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Being late for anything wasn’t Battat’s style. Whether it was work, both as a regular employee and his obligations as Mike, or just his personal life, not making it on time to anything was the worst feeling.
So, as he’s rushing through the backstage of TV World, pieces of his costume getting unceremoniously yanked off and balled up in his arms, he isn’t quite thinking straight. He’d taken just a second too long to get dressed that morning, having forgotten his laundry in the dryer the night before. No time to brew his own coffee to drink, or, as he rarely did, actually grab anything for breakfast.
Tenna usually required him early in the mornings before meeting at the studio for one thing or another, whether it be a pick-me-up antenna massage, or last minute edits of a script. Always the kind of thing Pluey or Jongler weren’t quite cut out for— or, at least, not up to Tenna’s high standard.
He already cuts it short every day, little time to change between jobs when he’s on both for the day, and this just meant he was rushing even more. Finally getting the last of his costume off, he finds a supply closet to stuff it into for now, which he’ll stop by later to pick up.
Dusting off his hands after closing the door, the heavy costume no longer weighing him down, he books it to the green room, glancing at a clock on the wall. The minutes are adding up, ticking towards the show for the day starting.
…Three minutes left. That’s still time. If he needs to, he can make it to the backstage door in under ten seconds, if he sprints.
The green room is completely emptied out as everyone readies themselves for recording, even Ramb is nowhere to be seen from behind the counter. With no Zappers to interrogate him for no reason, Battat finds the door to the breakroom.
There’s a pot of coffee still left on the burner, three-fourths of the way empty. The light of the machine is off, but it can’t have been turned off that long ago. He rests the knuckles of his hands just beside the glass to test for any heat.
It’s… not cold.
It’ll have to do, he decides, and finds a mug in a drawer, pouring the last of the pot into it. Then, swigs it back.
It’s that usual bitterness, but with a stronger flavor than normal, having sat for a little while already, that hits his mouth. It’ll take some time for the caffeine to kick in, but it’s the act of drinking it itself that finally settles his nerves. Just knowing it will wake him up helps, sure the day will go on as normal after a rough start.
. . .
…Or so he’d hoped.
Things start smoothly for the most part, even when he does, indeed, have to sprint to the stagedoors, jostling the liquid in his otherwise empty stomach far more than he’d ever wanted to. It only takes a moment to settle, and then he’s locked in for the job.
He’s on stagework the first part of today, and most of his job consists of telling people what to do rather than doing it himself. Angle that light there, move that prop here, all the like. Occasionally, someone does something wrong, and he’s nudging them out of the way to fix it himself, always the perfectionist.
He’d emptied the rest of the coffee only a few minutes after recording started, handing the mug off to some new assistant. It’s strong enough to cover up the hunger he’d otherwise feel from not actually eating anything, but that’s normal.
Half an hour later, however, regret starts to sink in.
He’s in the middle of issuing a command, when a sharp pain twists his stomach, voice catching into a hiss. The employee he was talking to gives him a questioning look, and he waves them off, telling them to just get to what they’ve been assigned. Once they’ve turned away, he sucks in a long breath, hand twitching over his stomach that’s covered by his poncho.
The painful knot doesn’t go away, but intensifies, cramping up again. His toes curl.
He’s no stranger to his stomach fighting him like this, but it normally took awhile, body having adjusted to his… questionable diet habits, skipping actual sustenance for caffeine, and all the like. It only really caught up to him hours after, when he was off the clock and able to be alone.
This was unusual. He’d just finished that coffee, it feels like, and now it’s already been absorbed into his system and fighting for its damn life.
Maybe drinking the last of it was a bad idea. In fact, the more he thinks about it, there were plenty of caffeine addicts in the studio, with how relentless Tenna’s schedule was. It was weird there was any left over at all.
“Battat!” Startling a bit, he sees another pippin, a newer employee, scurrying up to him, clutching a ceiling light with both arms. “This isn’t working.”
He sighs, and opens his arms to take it from them.
It’s heavier than expected, the other little guy must be stronger than he thought, as his arms bend under the weight. The movement causes him to elbow his own stomach slightly, and it lets out a loud, ominous gurgle.
The pippins blinks at him, then their face turns to a wicked little grin. “Skipping breakfast again?” They chirp.
He narrows his eyes, but is silently thankful they think the noise is from hunger.
“Not like you care.” He sighs, and finds the wiring panel in the light, flipping it open and adjusting them. Just something that got mixed up. He holds the light back out to them. “Should be working now.
They’re off quickly, and Battat sighs through gritted teeth the second they’re gone. A quieter, but longer squelch sounds off from his middle, bubbles pittering against his skin. He resists the urge to groan from it.
He glances around the room, noting the current activity of each employee. Everyone seemed busy with something, rather it be discussion with each other, fixing costumes, or reading over script. Deciding it was safe enough, as subtly as possible, he slips a hand under his poncho and palms the side of his belly. Just that tiny bit of stimulation to its churning is heavenly, and he hums softly.
Fingers tracing up the top of the small bulge, he presses down just barely where there’s some buildup below his chest. The air swells, and he’s flinging his arm back up as fast as possible to slam his palm over his mouth, just as a burp erupts out of his throat.
His eyes dart around the backstage, face flushed, trying to see if anyone had heard. It seems everyone is preoccupied with their own tasks, and he slowly lowers his hand from his mouth.
It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s… just a little bit of bloating from the coffee. Just some air he needed to get out of his chest. That’s all it was.
Except, as much as he wanted to deny it, that wasn’t all. It seemed that one little expulsion shifted his stomach’s contents, and the next cramp in his gut is far lower down. Fuck. He’s suddenly clenching his legs, realizing he has to fart so badly.
Just the thought makes a blush crawl up his neck and settle on his cheeks. Call him a bit ridiculous for being so uptight about his own bodily functions, but he knew he was better than anyone else here when it came to taking this job seriously. It’d be irresponsible to let his own embarrassing needs distract from the task at hand.
So he’ll be fine. Despite the way his stomach boils like an unattended pot, he’ll let that one belch be the exception, and hold it in.
. . .
The rest of the recording part of the day passes by agonizingly slowly, his gut twinging every couple minutes, especially when he has to move to go help with something. It seems everyone needs him for something, and that one moment he got without attention was going to be it.
Tenna’s show comes to a close, and TV Time’s employees start to filter out, cleaning up for the day, only to start it all again tomorrow. On a normal shift, his job would be over by now. He’d be able to sneak away for the day, maybe make his way back to the Mike room. Slump back on their couch and drill hot farts into the cushions, no longer having to worry about anyone having his eyes on him.
Even thinking about the idea makes his stomach grumble, as if it was begging for him to just go do that already, all that gas feigning for release.
But, because Battat was the unluckiest pippins ever, it hadn’t ended there.
They’re doing a test run for a new music segment, currently under the title of Darkners Live, though Tenna has mentioned many times it’s a work in progress. At least all Battat had to do was watch the rehearsal and take some notes, since Tenna himself had something else to attend to right after the show.
It’s normally the task Mike would be assigned to, but Mike—as in, one of his fellow impersonators— had other duties today, so Battat was asked to instead. How ironic. He loves the other two to death, but there were so many things that would be easier if they could cut out the middle man part.
Regardless, it’s a task for Tenna, so he’s not about to skip out on it. Grabbing the clipboard with a paper and pen he’d left out, he goes to sit next to the shadowguy who’s there to watch instead of performing itself.
As he shifts up onto the chair, he has to bend his legs slightly to lift himself onto it, and before he processes it, a high-pitched airy fart squeaks out of him, sputtering when he gets himself down on the chair..
“A—Ahem!” He fake-coughs loudly, and gets a few head turns, probably bringing more attention to himself then he would’ve in the first place. Whoops. “Just—ah, we all want to get this over with, right?” He tries to grin, though it comes out more as a grimace with his current predicament.
The actors do indeed get on with it, though not without some dirty looks towards himself, though he can’t tell if it’s from his attitude or the other part. A zapper calls for the lights, a shadowguy hops on the ministage they’d brought out and pulls out a guitar, and the performance begins.
As everything clicks into place, he needs to be noting stuff down for Tenna: what part of the lighting could be changed, what else they could add to the signs, etcetera. But, it seems that tiny bit of gas that had slipped out made his body crave more room, more relief. He feels his gut rumble under his clothes, can’t quite hear it over the music, but it’s so intense it almost tickles.
His fingers dig into the side of the chair. It would feel so good to let just a little more out. Just enough so his stomach isn’t stabbing him, and he can pay attention enough to write something important down.
It’s loud enough with the music, right? If he just…
Carefully, he shifts his legs, folding one knee over the other and untensing himself. He doesn’t hold back as a low fart rumbles out his ass for a full couple seconds, warming the back of his thighs and seat of the chair, the expulsion ending with a risky pop, though still not loud enough for anyone not listening for it to hear.
A wave of pure bliss washes over him, unconsciously panting as the cramp that’d been building up is relieved. Satisfied, he breathes back in to focus on the performance again.
Oh. His nose twitches. That smells awful.
He risks a tiny glance towards his current companion, and sees the shadowguy next to him is tapping its own pen to its mouth, before the darkness making up its face scrunches up a little, and it’s turning towards Battat.
He immediately jerks his own gaze back away and busies himself with writing something, though he’s pretty sure his entire head is flushing green at this point, making it that much more obvious. It doesn’t say anything, but he feels its stare for another moment before it brings its attention back to the stage.
. . .
Despite his struggling, he manages to make it through watching the rest of the performance without any slipups. If he did happen to accidentally fart again when he got up from his chair, no one noticed, too busy with their own cleanup. At least he has to hope that’s the case, not about to entertain anything else.
The main part of the studio is really emptying out now, but the rest of the halls of the building are still bustling, many still present in the green room that he has to go through to get away. He ends up shooing away a few pippins who he thinks were asking him about gambling later. Normally, he’d at least grant them the answer of no, but he doesn’t think he can manage that, simply shoving them off and scampering out the door.
He certainly doesn’t have it in him to make it back to his own place, and that meant the closest private area still in the studio was the Mike room. It’s just down another hallway, and then he can be alone.
"Green Pippins!"
His heels screech to halt as Tenna’s voice calls down the hallway, followed by the thud-thud-thud of his heavy footsteps. Turning, his boss is eagerly catching up to him, stopping just two feet before where Battat has paused.
“What was your name again—?” He starts to ask, before seemingly deciding it’s not important, waving his hand. “Oh, nevermind. Did you get those notes I asked about?”
Dammit. He was supposed to drop those off at Tenna’s office. In his hurry, he completely forgot about that part of the job, and now the boss has come to get them from him personally.
“Of course, Boss!” A little too frantically, body on a time limit, he sweeps a hand under his poncho where they’ve been folded into his undershirt pocket, only for his twitchy hands to lose their grip, and send the notes fluttering to the floor. He’s already made enough of a fool of himself by forgetting to give Tenna the notes in the first place, and quickly scrambles to pick them up.
Big mistake.
In his hurry, his knees bend just a bit too far, and he completely loses concentration, one long and vile fart bubbling out of him, echoing in the empty hallway.
He shoots back up as fast as possible, spine snapping straight and notes clutched in hand, but the damage has been done, gas still sputtering out of him like a sprung leak for another couple seconds. He whimpers.
Wanting to get this over with, eyes jammed shut in humiliation, he shoves the papers out towards Tenna. “H...Here…….”
As they’re taken from his grasp, he slowly peers open one eye to see a light pink blush dusting Tenna’s screen, lips quirked up slightly in an expression Battat thinks is second hand embarrassment, and maybe a bit of coyness.
There’s a small pause, before Tenna replies with a nonchalant, “Thanks a bunch.” As he flips a thumb between the papers to glance over them. Battat’s about to thank the Angel that Tenna has the grace not to say anything, before his boss speaks again. “Good thing the day’s over with, right?” His antenna tilt, and his smile gets just a bit wider—smugger, even. “You can let loose now.”
Battat’s face goes so hot he might pass out from heat stroke. He manages to barely nod, hopefully enough of a response to get Tenna off his case. Only this guy…
It works, because he’s met with a, “Well, on your way.” As Tenna shoos him, and turns back to where he came from.
Once Tenna is out of sight, on wobbly legs, he continues his slink to the Mike room. He’s lightheaded— he can’t believe he did that in front of his boss! Letting his own body humble him, getting teased about it, more flustered than anything done in bed could make him. It makes his stomach flip.
From the mortification, this time, but it’s not like that was just it. If anything, that last release was the pin dropping, and he cannot hold anything more in.
The door to the Mike room finally looms in front of him, and he jams the code in. The second it dings, he shuffles inside the room, shutting and relocking the door behind him, and just slumps against it. The tension in his muscles disappears as a couple short, wet farts burble out of him, grunting as they peeter off into another rumbling one that goes on for a good few more seconds.
He sighs against the door, not unaware of the pleasure that washes over him, replacing the painfulness of holding it all in. He’d never wish that coffee on his worst enemy, but the high he’s getting from the relief might be worth it. He even breathes in, catching a whiff of the awful smell it leaves behind, biting his lip at it.
The side of the door isn’t the most comfortable position, though, and he turns towards the rest of the room, only to immediately freeze in place.
“Heya, Boss.”
There’s his two fellow impersonators, both lying on the couch in their communal room, Pluey curled up to Jongler’s side as they look up from a book.
Battat thinks he might just cease to exist. Not just turn to stone, just completely disappear from reality. He swallows dryly. “...You…”
“Tenna let me out early, and I invited Pluey to hang.” Jongler answers before he can finish the question. They tilt their head and ask, in a voice far too casual for the occurrence, “Youse, uh, plannin’ on hangin’ here too?”
“WELL.” He coughs. “Well. I can… I should…” He really doesn’t want to make it back to his own residence, and too many people were still around at this hour. He’s not about to kick them out, not when they now knew why he needed some peace and quiet.
His thoughts are cut off quickly by Jongler again. “We’s really don’t mind, if you’re not feelin’ well. And, y’know, if relaxing will make y’feel better…”
If it wasn’t for knowing them extremely well, Battat would think he’s being made fun of. But that’s his stupid Zapper, and there’s no way they’re not being entirely genuine. As they say it, Pluey scoots over and pats the cushion on the couch between the two, eagerly.
It almost makes it worse, shame crawling up Battat’s neck. He could take it if they were being disgusted, but the sincerity makes him even more flustered. Even after they witnessed all that? “I… I don’t know if you know what you’re agreeing to.” He tries, only to be interrupted by his own body again, another low fart purring out of him. “—gh, fuck.” He rubs the side of his face, warm to the touch. “...Um, excuse me.”
Pluey makes some sort of low whistle noise best interpreted as sympathy, and is springing up from the couch and grasping Battat’s hands, dragging him over. “Really, I’m still—” He practically trips over himself as he’s forced to sit, the movement making more gas sputter out of him, whining a little bit.
“It’s all good, Boss, you don’t gotta be professional around us.” Jongler is wrapping a much bigger arm around Battat, rubbing his shoulder firmly. “Even with youse, uh, tummy troubles.”
“Don’t… don’t call it that!” Battat squawks, elbowing them lightly, even as he’s sunk further into the couch. Pluey shoves himself on the other side of Battat, and leans over to press one of Jongler’s buttons, turning on the screen they have in the room to a movie.
He realizes with annoyance it is extremely difficult to stay this tensed up with two people snuggled on either side of him, and finally surrenders. If they really didn’t care, even after that…
His eyes flutter shut, back of his head resting against the couch, letting a couple more farts stutter out in quick succession.
Pluey hums next to him.
“A little.” He mutters, and then tenses as another airy one squeezes out, “I—ah,” His voice catches in what might as well be a moan. “I might be here awhile…”