One Year Later Shrunken First Semester: Attack of the 200-Foot Gooner chapter 7 by maximally

 

Over the next twelve months, the world reached a strange new normal — largely thanks to the US government diverting a significant chunk of its resources toward keeping Hazel pacified. Once the former San Trasero Metro Area was cordoned off under the service belt and exclusion rules that now defined Hazel City, most of the city’s original inhabitants quickly departed in droves — and a new legion of the buck-toothed giantess’s followers, along with contractors and opportunists, arrived just as quickly to replace them. Los Angeles and San Francisco both saw population drops. Many people left the state altogether, hoping to get as far away from Hazel as possible.

 

Of course, the twenty-year-old gooner of the moment was far less openly apocalyptic than most people made her out to be. On any given day, all she really wanted to do was eat, sleep, shit and goon — and with her every need seen to by the government and her new subjects, she rarely saw the point in venturing beyond the hashes painted for her stride. She’d also refused all overtures to participate in military exercises with the US or any other country and rejected the scientific community’s repeated requests to study her remarkable physiology. In other words, rather than descending upon humanity like some kind of conquering goddess, she was more like the world’s biggest deadbeat tenant — living off everyone else’s fear of what would happen if they curbed her supply of fast food, energy drinks and lube.

 

The old downtown and campus core had been evacuated and closed to ordinary civilian traffic, with access restricted to the crews assigned to Hazel and the registered visitors admitted through the designated approach routes. A federal service belt wrapped that area so those crews and visitors could come and go without sending ordinary traffic through her usual paths. Signs pointed civilians out and service vehicles in. The basin had been ceded to her in practice and remained U.S. territory on paper, which was why the edge of it was marked with orange boards instead of a border crossing. Ventus University itself was closed. Classes had been moved to a satellite campus upstate; the original grounds were federal property for practical purposes, even if the letterhead still argued otherwise. Proserpina was a fenced crater people paid to look at from a platform. Minerva and Juno were still standing and empty, windows boarded, the kind of preservation that meant nobody had decided whether they were evidence or inventory. Fortuna had been stripped for fixtures. The old stadium, just outside the belt, had been stripped for logistics staging. The eastbound freeway was the practical boundary. House Diana sat beyond the CIVILIAN EXIT arrow with lights on at night because it had been converted to service housing for the crews who worked the belt, not because anyone still lived there as a student. Painted hashes on the asphalt were sized for a two-hundred-foot stride. Whole blocks west of the park had been written off because that was where her morning walk usually landed. East of the cordon, a boomtown sold filters, cheap ponchos, and laminated maps of her usual routes. That was the economy in miniature: crews going in, souvenirs going out, real estate collapsing one direction and inflating the other.

 

Meanwhile, Max remained her most constant companion — at least in terms of the time he spent in proximity to her person. He had been back at his full, pre-shrinking height long enough that his brief stint at three inches tall was little more than a distant memory, but that had not translated into a life spent standing next to her. For most of the previous 365 days, Hazel’s asshole had been the first thing he’d seen every morning and the last thing he’d seen every night. The government had invented a routine that got him out of there twice a day without ever agreeing to take him off the pad. In the face of that unshakeable reality, some part of him was starting to get used to it. Sure, it wasn’t pleasant. But it also made him significantly better off than any of the dozens of supporters who tended to end up squashed under her feet — or press-ganged into becoming snacks and sex toys — every day.

 

This morning, Max woke up the same way he always did — bathed in near-total darkness, pressed between two immense, warm, slightly damp cheeks. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Hazel’s breathing was a seismic event, a tidal force that gently rocked him in his fleshy prison.

 

Dozing in her usual resting place, a reinforced sleep pad in the center of Hazel City’s central park that more or less mirrored the layout of her old dorm room in giant furniture along one edge, the buck-toothed giantess would have slept past noon if nobody woke her. That was why the six o’clock window existed, and why Max was the one expected to use it. All of her subjects knew better than to try the job themselves. The only person on Earth who had any leeway in that regard was Max. Somebody had poured the pad over the old lawn, with a weather canopy that rolled out on rails when it rained and misting rigs for the months when the heat made living outdoors on concrete unbearable even in Southern California. A mattress the size of a parking structure sat along one edge, plus a desk that was really a loading dock and a wardrobe she never used. Giant clothes had been offered in the first months. She tried one shirt, tore it taking it off, and told them to stop wasting her time. She lived naked because she preferred it. The compound was built around that preference. Followers were not supposed to sleep against the foundation, but they did anyway, and Max could hear them some nights arguing in whispers about whose turn it was to be closest.

 

Of all the ways Max had devised to wake Hazel up, only one seemed to work consistently — and while he didn’t have much enthusiasm for doing this specific trick here and now, he knew that the alternative was being stuck down here, under his mistress’s ass, for at least a few more hours.

 

Suppressing the urge to gag with long-practiced diligence, he pressed his face toward the giantess’s rancid asshole. The smell here was profoundly intimate, a rancid, eggy musk that was uniquely and inescapably Hers. He took a shallow breath and began to lick, grimacing as he felt his mistress’s powerful pucker twitching under his input, ignoring the taste of sleep-sweat and yesterday’s digested burritos, focusing only on his task. It was a humiliating, degrading alarm clock, but it was his job. His purpose.

 

The response from Hazel was almost immediate, her backdoor eagerly reciprocating his advances and pressing itself up against his face. Then, feeling the wrinkled ring of flesh starting to balloon out a little, Max braced himself for the gust of morning gas to come.

 

BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPP

 

Again resisting his better instincts to disengage as the giantess’s first fart of the day blasted out into him, Max kept going, pressing his face even further and doubling down. He was used to Hazel’s gas by now, but this was really something special — so dense it was almost solid, a suffocating blanket of pure stench that filled every inch of the space, seeping into his pores and clogging his nostrils. He fought the urge to vomit, forcing himself to keep his mouth and tongue moving against her, riding out the storm. Only then did he feel his mistress finally stirring.

 

“Mmm,” Hazel cooed. “Morning, miniguy. Someone’s eager this morning, huh?”

 

Hearing this, Max grimaced again. After a full year together, Hazel still hadn’t bothered to learn his name. Either that or she just didn’t care. Either way, it made it hard for him to find real solace in his position of uncomfortable proximity within her new world. He was Miniguy. A toy. A fixture. He’d long since stopped correcting her.

 

Hazel shifted, her immense buttocks clenching around him momentarily, threatening to crush him before relaxing. He heard the creak of the pad as she sat up. Light, faint and filtered through the colossal curtains of her ass, finally pierced his world.

 

“Now,” she grunted, stretching. “What’s on the agenda today?”

 

The six o’clock window was on the sheet taped inside the service hut, and this morning she actually remembered it. Her fingers found him, lifted, and set him on the service apron in daylight that made his eyes water. The pad was already warm. The hut door was open. Windbreaker — the same functionary from that first night, older in the face, still without a last name Max had been told — stood at a marked distance with a tablet and did not come closer until she had rolled onto her side.

 

Once, through a gap while she stretched, Max had seen his own silhouette on that laminated diagram. The sheet was covered in the usual fields and arrows.

 

ECI-1 — EMBEDDED CIVILIAN INDIVIDUAL. STATUS: NON-EXTRACTABLE. Extraction requires H.B. cooperation. Maintenance windows 0600 / 1800.

 

Temporary servicing was routine. Permanent removal was not attempted. The sheet told crews when to feed him and wash him and check the rash. It did not authorize anyone to take him off the pad and keep him off. That contradiction was the whole policy.

 

The labeled tray was the same as always: protein, something that had started as rice, a bottle of water with ECI-1 printed on the cap. He ate sitting on a folding chair that had been placed for him and would be folded again when he left. The chemical toilet was a stall with a curtain. The hose ran cold because nobody had plumbed hot water out to the apron. The clothes were a numbered gray jumpsuit, ECI-1 stenciled on the back and over the heart, issued two at a time so one could be in the laundry.

 

The medic’s name was Ruiz. She was the only ordinary person who regularly addressed him as Max. She checked the rash in the crease of both elbows, the thickened skin on his knees, the old girder stripe on his calf, and the ringing he mentioned once the apron went quiet. Although the regular meals and examinations meant that Max was at least getting basic care, they did very little about the conditions he spent the rest of his day enduring. Ruiz still found the same problems every morning. The ringing was often worse during these visits, when he finally had a little quiet. Whatever protection the serum had left him with was evidently enough to keep him alive, but it hadn’t spared him the accumulated discomfort of spending a year in Hazel’s care.

 

“Vitals are boring,” she said, the same sentence she used most mornings. “That’s the good news.” Then she handed him the ruggedized handset for the ten minutes the sheet allowed. He could look at the news. Nobody sent him mail. Nobody scheduled him a meeting. The second month, standing on this same apron with working legs, he had asked to leave with the crew. Windbreaker had logged the request, looked at the STATUS line, and said removal was outside maintenance authority. Extraction requires H.B. cooperation. That conversation was over. It had not been repeated.

 

 

 

Ruiz collected the handset when the ten minutes were up, and Windbreaker stepped back to his mark. The designation protected Max’s maintenance while accepting his captivity. The government supplied the trays because Hazel forgot otherwise, and being back at his full height meant that he still needed calories, water, and a bathroom. Whatever protection the serum had left him with made the intervals survivable; it did not cancel those needs or give the people attending to him permission to let him leave.

 

A shuttle with VOLUNTARY PROXIMITY on the destination board idled at a queue that had split itself into colors. Black was celebrity tourists who wanted a photograph and a story. Gold was registered visitors with a waiver, a badge, and a timed slot in a designated contact zone. Orange was the worship sets, who argued online about who counted as a real devotee. Mixed in were influencers filming the line, while cleanup contractors wore a shade of orange chosen after the last three uniform colors became impossible to tell from the work.

 

The arguments between the different groups had become a regular part of the morning, especially when the registered visitors thought the worshippers were trying to skip the queue. On one occasion Max had watched a worshipper try to pull the badge off another visitor’s shirt, forcing two of the security guards to separate them while the tourists stood back and filmed. Hazel hadn’t even looked down. Considering how much time these people spent arguing about who deserved to get closest to her, he found it almost impressive how little interest she took in any of them.

 

Then her hand came back, smelling like sleep and whatever she’d eaten at 2 a.m., and the jumpsuit would last until the next clench.

 

Her custom phone was the size of a garage door, and she treated it exactly like the cracked one from the dorm. Officials had tried giving her a filtered feed, but she routed around it in an afternoon and went back to the uncensored tab. This morning a translated letter sat pinned at the top of the briefing window, embassy letterhead scaled up until the seal was the size of a manhole cover, offering a coastal industrial zone and “full logistical partnership.” She snorted, went back to what she had been watching, and left the letter where Windbreaker could screenshot it.

 

Reaching over to the floor beside the pad, she picked up a handful of supporters — followers so devoted to her every whim that they’d pledged themselves to her as bedside snacks — in the other hand. As she tossed her snacks into her mouth and started scrolling her feeds, one of her notifications was such a surprise that she almost choked.

 

“Oooh!” Swallowing a half-dozen of her supporters in a big, cartoonish gulp, she grinned. “Miniguy, guess what?”

 

Doing his best to form words after several lungfuls of his mistress’s gas, Max found his voice to be more of a wheeze. “What?”

 

Hazel’s grin grew. “The government guys are coming with that new super toilet today!”

 

For the third time this morning, Max grimaced. Knowing Hazel, he had a feeling this wouldn’t end well.

 

Displacement, daily casualties, Max’s captivity, the size of the federal bill, and the unofficial mail from other governments were all part of the new normal. The outstanding infrastructure problem the accommodation system still could not handle was waste disposal. With no facility able to accommodate her reliably, the two-hundred-foot twenty-year-old treated the outlying areas of her territory as one big bathroom, leaving the edge of the exclusion zone dotted with piles of bus-sized waste.

 

The resulting smell had rendered significant swaths of territory around Hazel City uninhabitable. On a windy day, it could be detected as far as the Bay Area. With a clear and present biohazard on their hands, the government’s scientists had thus spent most of the last few months working round the clock to design a system capable of containing the giantess’s waste — and according to a notification on Hazel’s phone, today was the day they were finally going to have her test their latest model. Of course, all previous versions had been catastrophic failures, resulting in everything from backed-up geysers of sewage to structural collapses that had drowned entire teams of engineers. Only time would tell whether this one would be any different.

 

Basin One had cracked under her weight. Basin Two held the bowl and backed the transfer lines into a processing plant that was not built for her. Basin Three moved treatment off-site and ruptured the pipeline, resulting in the loss of a crew. Basin Four therefore put the bowl and the plant on the same pad. Engineers believed the shorter transfer distance, a bigger surge volume, a reinforced bowl, and an isolated control room would keep the failure local. Basin Four was rated for four times Basin Three’s recorded peak, with no off-site pipeline. Today they were going to try the one that looked like a silo. She muted the briefing window and reached for breakfast.

 

Breakfast arrived the way it always did now: a flatbed backing onto the service apron with two custom burritos the length of buses, assembled overnight by a catering contractor whose only client was her stomach, plus a tank painted like an oversized can of Monster. Each roll held the volume of tens of thousands of ordinary meals, which was the only reason two of them counted as breakfast for a two-hundred-foot body. The invoice went to the same federal account that paid for barriers and cleanup.

 

Ten minutes later, after the burritos and half the giant-sized can, the giantess had headed out toward the edge of her domain, flattening several dozen former homes underfoot along the way. Each step was a localized earthquake. Devotees scrambled out of her path, many not quite fast enough. Others, in a fervor of worship, deliberately threw themselves under her heels. Max rode the clench and watched the exclusion-zone edge come up.

 

When she reached the outskirts of the city, she found several military helicopters waiting, as well as her new toilet — which looked more like a nuclear missile silo than a standard plumbing fixture. A massive structure of reinforced concrete, metal, and military-grade ceramic had been installed right on the edge of the exclusion zone, replacing the wreckage of the last “safe waste disposal system” they’d tried testing on her. A team of tiny figures in bright orange HAZMAT suits scurried around its base, making final preparations.

 

 

“Welcome, Hazel,” came a voice from a loudspeaker on one of the helicopters, hovering a few hundred feet above the giantess out of an abundance of caution. “Allow us to familiarize you with the workings of your new toilet.”

 

Max knew the voice. It was the same pilot as Basin Three — the one who had walked her through the last fixture and then watched it fail.

 

“Yo,” said Hazel, nodding. “Sure, go ahead.”

 

“Miss Berry,” the pilot said. “This is Basin Four. Bowl and processing are on the same pad this time, so there’s no off-site pipeline to rupture. You sit, you go, you hit the indicator on the left when you’re done. If pressure hits the red, we need you to stop. Confirm.”

 

The crew on the pad was a dozen this time, which was supposed to be the safe number if the isolated room worked. Max had seen two of the vests at a service window last month, standing behind Ruiz and not meeting his eyes. On the radio they were call signs and status reports. They had also built the fixture they were about to stand under, which was the part of the job nobody had figured out how to assign to someone else.

 

“You mean...” Again, Hazel grinned. “Me clogging it up?”

 

“Yes.” The pilot’s subsequent sigh came through loud and clear. “Now, are you ready?”

 

“You know it,” said Hazel, giggling. Around her, the crowd of Hazel City residents who’d come out to watch their leader do her business let out a big unified cheer. For the buck-toothed gooner’s most devoted followers, this was like getting a front-row seat to one of god’s own miracles.

 

Without another word, the giantess settled her vast hips on the top of the structure, provoking worrisome groans from the concrete. Then, in a rare moment of mercy, she plucked her closest companion out of her ass and switched him into her cleavage. “Just between you and me, Miniguy,” she giggled, “I think this one’s gonna be a doozy.”

 

“Oh,” said Max, his eyes squinting against the bright light of the sun and his lungs almost stinging from all the fresh, fart-free air. “I... uh... thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” scoffed Hazel, biting her lip. “Anyway, here goes...”

 

BLLTLTTLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPP

 

As the giantess started to let loose into the toilet, the whole structure shook. Her first log, easily the size of a bus and just as thick, settled down into the steel bowl with a satisfying slam — and was quickly followed by another, and another, and another. The odor that followed was enough to leave many of the unprotected Hazel City residents around her woozy, and several began passing out. Unfortunately for them, their goddess was just getting started.

 

BBLLRLFLFLLFLFLRLRLRRTRRTTTTRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTT

 

The first logs were what the bowl had been rated for. They hit like buses finding a dock, and for a few seconds the four-times-previous-peak number looked like it had bought the engineers exactly what they had paid for. Then the rest of the movement turned liquid, and the short transfer pipe between the bowl and the on-site plant — the piece that was supposed to make an off-site rupture impossible — took a surge it had been told would stay inside the rating. Cracks opened in the disposal piping first. The smell inside the plant left anyone not in a HAZMAT suit catatonic. The isolated control room was still dry.

 

That was when Hazel reseated her hips. The engineers had already designed the seat for her weight; Basin One had taught them that much. What they had not budgeted for was movement on a system the surge had already cracked. Putting her weight back down did not invent a new failure. It finished the one the pipe had started.

 

“Hazel,” came the voice from the helicopter again. “We’re getting some worrisome readings from processing. We may have to stop and try again some other-”

 

 

BBLLRLBBFBFBFFFFLFLLFLFLRLRLRRTRRTTTTRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTT

 

Hazel ignored him, a look of intense concentration on her face as she pushed harder. “Almost… got it…” she grunted. She understood the request. Stop meant holding mid-movement for machinery she had already watched fail three times. She was not going to make herself uncomfortable to save their system.

 

The second wave finished the pipe. Because the plant was on the same pad, the failure stayed “local” in the sense the briefing had promised: nothing ruptured ten miles away. It ruptured under her instead. Waste that had nowhere else to go filled the interior, found the ventilation shafts, and came up as a geyser of raw sewage across desert that had been called safe an hour ago. Cracks spiderwebbed up the sides of the concrete silo.

 

The isolated control room had been designed for a contained overflow under the bowl, not for a lake climbing the access ramps. The glass held. That was the problem. The room did its job long enough to become a tank. The orange-suited figures inside it pounded on reinforced windows that were doing exactly what the spec said they should do, which was not the same thing as letting them out.

 

Then the toilet gave up the rest of the way. With a sound of tearing metal and shattering concrete, the bowl overflowed. A tidal wave of brown sludge poured over the rim, swallowed the ramps, and took the control room at the height of the glass. Their pounding disappeared under the waterline.

 

Hazel stood up, turning to look at her handiwork. The toilet was a broken, overflowing monument to failure, sitting in a newly created lake of her own waste. She laughed, a loud, genuine sound that shook her chest and jostled Max between her breasts.

 

“Whoopsie,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She gave her ass a casual shake, sprinkling a few last droplets onto the scene. “Better luck next time, guys.” Her gathered followers, watching from a “safe” distance, erupted into cheers, as if she’d just performed a miracle.

 

Wedged in the humid, perfumed canyon of her cleavage, Max let out a long, weary groan. It was a disaster, just like all the others. Predictable, avoidable, and utterly catastrophic. He watched a single, HAZMAT-suited arm flail once above the rising brown tide before slipping beneath the surface.

 

And yet, as the familiar, comforting — or was it just familiar? — stench of Hazel’s body washed over him, he felt a grim, shameful flicker of gratitude. His world was hot, smelly, and profoundly humiliating. Still, it was a world that, for now, did not include being drowned in a lake of shit — and in Hazel’s new world order, he knew that was the closest thing to a win he was ever going to get.