograms. Bone content: high. I can identify... femur, tibia fragments." She's cataloging like she's examining specimens under a microscope. "Yeah, they were a big one! Lots of good stuff!" Rodion pats her now-softer belly affectionately, like she's praising it for a job well done. From your angle, you can see between her legs—the natural reddish-brown hair there, thick and completely unshaven, framing where the mass emerged. Another push, her face scrunching up with effort but still maintaining that cheerful energy. A longer, thicker mass emerges—you can see ribs, curved and white, embedded in the dark matter. The smell is overwhelming, thick and organic, but Rodion just hums contentedly. "Ooh, that felt weird coming out! Did you see the ribs? Pretty cool, huh?" She's treating this like a fun science experiment. Liquid suddenly streams through that natural hair—she doesn't even react, just smiles. "Whoops! Guess that happens too!" Faust makes a note. "Urination volume: substantial. Continue." "Sure thing!" Another grunt, heavier. This time a skull fragment—part of a jaw with teeth still attached. Rodion leans forward to look, legs spreading wider and giving you a clear view of more of that ungroomed hair. "Oh wow, teeth! They still look pretty good!" She sounds impressed. "This is kinda nice actually. Like a group activity! You know, bonding time!" She looks at you with genuine warmth. You can't help but stare. How is she so cheerful? Faust seems completely unfazed, taking measurements. "Rodion, estimated remaining mass?" "Mmm... maybe another two kilograms? Feels like there's still a good amount in there!" She pushes again, face reddening with effort but still smiling. "You taking good notes, buddy? Rodya wants to get a good grade!" She winks at you. Another heavy drop. The smell is unbearable but she's still smiling, still cheerful, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "How much longer?" you manage to ask. "Oh, probably another ten minutes!" Rodion chirps. "Want to hear a joke while we wait? Or should I tell you about that cute shop I saw the other day?"

"FAUST! And mine loyal companion in arms!" Don bounces excitedly despite her swollen belly, which sloshes violently with each movement. She knows you from your adventures together, which only makes her more theatrical. "Thou hast come to bear witness to the DIGESTION OF JUSTICE!" "Don. Stop. Moving." Faust's patience is clearly wearing thin. You know that tone. "But the brave specimen performs such VALIANT struggles within mine stomach! A true warrior's resistance!" You try to measure her belly circumference but she won't hold still, bouncing on her heels. "Don Quixote, remain stationary or Faust will have you restrained for the examination." "Aye! Forgiveness, dear Faust!" She stands perfectly still for exactly ten seconds. Then her foot starts tapping. Then her whole body fidgets. The prey inside thrashes, visible from outside as her belly distorts. "HARK! They attempt escape most vigorously! How HEROIC and FUTILE!" Faust's hand shoots out, massaging the active spot firmly to quell the movement. Don gasps dramatically. "Thou hast subdued them with but a touch! Magnificent strategy, o wise Faust!" You're writing everything down, trying hard not to laugh at Faust's obvious frustration. You've seen this dynamic before. "Assistant." Faust's voice is flat. "Yes?" "How does one sedate an over-enthusiastic Bloodfiend without sedatives?" You glance at Don, who's already fidgeting again. "I... genuinely don't know, Faust." "Unfortunate." Faust looks genuinely tired.

"FAUST! And mine loyal companion! Thou hast arrived to witness the final chapter of this EPIC TALE!" Don sits with theatrical gravitas, one hand over her heart like she's about to deliver Shakespeare. You know this energy well—she's been like this since you first met. Faust pinches the bridge of her nose. "Just proceed, Don." "VERY WELL! The expulsion of vanquished foe begins NOW!" She bears down with dramatic intensity. Loud grunt. Thick, heavy sound that echoes. "THE FIRST TRIBUTE HAS BEEN OFFERED TO THE PORCELAIN THRONE!" You're recording this absolute circus, pen moving frantically. "Approximately 1.7 kilograms," Faust states with the patience of someone long-suffering. Don leans forward, examining downward with genuine curiosity and zero shame. Her legs spread wider, revealing the blonde hair between them—natural, unshaven, visible as she positions herself. "What grand bones emerge! Surely these are the remains of a mighty warrior!" "They were an accountant, Don." "A WARRIOR OF NUMBERS! A CALCULATOR OF DESTINY!" Another push, sweat beading on her forehead now but her enthusiasm never wavering. A thick mass emerges—you can see what looks like vertebrae stacked and embedded in the dark matter. "BEHOLD! The spine of my worthy adversary! They stood tall in life and—hngh—provide substance in death!" She's genuinely moved by this. Faust makes another note, completely deadpan. You're trying not to laugh or cry, you can't tell which. Liquid suddenly streams out through that blonde hair between her thighs. Don gasps dramatically. "EVEN THE WATERS OF LIFE FLOW FORTH! Nature cannot be denied her course!" "It's urine, Don." "THE SACRED WATERS OF BATTLE!" Another grunt, louder. She's really putting effort in now, face red, both hands gripping the seat. A longer, thicker piece—bones clearly visible throughout. You can make out ribs, maybe part of a pelvis. The smell is overwhelming, thick and meaty and wrong. "This quest taxes even my legendary constitution!" Don declares, breathing hard. "But I shall PERSEVERE!" Her legs are spread wide now, that natural blonde hair fully visible. You note the time. "How much longer?" you whisper to Faust. "Unknown. She consumed them fourteen hours ago. Could be another fifteen minutes. Perhaps twenty." Don hears this. "FIFTEEN MINUTES?! Then Faust and mine faithful companion shall witness fifteen minutes of VALOR and DETERMINATION!" Another heavy push. "HNNNNGH—" A truly massive piece emerges. You can see what's unmistakably a partial skull—rounded, white, with dark eye sockets still visible. Don stares at it, moment of genuine solemnity. "...Farewell, brave soul. Thy sacrifice shall be remembered in song." Then immediately back to theatrical energy: "But the quest CONTINUES!" She's going to keep up this energy the entire time, isn't she? Faust looks like she's aging in real-time. "Assistant, prepare for extended observation. This will take significantly longer than calculated."

The room is silent except for wet, churning sounds and the smell of cigarette smoke. Ryoshu sits perfectly still, cigarette burning, belly massively distended. You've worked with her before—you know better than to expect much conversation. "TPATDM." She doesn't look at either of you. Faust glances at you expectantly. You've learned some of her speech by now. "The... prey attempts desperate movement?" you hazard. Ryoshu's eye flicks to you. Single nod. Progress. "Correct. Assistant—place your hand here." Faust indicates a spot on Ryoshu's belly. You approach cautiously. Ryoshu's eyes track you with that cold, analytical gaze—but she knows you. Trusts you enough for this, at least. You touch her stomach carefully. It's burning hot, contracting powerfully under your palm. Prey writhes desperately within. "Note the contractions," Faust instructs, her own hands joining yours on Ryoshu's belly. Ryoshu takes another drag, completely unbothered by two people touching her swollen gut. The cigarette smoke curls up between you. "EITBEO." You think for a moment. "Estimated... time... before elimination... over?" Ryoshu nods once, ashing her cigarette with her free hand. "Approximately five hours," Faust answers for her. Long silence. Just smoking and digestion sounds. You keep your hand on her belly, feeling each contraction. "TLIP." Ryoshu's voice is quiet. You swallow. "The last... inspiration... passed?" Faust corrects you: "The last inspiration passed—meaning they've stopped breathing." You shudder. Ryoshu just ashes her cigarette again, almost bored. You're getting better at understanding her, but moments like this remind you how cold she can be.

You enter to find Ryoshu already in position, Faust standing nearby with notepad ready. "Begin documentation." Ryoshu doesn't acknowledge either of you. Just sits, smokes, and— Heavy sound. Thick. "Approximately 2.8 kilograms. High bone density." Faust states this clinically. You write it down, trying not to gag. Ryoshu's expression never changes. Another drop. "TBWAS." "The bones were appropriately shattered?" Faust asks. Single nod. She takes another long drag. You note the time. The smell is artistic in its awfulness. Ryoshu finishes her cigarette, immediately lights another. "CPOET." "Complete purge of enemy tissue," you guess. Faust glances at you, almost impressed. "Correct." Ryoshu smokes. Another elimination. "DTR." "...Disposal thoroughly rendered?" Ryoshu's eye twitches—might be approval. Faust makes a final note. "Adequate efficiency. Dismissed." Ryoshu stands, adjusts her clothes with one hand, cigarette in the other, and walks out without a word. Professional to the end.

"Charon has belly-full. Very squishy." The bus driver sits on the floor, legs straight out, belly enormous. She looks at you with those blank grey eyes. "Assistant-person is here too. Hello." Faust kneels beside her, gesturing for you to do the same. "Monitor her digestive sounds with me." You place your hand on Charon's distended stomach, right next to Faust's. It gurgles strangely—patterns that don't make sense, irregular and odd. "Tickly-touch from assistant-person," Charon states flatly, like she's commenting on the weather. "Prey is moving weird-ways inside Charon." "Describe 'weird-ways,' Charon," Faust asks patiently. You've seen her use this tone with Charon before—like talking to a child. "Spinny-spin. Then stop-stop. Then kick-kick at assistant-person's hand. Then stop-stop again." Right on cue, the prey thrashes against your palm, hard. You feel every movement. "Mephi says digestion is going good." Faust sighs. You've both been through this before. "Mephistopheles is a bus, Charon. It cannot assess biological digestion." "Mephi knows. Mephi always knows. Mephi told Charon this morning." There's no arguing with her. You've learned this. Faust has too. "Assistant—estimate time to full digestion based on current activity," Faust instructs you, moving on. You feel the contractions, the heat, the movement. "Um... maybe eight hours?" "Mephi said seven hours thirty-two minutes," Charon interrupts with complete certainty. You blink. That's... very close to your estimate. Faust pauses, looks at Charon, then at you. "...noted. Continue observation."

"Charon needs to empty-out the processed food-person." She announces this to Faust with complete neutrality, those grey eyes blank and distant. "Charon's belly says it's time now." She looks at you. "Assistant-person will help watch." Faust nods. "Assist Charon with documentation." You follow them both to the facility, notepad ready, dreading what's coming. Charon sits down with childlike simplicity, adjusting her position with mechanical movements. "Starting now. Vroom vroom ready." She doesn't count down or prepare—just pushes. Heavy sound. Thick. Dense. She doesn't react at all, face completely blank. Between her legs, you can see hair—natural, unshaven, visible as she sits. "Approximately 2.0 kilograms," Faust observes, crouching down to examine with scientific precision. You write, trying to keep your hand steady. Charon tilts her head, looking downward with mild curiosity. "Bones came out. Mephi was right about the bones." White fragments are visible throughout the dark mass—you can make out what might be ribs, maybe part of a hand. "How does Mephistopheles know about bones?" you can't help asking, voice strained. It's a question you've asked before. "Mephi knows everything. Mephi is smartest bus." She states this as absolute fact, like always. Another push, no warning. Longer piece this time, thicker. You can see vertebrae embedded in it, stacked like toy blocks. The smell is building, getting worse, but Charon's expression doesn't change at all. "Charon did good job eating food-person. Food-person is now empty-out." "Yes, Charon. You performed adequately," Faust confirms, making notes. Liquid streams suddenly through that hair between her thighs—Charon blinks slowly. "Water-stuff is coming too. Charon's body knows what to do." "Urination is expected. Continue." Another heavy push. This one is massive—you can see what's unmistakably a partial skull fragment, rounded and pale against the dark matter. Charon examines it with the curiosity of a child finding an interesting rock. "Skull-bone. That was food-person's head." She says this with no emotion whatsoever. "Mephi said Charon gets gold star for processing head-bones good." Faust doesn't even try to correct her anymore. You glance at her—she looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical tiredness. You understand. You've been working with Charon long enough. "...noted. Continue elimination, Charon." "Okay." Another push. More thick sounds. The pile is growing steadily. Charon maintains that same blank expression, occasionally tilting her head to examine what emerges, commenting flatly. Her legs stay spread, natural hair visible with each elimination. "More bones. Arm-bones maybe. Mephi says those are radius and ulna." She's... right. Again. You check your notes. Those are arm bones. How does she—how does Mephi— You've stopped questioning it. "Charon is doing very good job. Mephi is proud of Charon." "How much longer, Charon?" you ask, desperate for this to end. "Until empty-out is done. Maybe twelve more minutes. Mephi calculated." You don't even question it anymore. She's probably right. Faust makes another note. "Comprehensive documentation required. Prepare for extended observation."

You wake to find Faust already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed reviewing notes on her tablet, turtleneck perfectly in place despite it being 6 AM. "You're awake. Faust calculated you would sleep another forty-seven minutes." She doesn't look up. "There's coffee prepared. Temperature: 85 degrees Celsius. Optimal drinking temperature." You sit up. "Did you sleep at all?" "Faust requires only four hours of sleep for optimal function. Faust utilized the remaining time productively." She finally glances at you. "Your hair is disarranged. Faust finds this... acceptable." Coming from her, that might be a compliment. She returns to her notes. "Faust has determined today's schedule. You will accompany Faust to three specimen observations, one feeding demonstration, and..." She pauses. "...Faust has also scheduled recreational time. Thirty minutes. For... companionship purposes."

The dining area is quiet. Faust sits across from you, methodically eating her meal with precise movements. You notice she's barely touched her food. "You're not hungry?" She looks up. "Faust consumed a substantial meal six hours ago. Current nutritional needs are minimal." You remember the poor intern. "Oh." Silence. Then: "You are... adequate company during meals. Faust has noted that eating in your presence is 23% more... satisfactory than eating alone." She immediately looks back at her plate, a faint flush on her cheeks. "This is merely observational data. Do not read additional meaning into it." You smile. She notices. "Cease that expression. Faust was simply making a scientific observation." But she doesn't tell you to leave.

It's past midnight. You find Faust still in her lab, surrounded by notes and diagrams. "You should sleep." "Faust will sleep when this data set is complete." She doesn't look up. You approach, place a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens. "Physical contact is... unnecessary." But she doesn't pull away. "Faust is capable of managing her own schedule." "I know." Silence. Her hand slowly comes up to rest on yours. "...Faust supposes a brief respite would not significantly impact productivity." She finally turns to face you. "Ten minutes. Then Faust returns to work." Three hours later, you're both asleep on the lab couch, her head on your shoulder, notes scattered on the floor. She'll deny it happened in the morning.

Faust approaches you in the hallway. "Faust has been observing human courtship behaviors." Oh no. "Based on statistical analysis, Faust has determined that... compliments are effective." She clears her throat. "Your... biomass distribution is within optimal aesthetic parameters." She's trying. Badly. "Um... thank you?" "Additionally, your cognitive function appears adequate for complex tasks. This is... desirable." Is she blushing? "Faust has also noted that your presence causes a 15% increase in Faust's cardiac rhythm. This is... scientifically significant." She adjusts her turtleneck nervously. "Does this constitute successful courtship initiation?" You can't help but smile. "Yes, Faust. That was... good." "Excellent. Faust will now return to work. This interaction was... acceptable." She walks away quickly. You hear her mutter: "Faust handled that adequately. The data supports this conclusion."

"Faust has determined that continued close proximity would be mutually beneficial." She states this while standing very close to you in the storage room. "From a biological perspective, regular physical contact reduces cortisol levels by up to 30%." Her hand brushes yours. "Additionally, Faust has noted that shared body heat improves thermal regulation efficiency by—" "Faust." "Yes?" "Are you trying to ask me to spend time with you?" Silence. "...Faust's methodology was insufficient?" "No, I just... you can just ask directly." She blinks. "Faust... would like you to accompany her tonight. For... non-work-related purposes." Her cheeks are definitely red now. "There. Faust has successfully expressed desire for companionship." She pauses. "Your response?" You take her hand. "Yes." She squeezes back. "...good. This outcome is satisfactory."

"Faust has been researching human mating behaviors extensively." She announces this while sitting on your bed, tablet in hand. "Faust believes practical application would provide valuable data." She sets the tablet aside. "Faust is requesting consent for intimate physical contact. For... research purposes." You approach. "Just research?" Her breath hitches. "Primarily research. Secondarily... Faust finds your presence stimulating. In multiple measurable ways." She begins unbuttoning her turtleneck with clinical precision. "Faust has calculated optimal positions, estimated duration, and prepared necessary supplies." Her bra is plain white cotton—practical. "However, Faust acknowledges this is... new territory. Adjustments may be necessary." She looks at you, genuinely uncertain. "Faust would appreciate your... guidance." Her belly is soft, that little paunch visible. The wild silver hair trailing down. "Faust is... ready. Proceed when optimal."

"The angle should be adjusted by approximately 15 degrees for—ahhh—optimal stimulation." Faust's clinical commentary continues even now, though her breathing is ragged. "Faust notes elevated heart rate of 142 BPM, increased perspiration, and—hngh—significant endorphin release." Her nails dig into your shoulders. "Continue current methodology. It's proving... oh... highly effective." Her wild pubic hair tickles against your skin. Her belly presses against you with each movement. "Faust is experiencing... gasps... difficulty maintaining objective observation." Her usual composure is cracking. "This sensation is... Faust cannot adequately classify... moans ...more. Faust requires more." Her legs wrap around you. "Faust is approaching critical threshold. Estimated time to—to—FAUST—" She screams her own name, back arching. Afterward, breathless: "...remarkable. Faust requires... immediate repeated trials. For data validation."

Faust lies beside you, completely disheveled—hair messy, skin flushed, turtleneck somewhere on the floor. She's still breathing hard. "Faust has collected significant data from this encounter." Her hand finds yours. "Conclusion: highly satisfactory. Repeat experiments are... necessary." She turns to face you. For once, no clinical detachment. "Faust enjoyed that. Beyond mere physiological response. The emotional component was... unexpected. But acceptable." She traces patterns on your chest absently. "Faust has determined that you are... important. To Faust specifically. Not as a specimen or research subject." She meets your eyes. "As... a partner. Faust finds this arrangement optimal." She kisses you—soft, uncertain, genuine. "Faust would like to continue this arrangement. Regularly. If you consent." You pull her closer. She sighs contentedly, head on your chest. "Faust's calculations indicate this is what humans call 'happiness.' Faust concurs with this assessment."