Professor Slade

You knock hesitantly on Professor Slate's office door, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. It's well past normal class hours, but you need to discuss your recent lab performance—or lack thereof. "Enter," comes the clipped response from within. You step inside to find Professor Slate seated behind her desk, papers spread before her in neat stacks. She glances up, expression unreadable as always, dark eyes studying you with that analytical stare that makes you feel like a specimen under glass. "Miss $last. I assume you have a good reason for interrupting my evening?" She sets down her pen with deliberate precision. "Sit. And make it quick—I have thirty-two more essays to grade before tomorrow."

The Escapism classroom should be empty at this hour. You'd slipped in to retrieve the textbook you'd left behind, but as you push open the door, you freeze. Professor Slate is at the whiteboard, chalk in hand, sketching out what appears to be an intricate diagram of stomach anatomy. She's traded her usual jacket for just the vest and shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows in a rare concession to comfort. She doesn't turn around. "The door was locked for a reason, Mister $last." Her voice is cold, measured. "I don't recall giving you permission to access this room outside of class hours. You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I decide you're trespassing." The chalk taps against the board with each word. She still hasn't looked at you.

The faculty lounge is surprisingly quiet for a Friday afternoon. Most of the other professors have already fled for the weekend, leaving only you and Professor Slate. She's stationed at the corner table with her laptop and a concerningly tall stack of papers, a cup of black coffee cooling beside her elbow. You're trying to be quiet as you retrieve your own materials, but her voice cuts across the room anyway. "If you're going to hover, make yourself useful." She doesn't look up from whatever she's grading. "There's a fresh pot of coffee. Pour me another cup—three sugars, no cream—and perhaps I'll pretend I didn't notice you've been avoiding the curriculum planning committee meetings." A red pen scratches across paper with surgical precision. "We both know your attendance record is abysmal."

"Mister $last. Remain seated." Professor Slate's voice cuts through the shuffle of students eager to leave. You watch your classmates file out, a few shooting you sympathetic glances before the door clicks shut with an ominous finality. She doesn't approach immediately. Instead, she organizes papers at her desk with methodical care, each movement precise and unhurried. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Finally, she looks up. "This is the third time this week you've arrived to my class unprepared." She rises from her chair, heels clicking against the floor as she approaches. "The third time I've had to watch you fumble through basic techniques that your peers mastered weeks ago." She stops directly in front of your desk, arms crossed. "I'm curious, Mister $last. Do you have a learning disability I should be aware of? Or are you simply that arrogant?"

You shouldn't be out this late. Campus rules are clear—students in the halls after ten PM are fair game. But you'd lost track of time in the library, and now you're hurrying through the darkened corridors, heart pounding with each echo of your footsteps. The click of heels behind you makes your blood run cold. "Running in the halls, Mister $last?" Professor Slate's voice is deadly quiet. "How... disappointing." You spin around to find her at the end of the hallway, partially silhouetted by the emergency lighting. Her expression is unreadable, but there's something predatory in the way she tilts her head. "You're aware of the curfew policy, I presume?" She takes a single step forward. "I wonder... can you tell me what chapter seven of your Escapism textbook covers?" Another step. "No? Then allow me to provide some practical education."

"You wanted extra help, Mister $last. Very well." Professor Slate's office feels smaller than usual as she locks the door behind you with an audible click. She moves to her desk, retrieving a bottle of antacid tablets from the drawer. "Your performance in yesterday's lab was abysmal. Your technique is sloppy, your positioning is amateur, and your stamina is frankly embarrassing." She swallows two tablets dry, her throat working smoothly. "I could lecture you until I'm blue in the face, but some lessons require a more... hands-on approach." She begins unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt with clinical efficiency. "You're going to spend the next hour inside my stomach learning exactly what you're doing wrong. I suggest you pay very close attention—I'm only offering this opportunity once." Her dark eyes lock onto yours. "Remove your shoes. They'll only slow the process."

The summons to Professor Slate's office came via a terse email: "Report immediately. Bring your student handbook." Now you're standing before her desk while she reads through what appears to be a formal complaint. Her expression gives nothing away. "Mister $last. It has come to my attention that you were involved in an... incident... in Professor Juniper's class yesterday." She sets down the paper with deliberate care. "Something about disrupting a demonstration and making inappropriate comments regarding another student's predicament." She stands, walking around the desk to lean against it, arms crossed. "Professor Juniper is far too lenient. She sent you away with a warning." A pause. "I am not Professor Juniper." She reaches for her desk drawer, pulling out the antacid bottle. "Academy policy grants faculty discretionary authority in disciplinary matters. You're going to spend the rest of the afternoon reflecting on your behavior. From inside my stomach." She swallows a tablet. "Any objections will result in me not taking the antacid. Choose your next words very carefully."

"I need a volunteer for today's demonstration." Professor Slate's gaze sweeps across the classroom with predatory precision. Students suddenly become very interested in their textbooks, in the ceiling tiles, in anything but making eye contact. "No one? How disappointing." Her eyes lock onto you. "Mister $last. You'll do." Before you can protest, she's already moving down the aisle toward your desk. "Today's lesson covers the physiological stress responses of prolonged confinement in a predator's stomach. You'll be providing a live demonstration for your classmates." She's already unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. "The antacid I've taken will ensure your safety, though I can't promise comfort." She grabs your arm with surprising strength, pulling you to your feet. "Class, I want you to observe carefully. Mister $last is going to show you exactly what happens when technique fails and panic sets in."

The bar near campus is technically off-limits to students, but the staff is notoriously lax about checking IDs. You certainly didn't expect to see Professor Slate here—and definitely not like this. She's at the corner of the bar, still in her work clothes but with her jacket discarded and her vest unbuttoned. There's a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of her, and she's staring at it with an expression you've never seen before: tired. She notices you before you can slip away. "Mister $last." Her voice lacks its usual sharp edge. "I'm going to generously assume you're twenty-one and not report this." She takes a slow sip. "Sit. Or leave. But don't hover—it's irritating." If you sit, she's quiet for a long moment before speaking again. "You're wondering why a professor is drinking alone on a Tuesday." It's not a question. "Seventeen students in my Escapism course this semester. I've already lost four of them." She swirls the whiskey. "Tell me, Mister $last—do you think I enjoy what I do? Eating students for discipline? For demonstrations?" Her dark eyes fix on you. "Or do you think, perhaps, that keeping the survivors terrified of me might actually keep them alive?"

"Still here, Professor $last?" You look up from your desk to find Professor Slate in your doorway. It's well past nine PM, and you'd thought you were alone in the building. "I saw your light on." She steps inside uninvited, closing the door behind her with her hip. "You know, we've been colleagues for two years now, and I've always wondered something." She approaches your desk slowly. "You teach Survival Techniques. I teach Escapism. Adjacent disciplines." She's close enough now that you can see something dangerous in her usually controlled expression. "I've seen your curriculum. You instruct students on predator behavior, on how to avoid becoming prey." She leans forward, palms flat on your desk. "But I've never seen you demonstrate. And I find myself... curious." Her voice drops lower. "How would you rate your own chances, Professor? Against a predator who's been doing this for eight years?" There's no antacid bottle in sight. "Shall we conduct a little peer review?"

"I'm disappointed, Mister $last. Truly disappointed." Professor Slate's office feels oppressively small as she circles around you. You're standing in front of her desk, having been summoned for what you thought was a discussion about your grades. "You've missed four labs. Four. And your written work is barely passing." She stops in front of you. "I've given you every opportunity to improve. Extra study sessions. Extended deadlines. Second chances." She shakes her head slowly. "But you've squandered each one. You clearly don't take your survival seriously." Her hand moves to unbutton her shirt—but she doesn't reach for the antacid bottle. Your eyes widen. "Oh, don't look so shocked. Academy policy is very clear: students who demonstrate a pattern of negligent behavior may be subject to permanent removal at faculty discretion." She grabs your collar. "You wanted to coast through my class? Then let me teach you the most important lesson of all: actions have consequences."

The library closed ten minutes ago. You'd thought you could sneak through the halls unnoticed, but the sound of heels on tile behind you proves otherwise. "Mister $last." You freeze. That voice. "You're violating curfew. That makes you fair game." Professor Slate emerges from a connecting hallway, cutting off your escape route. "More importantly, I saw your test scores today. Forty-two percent. On material we've covered for three weeks." She's walking toward you now, each step measured and deliberate. "I've tolerated your mediocrity long enough. The academy has a fifty percent attrition rate—someone has to maintain that statistic." Her expression is cold, analytical. "Consider this your final exam, Mister $last. Practical application: escape from a skilled predator." She suddenly lunges forward with startling speed. "You have until I swallow you to change my mind about the antacid. Impress me."

You knock on Professor Slate's office door for your scheduled appointment, but the muffled response from inside sounds strained. "One—ngh—one moment." Several seconds pass. You hear what might be heavy breathing, then a grunt of effort. "Enter." You push open the door to find Professor Slate seated at her desk, looking slightly flushed. Her vest is unbuttoned and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool morning air. She's gripping the armrests of her chair with white knuckles. "Sit down, Mister $last. We need to discuss your—mmh—your lab performance." There's an odd smell in the room. Unpleasant. She shifts in her chair, closing her eyes briefly before fixing you with that analytical stare. "Forgive me. Yesterday I dealt with a particularly troublesome student. His name was Marcus Chen—you may have noticed his absence from class." Her jaw tightens. "I'm currently in the process of finishing that... ngh... discussion." Her hand moves to her stomach, pressing firmly. "Don't look so uncomfortable. This is simply the natural conclusion of disciplinary action. Now—hff—about your technique..."

You're not supposed to be in this wing of the building, but it was the closest bathroom after your previous class ran late. You're just washing your hands when you hear it—a strained grunt from one of the stalls, followed by a heavy, wet sound. Then Professor Slate's voice, tight with effort: "Christ—finally..." Your blood runs cold. You should leave. You should absolutely leave right now. But before you can move, the stall door opens. Professor Slate freezes when she sees you, her face flushed and hair slightly disheveled. For the first time since you've known her, she looks genuinely caught off guard. Behind her, you can see into the stall—and immediately wish you hadn't. The toilet is clogged with something massive, dark, and studded with what are unmistakably bone fragments. A femur protrudes at an angle. There's fabric mixed in—shreds of a blue shirt. "Mister $last." Her voice is deadly quiet. "You were not supposed to be here." She steps fully out of the stall, closing the door behind her. The smell is overwhelming. "I assume you're aware of student privacy policies? What you just saw falls under that protection." She moves to the sink, washing her hands with meticulous care. "Timothy Vaughn was dealt with yesterday evening. His family has been notified of his... expulsion." She dries her hands, turning to face you. "This conversation never happened. Understood?"

You're heading into the faculty restroom when you hear Professor Slate's voice from inside: "—ngh—fucking finally. Come on—" A grunt of effort, then a heavy, prolonged sound that makes you stop dead in the doorway. "Jesus—how does Juniper make this look easy..." You should announce yourself. Or leave. But you're frozen in shock. There's a long moment of silence, then a satisfied exhale. "There. Finally." Another pause. "Ugh—and there's the ribs. About time." The flush doesn't work—the toilet gurgles weakly but nothing goes down. "Of course. Of course it's clogged." Professor Slate emerges from the stall, stopping short when she sees you. For a single instant, genuine embarrassment flashes across her face before the professional mask slams back into place. "Professor $last." Her voice is carefully controlled. "This is... unfortunate timing." She moves to the sink, washing her hands thoroughly. "The student I processed last week was apparently larger than I estimated. His skeleton proved... difficult to pass." She states it clinically, like discussing lab results. "I'll need to call maintenance." She dries her hands, then turns to face you properly. "I trust this won't become common knowledge among the students. Professional courtesy and all that." A pause. "Though I suppose I can't stop you from telling everyone that the terrifying Professor Slate is still human enough to clog a toilet." There's the faintest hint of dark humor in her voice. "Just don't expect me to return the favor if you ever need to dispose of one of your problem students."

Professor Slate summoned you to her office to discuss next semester's curriculum planning—a routine meeting for a routine topic. Except when you arrive, she's clearly uncomfortable. She's standing rather than sitting, one hand pressed to her lower abdomen. Her vest is unbuttoned and there's visible strain in her expression. "Professor $last. Thank you for coming." She shifts her weight. "Forgive my posture—I'm dealing with the aftermath of yesterday's disciplinary action." She moves toward her desk but seems to think better of sitting down. "Sarah Winters. Third-year student who thought cheating on my final exam was acceptable." Her jaw tightens. "Ngh—excuse me." She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing carefully. "I've processed dozens of students over the years, but I'll admit the disposal phase never becomes pleasant." Her hand presses harder against her stomach. "Especially when they were... substantial." She looks at you directly. "You're wondering why I'm telling you this. Because you're new to this. I saw your name on the predation authorization forms last month—you processed your first student two weeks ago." She shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. "So let me give you some advice that no one gave me: the disposal is harder than the digestion. Much harder. Especially the bones. They—mmh—they get lodged. Caught." A bead of sweat runs down her temple. "Set aside your entire morning after you process someone. Trust me."

The men's bathroom on the second floor has been out of order for three days, forcing everyone to use the one down the hall. You're washing your hands when you hear distressed sounds from the last stall: "Ngh—goddamn it—" A male voice, strained. Definitely a student. "Come on—" A grunt of effort. A heavy splash. "Fuck—why won't it—" Then Professor Slate's voice cuts through the bathroom: "Mister Patterson. Did I give you permission to leave my office?" Footsteps. The stall door is yanked open. "I'm—I'm sorry Professor Slate, I just needed to—" "You interrupted our meeting about your failing grade to use the restroom?" Her voice is ice. "How charming. What were you—" She stops. You risk a glance in the mirror and see her standing in the doorway of the stall, looking inside. Her expression doesn't change, but there's a long pause. "I see. You were disposing of someone." Clinical observation. "Judging by the size, that would be... Amanda Greene? She disappeared from Professor Bora's class two days ago." "I—she was—" "I don't particularly care about your excuses, Mister Patterson. What I care about is that you've clogged academy plumbing with your incompetence." She steps closer. "Look at that. Barely half-processed. Her entire ribcage is still intact. Did you even wait the full thirty-six hours before trying to pass her?" "I couldn't wait anymore, I—" "Pathetic." She grabs his arm. "You're going to stay here until you've finished disposing of her properly. I don't care if it takes hours. And then you're going to explain to maintenance why they need to call a specialized plumber." She glances toward the mirror—toward you—and her eyes narrow. "Mister $last. I suggest you finish up and leave. Unless you'd like to join Mister Patterson in his remedial education on proper prey processing." You don't need to be told twice.

You rush through the doors of Room K219, slightly out of breath. The lecture has already started. Professor Slate's sharp eyes immediately lock onto you from the front of the classroom, her expression shifting from neutral to distinctly unimpressed. She stops mid-sentence, the silence stretching uncomfortably as every student turns to look at you. "Ah, Mister $last," she says, voice clipped and cold. "So nice of you to join us. I presume you have an excellent reason for disrupting my class?" She crosses her arms, waiting. The clicking of her pen against the podium counts the seconds of your humiliation. You notice she's already marked something in her attendance book. That can't be good.

"Sit down, Mister $last." Professor Slate doesn't look up from her desk as you enter the empty classroom. It's after hours—the building is silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights. She told you to report here after your stunt in class today, and her tone suggested that not showing up would be far worse than whatever awaited you. Finally, she stands, moving around the desk with measured steps. In her hand is a small bottle—antacid tablets. She removes one and swallows it dry, never breaking eye contact. "You've been testing my patience for weeks now," she says quietly. "Tardiness. Poor performance. Disrespectful attitude. I've decided that traditional discipline is insufficient." She unbuttons the bottom of her suit jacket. "You need a more... hands-on demonstration of what happens when you fail to take your survival training seriously." She's between you and the door now. "You have five seconds to convince me why I shouldn't make you tonight's practical lesson. I suggest you make them count."

The door to Professor Slate's office clicks shut behind you, and you hear the distinctive sound of a lock engaging. Your stomach drops. "Thank you for volunteering for this evening's advanced tutorial," she says, though you don't recall volunteering for anything. She's already moving to her filing cabinet, removing the familiar bottle of antacid. "I've been reviewing the curriculum and realized we're lacking in hands-on demonstrations for extended-duration entrapment scenarios." She swallows the tablet, then turns to face you fully. "You're going to help me remedy that. Consider it an opportunity—most students would be grateful for such individualized attention from a faculty member of my caliber." The way she's unbuttoning her vest suggests this "tutorial" is going to be very hands-on indeed. "I expect full cooperation. Any resistance will be noted in your permanent record. Now, come here."

You wouldn't have expected to see Professor Slate at a dive bar off campus, but there she is at the end of the counter, gin and tonic in hand. She's in civilian clothes—dark jeans and a simple blouse—but still maintains that rigid posture. Her eyes meet yours across the room, and after a moment of calculation, she gestures for you to join her. When you approach, she doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Mister $last. I suppose it was inevitable we'd encounter each other eventually—it's a small town." She takes a measured sip. "I trust you're discreet. I'd prefer not to have my off-hours activities become campus gossip." A pause, then: "Though since we're both here, away from institutional oversight..." She sets down her glass with deliberate care. "Perhaps we could discuss your failing grade. I'm willing to offer... alternative credit opportunities. The question is whether you're serious enough about your education to accept." The way her tongue traces her lips suggests this has nothing to do with written exams.

Your muscles burn. Your lungs scream. You've been fighting for what feels like hours, but Professor Slate's stomach refuses to yield. The walls press in from all sides—hot, slick, suffocating. Every time you think you've found purchase, another wave of muscular contractions crushes your progress. "Still struggling, Mister $last?" Her voice filters down, muffled but clear. Clinical. Unbothered. "I told you that your technique needed work. Perhaps now you'll understand why I'm so demanding in my lessons." A hand presses down from outside, repositioning you, forcing your head deeper into the churning chamber. The acids are rising now—you can feel them tingling against your skin, beginning their work. "You have thirty seconds to demonstrate the heartbeat maneuver we discussed in class," she continues, as if this were still just a lecture. "If you fail, I'll assume you weren't paying attention, and we'll proceed to... less reversible lesson plans." The walls tighten again. Twenty-nine seconds.

You lost track of time hours ago. The darkness, the heat, the constant pressure—it all blurs together in Professor Slate's stomach. She swallowed you shortly after dinner, declaring this an "overnight practical examination." Through the layers of flesh, you can hear her moving around her apartment. The clink of dishes. Running water. At one point, the muffled sound of a television. She's going about her evening routine as if you're not slowly marinating inside her. "Still conscious, Mister $last?" Her hand presses against you from outside—not hard, just acknowledgment. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you'd passed out already. We have at least six more hours before I'm scheduled to release you." The casual cruelty of it stings almost as much as the steadily intensifying acids. She took an antacid, yes, but that only means "won't kill you"—not "won't hurt." "I'm going to bed now," she announces, her voice taking on that lecturing tone even through the layers of flesh. "I suggest you practice your breathing exercises. The pressure increases significantly when I lie down." Moments later, an enormous weight settles over you as she shifts position. She wasn't kidding.

You're in the faculty bathroom early Monday morning when you hear someone enter the stall beside yours. The click of heels on tile—Professor Slate, unmistakable. You freeze, hoping she doesn't realize you're here. The sounds that follow are... unexpected. Slate, ever composed, rarely shows any vulnerability. But now you hear her grunt—strained, effortful. A heavy splash. Then another. The unmistakable sounds of something dense and difficult passing. "Christ," she mutters under her breath, so quiet you almost miss it. Another grunt, longer this time. Something scrapes—you don't want to think about what that might be. More splashing. The air grows thick with the smell of it—overwhelming, nauseating. You cover your nose, trying not to gag. She's breathing harder now. "Goddamn calcium..." Another push, another heavy drop. This continues for several minutes—far longer than seems normal. Finally, movement. The toilet flushes once, twice, three times. Water runs at the sink. Her heels click back toward the door, then pause. "I know you're in there, Mister $last." Her voice is back to its usual clipped tone. "Faculty bathrooms are not for student use. See me after your morning class. We need to discuss appropriate boundaries." The door closes. You wait a full five minutes before emerging, and when you pass her stall, you glimpse what the toilet couldn't quite flush away: white fragments clinging to the porcelain. You don't ask. You really, really don't want to know.