Real Mens Journal Part 8

Real Men’s Journal Part 8

~DAY???~

Coach says I need to keep writing. Dunno why. Writing makes me question and then the pain starts again. It’s easier just to let it all go, ya know? I’ve been working my tris and my quads today with my glutes and my calves. Everyone looks up at me now and it feels so good. Been just smiling and walking around, really enjoying it, you know? It feels good watching people look at me like that. 100 slapped me on the butt today. I just smirked and kept walking. Chuckled a little too. Turned back once to see him wave.

I like 100. He’s like a big brother. Nah, sounds too formal. Let’s just go with big bro. I like that better. Yeah, bros. Big balls bros. I like that. Mmmm … gonna have to visit the showers a little early tonight. Think I’ll bring that little guy, Clark, with me. He looks like he needs a good time with his bros. His big fucking bros with a massive, manly bulge. Mmmmm … God it feels so good to say that. Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly bulge. Can’t fucking get enough of my fucking massive bulge. Getting bigger all the time. All the time. No wonder Dick and Tracy loved this. I feel like I can beat anything. Anyone. Like I can do whatever the fuck I want. Head’s getting fuzzy again. Better move on. Uh … what was I talking about again? Oh yeah, was gonna talk about the others.

Josh and Cooper are great buds. Coach says he put them on fast track to be with me. Now they’re nearly the same size. I must be around six foot four now. So fucking tall. I walk down the hall and the beds shake. I like that feeling. Let’s me know I’m nice and heavy. Coach says we’re nearly ready for the next step now. I uh … used to feel kinda bad about that, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s good after all? Don’t know. Don’t need to know. If Coach says it’s okay, it’s okay. Have to listen to coach. Have to obey coach. I obey. Kyle obeys. Kyle’s number is 56. Kyle is 56. 56 obeys. 

Doctor’s Log Entry

~October 24th, 2016~

This is Doctor Seroyan of the Specialist Division: Project DYNAMO A.K.A. “The Process”

I was most curious when I received an email from the Young Adult Underground Compound in Macaronesia regarding a certain test subject recommended by Numbers 1 and 5, former names: Damien Jones and Bryan Kent. This subject 56 appears to be a bright lad, very perceptive from what I can see. It’s a pity he has to go through The Process, but we do need a demographic from a variety of ranges and health conditions. This boy’s asthma is perfect to see the respiratory impact of the process, or so his medical records show. I don’t quite understand why I was called in as a consultant, but perhaps the boy’s journal entries will shed some light on the situation.

 ~October 26th~

Interesting. Typical treatments were not enough for the subject. He eats with the others, but his metabolism doesn’t appear to be increasing, despite the “special ingredients” inserted. His journal entries imply heavy sarcasm and wit alongside his sincere desire for freedom and family. Curious. The lack of hypnosis files are doubtless part of the problem, but I am curious if there might not be something in the boy’s blood that makes him resistant as well. We’ll need to run some tests.

 ~October 27th~

The boy’s blood panels have come back. I see no negative impact from the serum. In fact, when exposed, cells regenerated, growing healthier. White blood cells reproduced at a faster rate and red blood cell count skyrocketed. The Process never ceases to amaze me. Most cells die and then are replaced in the body, but the formula has made them self-sustaining. I’ve never seen the progression first hand before. Fascinating. If my theory is correct, then the power of the mind is indeed the key. The brain has to send signals to the body to accept The Process. Once it gets into the brain cells, there’s no going back and the subject will continue to follow the steps to their ultimate conclusion:  Physical Perfection. I’d best send my prognosis to Coach Abrams immediately. We’ll start with flooding the rooms with the gas form first, then go from there. I want to prove that mental commitment is required before recommending nocturnal binaural treatment. I haven’t been this excited about a special case in years.

 ~October 30th~

Interesting. The process does seem to be having some effect on the boy, but according to body scans, they’re minimal at best. Still, the gas does appear to be having an effect of sorts on him in his sleep, as it does for all subjects. Intense arousal triggered by surges of testosterone implies treatment is working. Given enough exposure, it is possible The Process could work without mental suggestions, but that would require an undue abuse of resources. No, best to stick with what works best. I will recommend nocturnal binaural treatment begin immediately for all subjects. I look forward to seeing the results.

 ~November 10th~

Subject 56 appears to be oblivious to the passing of time. The alterations to his clock tablet have been a success, and he continues to mark his days by numbers, rather than by date. I have noticed the impact of the binaurals on the subjects. Several are exhibiting more masculine traits and look longingly at the gym, according to the camera feeds. Others have already succumbed and begun a regular workout schedule. Scans show these subjects are using less brain power for their activities as more and more of the brain sends signals and chemicals to the rest of the body, reinforcing pleasure and desire for physical exertion. An unfortunate side effect of these changes is a drop in I.Q. Therefore, as part of the process, we include hypnosis sessions to make them not care about the loss. Once they experience their first growth spurts, many do not even require it, but to be safe, we include them anyways. They make better men and better soldiers that way. Note to self. Talk with maintenance about the lights. The bulbs need replacing.

 ~November 12th~

Further observation indicates the subject, Number 56, is beginning to falter. The boy is taking too long, though. Too much of a danger. I have consulted with my superiors. They recommended I speak with Coach Stone, one of the more … unorthodox of our trainers here, but he knows his stuff. He suggested letting the boy “accidentally” walk in on various hypnosis sessions, starting with the showers. It seems feasible. There is some risk of resistance arising once word spreads to the others, but Stone assures me things will be fine, especially now that we have a new acquisition in the form of number 56’s friend, number 28, Kevin Marugama.

He has taken remarkably well to the changes and adapted accordingly. He still loves to smile, but it occasionally dims when he works out. I believe it has to do with number 56 somehow. Most forget their relationships when they pass into this phase and only care about their new “bros” and their “fucking big dicks” with their new team mentality. 28 seems to want to wait. He is more hesitant. Perhaps he bears a lesser form of resistance than his friend, 56. The strange part is, he’s embraced the program more so than any other. He’s grown the largest, changed his hair, grew his “massive, manly bulge,” conformed to everything, and yet he still hangs on with his mind. Curious.

 ~November 13th~

Subject 56 has made contact in showers as planned. The boy was markedly surprised and the others reacted as projected. Their only idols will soon be their own reflections and muscle. Number 56 appears to be rattled, but unfazed otherwise. He wisely has chosen to keep his counsels to himself, though the arousal appears to be increasing and he is following the commands embedded in his subconscious as he sleeps. Surely it will only be a matter of time before he joins the rest of them, becomes the very thing he used to despise: a musclebound thrall obsessed with whatever his commanding officers tell him to be. For our purposes, that will be fitting the stereotype of a big, dumb jock with a massive, manly bulge.

Say these words, and the subjects fall into a trance loop until they fit the stereotype in every way. It’s most effective. Anyone exposed will experience intense and sudden arousal, followed by lightheadedness, and lastly, a sense of intense euphoria as they run and re-run the loop over and over in their minds, mass producing the key ingredient in The Process, causing their bodies to swell and distribute it through their systems until they reach maximum physical peak, or as they like to call it, being “fucking huge, big, buff, and swole with my fucking massive, manly bulge.” Crude, but effective. It has a nice ring to it. My compliments to the men at the recording department. The lyrical and rhythmic effect makes the command catchy and easy to repeat.

Once The Process gets far enough, the subjects often speak, record, write, and rewrite their commands and subliminals over and over again in their journals in a variety of forms, like “gotta get swole with my massive, manly bulge,” “muscles. So huge. Massive. Fucking massive. Bigger. Buffer. Grow. Just a big, dumb jock with a massive cock. My massive, manly bulge,” and “Yes, sir. All I care about. Grow big. Big dick. Only meat in my head. Think less. Grow more. More massive the bulge, the bigger I grow, the less that I know, with my massive, manly bulge.” And so they continue to repeat, and lose, and forget their old selves until they are a new person entirely with a new, distinct, set personality that’s completely loyal to Coach. That is to say, their coaches. Pardon me, it’s getting rather late. Focusing on Number 56 has caused me to neglect myself. I’d best take a lie down to clear my head. Until next time.

 ~November 23rd~

Datalog entry file 56. Case:  The Mysterious Resistance

56 is showing clear signs of wavering. We decided to kill two birds with one stone by finishing converting numbers 22 and 23. As a bonus, numbers 5, 10, and 13 were also present. Against my orders, the gas was deployed to fill the chamber, effecting all present and accelerating the changes until all five were ready. It was … quite the display. Number 56 has been feeling the results since. He is beginning to record the trigger and other words to begin erasing his old personality. As the other drones say, “out with the nerd and in with the jock.” I look forward to seeing the end result.

Coach Abrams came up with a fit over the gas flooding at first, but I managed to convince him it was for the best. Coach Stone was very pleased. I believe the two have a rivalry of sorts going on, but I can never be too certain. The boy is once again too frightened to speak, which is good. A few more events like this and he’ll likely tip over the edge. His will is formidable, however. Many of the others have already fallen in line, but this one still hangs on. He may just have to pass on to another class in the first phase.

The next day, we had an escape attempt. No use trying to hide the effects of the process now. The guard drones overdosed the poor boy, then flashed him with the accelerant. The boy never stood a chance. He’ll join the guards and patrol the interior walls of the facility while other workers maintain environmental controls to keep up the illusion of the outdoors. The boy in question would obey any order you gave him so long as he viewed you as a superior. Though I do have to admit I am the slightest bit jealous. Those abs, those quads, those biceps. He’s an Adonis and more. I attended his post examination. To get so close to one of them, to actually feel that power, it’s indescribable. Makes me dizzy just thinking about it. So built. I … I um … need to rest. Maybe run a tox screen. I wonder if the drones have begun to produce the chemical in their sweat. It’s possible, considering how much our recent addition was pumped full. So very full. Pumped. Um … yes, tox screen, then bed. Definitely.

 ~November 24th~

Tox screen shows normal. I appear to be fine. No signs of the chemical in my system. We arranged for the boy to “accidentally” catch his former leader in the middle of a hypnosis session. Coach Stone is most skilled. Number 100 fell under the moment he heard his voice. The prompt to leave one bud loose was genius. He lost the binaural effects, but at this stage, he was deep enough in control we could afford to let it slip this once. Number 56 reacted most strongly and demonstrated astounding memorization skills. I, myself was most moved by Coach Stone’s performance. He has a very powerful voice. Very deep. I actually have a meeting with him later this evening to discuss the next step in the boy’s progression. 56 is a threat until he completely gives in. He must give in. Must give in. Must listen. He must listen and obey. Only then will The Process be able to complete. The Process must complete. Must complete. Complete sets...

 ~November 25th~

Drone 56 appears to be falling well into place now. He worked out without a single question, just blank obedience. His weight loss is slower than projections indicate they should be, but he is progressing. That is what is important. Progress. Man’s greatest achievement. What sets apart the real men from the fakes. Coach Stone has recommended I stay a while longer. We talked over coffee and discussed the details. He’s concerned the boy will break trance. He’s done it before. His conscious mind is very powerful. After a long discussion, I agreed to stay, and drank several cups of coffee while I was at it. I’ve felt so tired of late, I needed the caffeine. The coffee was surprisingly good. What happened after is a little fuzzy, but I recall returning to my quarters and wishing Coach Stone good night. I’ll see him soon, I’m sure. Very soon.

 ~November 26th~

Number 56 continues to progress slowly as he works off his excess fat. His asthma seems to be non-existent now, a sure sign of clinical success. His body repaired itself. Astounding. I have visited with Coach Stone now, and he desires to help me get more fit while I am here. I appreciated the offer, but politely declined. I hear his training methods are rather brutal. I really need to see someone about these lights, they’re starting to get rather distracting. I think I’ll ask Coach Stone about them. He seems to hold some sway among the higher ups. Yes, I think I’ll visit him now.

 ~November 30th~

56 continues to practice his routine. He is beginning to show more progress now as his metabolism increases. The programming is working. We have Coach Abrams regularly ask him about his massive, manly bulge now. Each time we say it, the boy smiles and runs the program, but when he’s done, his body seems to remain mostly the same. His penis size and scrotum size have hardly increased at all. Coach Stone is concerned, as is Coach Abrams to an extent. 56 has been useful in helping to convert some of the stragglers, but he himself still clings on somehow. It’s incredibly frustrating.

I have agreed to meet with the coaches on a regular basis and keep them apprised of all that I find. I may have to observe 56 from a closer standpoint before I can really find out what’s wrong. That is a rather disturbing thought though. To observe him up close, I would have to join the program under the pretense of being a new recruit. To walk in as a scientist would be positively out of the question. Why? Because the boys and men would immediately seek to exploit the weakness, not to mention they would likely suspect the method of delivery and then we would be forced to overdose them like that other boy. I’ll talk it over with Coach Stone at the gym. He tells me that’s normally easier for him than meeting in his office.

 ~December 5th~

As I suspected, the coaches all agree it’s not possible for me to enter the program for a closer examination. They warned me it would be a one-way trip and that what doctors had tried before were now little more than testosterone-soaked, musclebound bodybuilders. Many of them have been sent to various contractors in professional football and bodybuilding competitions. Naturally, what funds they win are generously donated to help further our efforts here with The Process and their families are notified of their “deaths” with a supplemental check in the mail to keep them afloat for the rest of their lives.

I have gotten into the habit of going to the gym on a regular basis to talk things through with Stone. The majority of 56’s classmates have now moved on. A mere straggler or two and he’ll be all alone. Coach Stone informs me he’ll be visiting to finish their conversions so that we can move on to plan B. Coach Abrams is not happy, but I have recommended Coach Stone to take over after this class is finished. The boy is clearly a troubled case, and perhaps unorthodox is exactly what we need right now. The higher ups have agreed with my assessment. Abrams will stand down, or he will be removed.

 ~December 10th~

Coach Stone did as he said and 56 is now alone. He continues to exhibit behavior as a focused drone: obedient, hardworking, flexing, etc. He still hasn’t changed much, however. He continues to show signs of resistance, and it is my hypothesis the boy will wake tomorrow and return to full consciousness. He will also be met by a brand new class of students. Coach Stone will be able to take care of them just fine. I look forward to seeing how the boy reacts to Stone’s personality. Stone can be quite persuasive when he wants to be. Quite persuasive, indeed. I just wish he’d put that to use for my office space. The lights have gotten worse, not better. I’ll have to take this up with the facility director if I can’t get this resolved soon. But first I’ll try Coach Stone one last time. I scratched his back. Maybe he’ll scratch mine.

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 4

Hunter ghosted through the halls. The dull hiss continued to play over the loudspeakers as he passed.  Every thug he snuck past murmured to himself as he stared, blank-faced, ahead. As he ran, Hunter felt increasingly dizzy. His erection had grown extremely uncomfortable, and his body felt so warm. Hot. Tense.

“Flex, meathead.” The voice was low, dull, a nigh perfect replica of Thirteen, only synthetic, somewhat mechanical. It was the first real message Hunter had heard over the loudspeakers the entire time he’d been here. His body froze as the men in the halls turned. As one body, they groaned and struck a pose.

“I am a meathead. I obey. We are meatheads. We obey. Meatheads flex. Meatheads obey. We are all big, dumb meatheads.” They flexed together, moving in a choreographed ballet of muscle and masculinity. All those muscles. All those bulges. Straining. Pushing. Swelling.

Hunter barely suppressed a groan. His head was swimming. His body trembled. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. The fabric in his crotch strained.

“I obey. I obey. I obey.”

“I obey …” Who said that? It sounded just barely out of time. Had it been his imagination?

“What was that, Hunter?” Control asked.

“What? Uh … nothing, Control. Nothing,” Hunter whispered back. “They’re just affirming their orders.”

“Obey, meatheads. Report to the gym. Work out. Change guard,” the voice commanded. The men clomped from their places on the walls, and began to form up in a line.

Hunter watched them, then smirked. Yes, it could work. “I’m going to try something, Control. Just don’t freak out, okay?”

“What’re you up to, Hunter?”

“What better way to sneak into the gym than with a crowd of mindless soldiers?”

“Hunter, that’s not–”

But Hunter had already filed in as he turned off his camouflage. “I obey. I am a meathead. Meatheads obey. Report to gym. I obey. I will go to the gym. I will work out.”

Nobody batted an eye. No one raised an alarm. No one tried to seize him. The soldiers parted, making space within the line for him, before standing at attention. Every one of them was a hair’s breadth apart from the man before him.

“March,” the voice commanded.

As one, they pressed forward. Hunter stumbled a few times, but eventually he got the hang of the rhythm, and fell into stride. One. Two. One. Two. Right. Left. Right. Left. Meat. Head. Meat. Head.

“Meathead ….” He shuddered in pleasure. The shudder seemed to pass down the line. Everyone felt it. Everyone. All one. All the same. Fellow soldiers. Fellow units. Fellow meatheads. Wait, since when did he think of them as …?

“What was that, Hunter?”

Hunter shook his head, snapping himself out of it. “Nothing, Control,” he whispered vehemently. “A little radio silence, please? I don’t want to give away the act.” He felt a heavy pressure on his shoulder. A deep, empty voice spoke into his ear.

“Listen. Obey. Meathead.”

The dizziness came back full force. Everything felt so fuzzy. He almost fell out of step. Another hand landed on his other shoulder, steadying him. Steady. He can’t afford to fall out. Fall in. Fall in, and march. March in time. March, and repeat orders. “Listen. Obey. Meathead …” Have to repeat. Have to fit in. Steady. So steady. Tromping. All in line. All in sync. The hands squeezed briefly. Then they were gone. He leaned more heavily into his footsteps. His legs spread wider. He grunted. It was met with a grunt of approval from behind. They marched. And marched. And marched. Keep going. Keep moving. Stay together. Obey. How long had they been marching now? He couldn’t tell. Just going in unison. One. Two. One. Two. Meat. Head. Meat. Head. He could feel his meat. His massive meat. Straining. Just like his head. He tried to turn his head, but … why did he want to? He couldn’t afford to stand out. Standing out is bad. Fall in. Obey. Fall. Repeat. Obey.

“Obey …” The word was out of his mouth before he could think. But … why should he think?

“Hunter …”

So thick. Hard to think. Head full. Meat full. Straining. Growing. Yes. Growing. He should grow.

“Grow with us,” the voice behind him said.

“I …”

“Grow.”

Head. So thick. Growing thicker. Heavier. Harder to think. Don’t think. But … Growing … harder to think. Don’t think. Obey. Conform. Growing … growing….

“Grow with us, meathead.”

“Grow?” Should he? Was that … right? He was trying to blend. He had to. To finish his mission. …What was his mission again?

“Yes,” the deep voice confirmed.

“Hunter, snap out of it!”

“Grow with us, meathead,” the voice repeated.

That buzzing. Something … in the back of his mind. But … growing. Should he?

“Grow with us, meathead,” the voice said for the third time.

“Grow with us.” The command came again, this time from in front of him.

“Grow with us.” This one came from further behind. Soon the whole line had taken up the command. Their voices were deep and compelling, timed perfectly to their heavy march.

“Grow. With. Us. Grow. With. Us.” Step. Step. Step. One. Two. Three. Step. Step. Step. Grow. With. Them. Perfect rhythm. Pounding. No shout. All united. All in sync. Just like their steps. Just like his steps. Just like him. Growing. Growing with them. Grow … with … them.... Yes.

“I …” Hands on his shoulders again.

“Grow with us, meathead.”

Obey. Follow. Fall in. Listen. “Grow … with … you …” His hands twitched. They felt … bigger. Bigger is good. Yes. That was his mission. To grow. Grow big. Grow Strong. Grow like a meathead. Just like a meathead. Because … because …

“Damn it, Hunter!”

The hands on his shoulders tightened ever so slightly, then released, hanging loosely on him. “Yes,” the voice said. “Grow with us, meathead.”

Grow. “Grow with you. … Meathead.” He shuddered. His suit felt tighter. “Grow … with … you.”

“We are meatheads.”

Repeat. Conform. Obey. “We are … meatheads.”

“You are a meathead.”

“I am … a meathead.” Of course. He should grow because he is a meathead. Grow with us, meathead. Grow. Meathead. Grow into meathead.

“Just like us.”

“Just … like … you.” Same. Obey. Grow. Meathead. Meathead. Meathead.

“Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads … obey.”

“I am a meathead. I obey.”

File in. Repeat. Conform. “I am a meathead. I obey.” And so it went down the line. They were all meatheads. They obey.

“We are all big, dumb meatheads,” the voice said.

“We are all big, dumb meatheads.” Everyone said it. He said it. All said it. All. One. The same. Meatheads. Everyone. Conform. Obey. Fall in. Tromp. Follow. “Meatheads must grow …” Yes. Must grow. Grow big. Bigger is better. Bigger is dumber. His head felt so clear. The lightheadedness, the stuffiness, gone. Empty. He felt the hand squeeze his shoulder again, and he knew it was approval this time. Welcome. Must join. Must grow. Meatheads must grow.

“Grow with us.”

“Yes. Grow. Must grow. I am a meathead. I must grow.” He felt hot. So warm all over. It was good to follow. Good to obey. He felt his muscles strain against the fabric of his suit. He smiled. Grow. Must grow. Fulfill his mission. Grow into a true meathead.

“Grow at the gym.”

“Grow at the gym …” Report to gym. Grow at gym. Work out. Grow. Lift. Strain. Step. March. Follow. Obey. His suit clung to his body, but it didn’t get any tighter. Thoughts of Stone were far behind him now.

“You are a meathead.”

“I am a meathead.” Obedient. Meathead. Follow.

“Meatheads must grow.”

“Meatheads must grow. I must grow.” Yes, so clear. So right.

“Grow at the gym.”

“I grow at the gym.”

“We are meatheads.”

“We are meatheads.”

“Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads obey.”

“We obey.”

“We obey. I obey. Meathead must obey.” Must obey.

“Join us,” the voice droned.

An invitation. Feel so good. Muscle to muscle. Back to back. Bulge to bulge. Staring. He wants to grow. Wants to obey. Wants to march. To be a meathead. To be the same. He is the same. Meathead is the same. This meathead will join. This meathead will march. This meathead will listen. This meathead obeys. Join. March. Listen. Obey. Join. March. Listen. Obey. March. Listen. Obey. March. Obey. March. Obey. March. O– Hunter yelled in pain as a heavy electric shock ran through his arm. The fog cleared. What had he been doing? What had he been thinking? He shook his head, and immediately ducked out of the way, flattening himself against the wall as the column suddenly stopped. He braced himself for combat.

The literal wall of muscle turned as one, and simply stared. Together, they pulled up their visors. Together, they stared vacantly ahead, their eyes dull. Looking to the one that had been behind him, Hunter saw unfocused abyss-blue eyes locking with his own icy blue. “Join us,” the familiar voice repeated. He took off his helmet. He offered it to Hunter.

Take it. Obey. Meatheads must obey. This unit is a meathead. This unit must listen. This unit must join. Join. Listen. Obey. Join …. No! Hunter gritted his teeth, and pulled back the hand that had been reaching for the helmet. He barely staved off the shudder he knew would come. He had been that close to joining them. “Never.”

The thick man looked at him almost pityingly, and shook his head. He placed the helmet back on his own head. Then, as one, the group formed up, lowered their visors, and tromped away, still mumbling their orders. Even as he watched them go, Hunter couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of regret. He had disobeyed. He had not joined. He had not listened. He was not a good meathead.

“Hunter, you damned idiot,” Control hissed. “Didn’t you think for even a moment that maybe, just maybe, that substance in the pipe might have been the same substance Stone used in the main hall?”

“I’m sorry, okay, control?”

“Oh, you’re sorry. I suppose that’s supposed to make everything better now. Look at yourself, Hunter. They nearly turned you into one of them! Your dopamine levels and HGH are skyrocketing, adrenaline is rising, your heart rate is fluctuating, you’ve put on at least a good twenty pounds in muscle mass, and you don’t even care!”

“Why should I?” Hunter hissed vehemently in return. “What’s done is done. We can’t change it, and I can’t get the hell out of this place until I swipe across that damned checkpoint. So do me a favor. Take notes on the effects the drug or whatever it is has on me, and tell me where I need to go. If you’re right, then this process is still happening, and I’m still mutating into a–.” He caught himself just in time. “–Into one of them. We have to finish this, before I’m fully compromised. I have to kill Stone. If he dies, his project dies with him.”

“Hunter.…”

“Just do it, Jason!” Do it. Convert. Become a–no. Hunter shook his head. He had to stay focused.

“Follow the corridor. According to your suit, you’ve dropped a good ten stories beneath the castle. The size of this compound is positively massive.”

“Massive … yes.…” Grow massive. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly–pain. Hunter cried out. His watch. It broke him out of it. He breathed heavily, leaning against the cool metal walls. The lights flickered above him in strobes, marking his path. Occasionally, the pattern of the walls would change, giving way to numbered key pads and thick blast-proof doors. So thick. Like his muscles. Like him. Thick … heavy…. Stop it.

“Hunter, are you alright?”

“I … I am now.” Hunter shuddered. He was far from alright. He was slowly losing his body and his mind, his very will to this … whatever it was. And however pleasurable it may be, it still wasn’t worth the end result. “They … they must have trigger words for this. Things that make us–them compliant.” He was not one of those things. Not yet, at least. “Keep shocking me, if I start … you know.”

“I will. I promise.”

“And Jase … stay on the line with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Hunter.”

“Thanks. One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Turn off the synthesizer. I … I want to hear what’s happening to me with my real voice. Not … not his.” He heard the clacking of keys.

“It’s done, Hunter.”

Hunter took a deep breath. “… Test. Test.” As he had feared, his voice had deepened somewhat. It was only to be expected with the growth of his body, and particularly the anatomy straining against the crotch of his pants. “Well, at least I’m not vapid yet.”

“And you’re still coherent. We’ll probably know you’re closer when you start using less intelligent words.”

“I guess making them dumb is his way of keeping them in line.”

“… I don’t know. The drug seems to be doing something up in your cerebellum. Wait a minute, no, the cortex. No, the frontal lobe. Shit. Your whole brain’s lighting up like a Christmas tree. I’ll try to isolate–”

“Don’t bother, Control. You and I both know you don’t have the hardware for it. You can barely read what’s going on in my brain with those sensors in the suit as is. Just keep recording what’s happening, and move me along already. I have to get to that gym, before Stone does.”

“… Take your next left. After you pass through three intersections, hang a right. It’ll take you through a spacious room. The plans are kind of vague on its function. Apparently it’s some sort of observation room, but other layouts read it as a lab. Just be careful passing through there, alright, Hunter?”

Hunter grunted.

“Hunter.”

“I’ll be careful,” he finally said.

The room turned out to be a giant dome-like structure supported by several heavy beams that arced upwards to meet in the central joint, where a ring covered in machinery laid in wait. Large, flat display monitors curled up like scutes on the maw of some demented beast. A series of symmetrical lab tables sat in order one after the other, forming a circle of approximately twelve adjustable slabs including restraints, adjustable mechanisms, and multiple tools within the drawers. Some of the storage units wouldn’t open, indicating that these were either for decoration, or possibly could only be accessed via remote control, like the monitors above. Pulsing blue LED lights lined the columns and ceiling above, circling the white fluorescent bulbs. Several smaller LEDs formed the outlines of large oblong hexagons about three feet off the floor, a good six feet long, and a good eight feet more in height. Considering the size of some of the behemoths in this place, Hunter couldn’t fault the investment. Anyone in the ops business could clearly tell they were viewing windows of some kind. He probably just had to find the controls to see inside if he really wanted to. Twelve tables, twelve viewing windows, twelve cells. Twelve possible victims he could save.

“Control, can I access these rooms with Meathead’s security clearance?” Hunter shuddered at the word and the cotton started to stuff itself back in his head again.

“That depends on his clearance.”

“What happens if it’s not high enough?”

“Security comes to get you.”

Obey. Follow. Go with them. Hunter groaned. “Control, I need another shot.”

“You got it, Hunter.”

One extremely painful shock later, Hunter made his way to one of the panels. “… Frat boy?”

“That’s what it says. Don’t ask me.”

Hunter crossed to another of the consoles. “HSBDJ … Thug 4 Life … Teen Titan … Peer Pressure … Meat Ray?” Hunter stared in disbelief. “The hell are these supposed to even mean?”

“You have two choices. Either try to open them up and find out or get out of there and get to that gym.”

“… We need all the intel we can get. I’m going to try to access the units … whatever they are.”

First, Hunter tried the cell marked Thug 4 Life. Sliding the card across the scanner, he found that a series of options appeared on the pad. He selected View Subject, and watched as the heavy steel slowly pulled open and he stared inside, or rather, he tried to stare inside. A layer of black or some sort of brown stared him in the face. “What the hell?”

“Who knows?” Control responded. “Try another one.”

This time Hunter went for the one labeled HSBDJ.

“Acknowledged. Meathead.” With a mechanical chirp, the pad unlocked and Hunter pressed the viewing button. The metal opened with a steely hiss, and as Hunter looked inside, he saw a large bed, a weight bench, and a myriad of other workout machines ranging from a step machine to a treadmill to a stationary bicycle. A pyramid of protein powders complete with mixing cups and blenders sat on a mahogany desk that had been littered with the remains of previous drinks and old clothing.

A set of shoulder pads lay strewn in a corner, the jersey tossed to the other side of the room. Some stray bits of fabric peeked out from beneath the bed, and a crumpled piece of under armor hung precariously from one of the closed drawers of what appeared to be a dresser. A professional grade football lay atop it, mounted on a metal stand, which also held a pair of football gloves on its prongs.

Posters of every major player from the latest season of the NFL posed around the room, catching balls, throwing the touchdown pass, tackling another player, or smiling out with a dopey grin at the win that had just been pulled off while his teammates surrounded him. A single shower stall sat in a small alcove with what appeared to be some sort of viewing screen. Either it had settings for the shower or it may have been an actual television.

A tall boy with a medium build and shaggy black hair stood by what appeared to be a nutribullet machine, only without the logo. It whirred loudly, causing the football’s stand to vibrate, along with some of the used cups that had been discarded to one side. A large mirror hung behind the blender, stretching from one end of the dresser to the other, and reaching a good four feet higher. The boy unlocked the drink and began to swallow as he turned towards the viewing window. Dead grey eyes widened as he gaped and dropped the drink all over the floor. A single oversized dark green jock strap barely clung to his waist.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You … you’re not … you’re not one of them, are you, br–?” he barely managed to stifle the last word.

“My god; he’s kidnapping minors,” Control said.

Hunter pressed the com link. “How old are you, kid?”

“I … I’m fifteen,” the kid replied. “Please. You … you’ve gotta get me out of here. They’ve been … doing something to me. To all of us.”

“There are more of you?”

“At least ten of us. Probably more. I … see them sometimes. Well, I used to. Before I was put in here. They’re … different now.” He looked away. “Sometimes they show me feeds from the gym on the monitor. There’s more of them every day, and they just keep growing … growing …”

“Stay with me, kid,” Hunter said.

The boy shook his head. “S–sorry.” He shuddered. “Some of them welcomed this. Most of us were bullied before we were brought here. I used to be four and a half feet tall with a squeaky voice. Now …” He motioned to himself. “The people who really wanted this, they grew. Fast. But some of us were … what they called stubborn. One day, a couple of us went missing. Took a couple weeks. At least … I think it was a couple of weeks. But then they were back. They were back … but they weren’t the same anymore.” He looked down. “All focused on this and this,” he said, pointing to the sagging pouch of his strap and the smaller muscles on his frame. “They … didn’t talk much anymore after that. They just kept working out. When they did talk, it was all about sports and statistics. And fuck, man, did they ever get stacked.” He shuddered and shook his head. “Sorry … sorry. I … didn’t used to talk like that.”

“How long have they kept you here?”

“Weeks. Months. Who knows? I don’t know anything anymore. It’s … it’s what they do here. It’s like they suck your brains out and turn you into some sort of muscle zombie. It’s all you can think of. All you want to do. All you want to be... all you want to be …”

“A mindless meathead,” Hunter said, shuddering.

“A big, dumb jock,” the kid said. His cheeks were getting flushed and the fabric didn’t sag so much on his strap anymore. “You … you have to get me out of here.”

“Kid, I don’t know if the card I swiped even has the clearance.”

The heavy thrum of drums and a wavering series of notes began to play over the intercom. The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh no. Not again. Please, no.” he looked desperately at the window. “You’ve got to get me out. Please!”

“What’s going on?”

“Every time this music starts to play, I black out. I fight it, I try so hard, but I … I … always … Gah!” he clutched at his head. “Fuck!”

“Kid? Kid, stay with me.”

“That damn song … always that same damned song!” the kid growled. “Stupid. So … stupid. I … it’s … so … so stupid … I … I …” he looked down at a rapidly forming tent in his jock strap and a dazed smile came to his lips. “Yes. So … stupid … dumb … so … dumb …”

“Kid! Snap out of it!”

Something flickered over the window. Its pixels moved, but Hunter couldn’t make it out.

“Trav, dude, you’re lookin’ good today,” a deeper baritone said. The voice paused. “What happened to your shake?”

The boy looked numbly down at the spilled liquid on the floor. “I uh … dropped it.” He put a heavy hand to his head and swayed on his feet.

“Well go get another one, bro. We don’t got much time. Workout starts soon. You know how Coach gets when we’re not on time, and you’re gonna need the protein, man.”

“Marcus, I–”

“It’s Mark, bro, you know that.”

“Uh … yeah. Do I uh … y’know … have to listen to … that music again?”

“Course ya do, bro, the whole team does. You do want to join the team … right?”

“Join … the team?”

“Yeah, Trav. You know, the football team. Fucking tackling, training, lifting weights, getting swole. It’s fucking awesome!”

The boy cringed. “My … my head. It … it hurts!”

“Headache, bro. Not enough fluids. Ya gotta drink your protein. Go on. And move your ass. Coach is almost here.”

“I …”

“Drink the protein.”

“… Drink … the protein.” The boy called Trav, probably short for Travis, made his way towards the drink stand and grabbed a shaking mixer cup. He opened one of the canisters of powder and dumped three heaping loads of emerald green sand into the container before filling it with milk from a minifridge, closing the cap, and shaking it up. His hands followed the rhythm of the drums.

“Drink the protein,” Mark repeated.

“Drink the protein.”

“Gotta get swole, bro.”

“Get … swole.” Travis swallowed the drink.

“Get swole to get on the team.”

“Uhuh …” Travis took another drink.

“Get swole and listen to coach.”

“Listen … to coach …”

“Listen … and obey … Yeah … obey … Feels good to …”

“Fall in!” A rugged voice barked.

Travis stiffened like a board and approached the screen. “Yes, sir!” The cry was a chorus. Just how many kids were on that intercom?

“Mark, get in with the other jocks. You’ve got a lot of muscle to grow today.”

“Yes, sir, Coach,” Mark’s voice droned. Hunter remembered the line of meatheads he’d been following, how easy it had been to just fall in with them. To walk. To listen. To obey. They must have been doing the same thing to these boys. And the kid Marcus had mentioned a whole team. Just what the hell were they trying to do?

“Trav, report in. How’s your growth coming?”

Travis shuddered. “Grown a full six inches.”

“Grown a full six inches, Sir,” the voice grated. “We’ve been over this, Travis. I’m your coach. You have to show the proper respect.

A dim spark jumped in Travis’ sleepy eyes. “But ... not … you’re not … my coach. Not … not like … them. Not … not … a jock.”

The gravelly voice sighed. Then it spoke gently, almost like a parent would to an ignorant toddler. “Travis, I see you’re wearing your jockstrap. That’s good. You know who wears jockstraps?”

“… Jocks.”

“That’s right, Travis. Look at the screen. You see those boys over there? They’re all good jocks. They’re wearing their jockstraps. They’re wearing their uniforms. They’re waiting for orders. All together. They’re part of a team, Travis. Tell me, do you see a difference between what you’ve got in your room and what they’re wearing right now?”

“I … I uhh …”

Hunter cursed under his breath. He couldn’t do anything but watch. If he tried anything, he could be captured before he had the chance to fulfill his mission.

“Speak up, Travis.”

“… No …”

“No what?”

“No … Sir.”

“So if jocks wear jockstraps, and you’re wearing a jockstrap, what does that make you?”

Travis gritted his teeth as he eyed the pixels. Hunter could see the resistance, but it was minimal. How long had they been exposing this kid to these treatments? What could they possibly be trying to accomplish?

“I’m waiting, Travis.”

“…”

“Don’t want to talk, huh?” The music intensified and a dull ringing played over the intercom. “Then just listen to my voice, and obey. I’ll tell you what you are.”

Travis groaned. The bulge in his strap grew a little larger and he stumbled forward, his hand slamming against the viewing portal.

“Listen to my voice, Travis. Listen to the music. You’re falling into a haze. Deeper and deeper. So deep. So groggy. So hard to do anything but listen. To listen to the music. To listen to me. To listen to my voice. Just listen. And fall into trance. You remember what it’s like in trance, don’t you? Peaceful. Warm. Safe. Relaxed. So relaxed as you fall deeper and deeper.”

A mumbled, “Yes, sir,” echoed from the speakers. It would seem the rest of this so-called team could fall into trance just as quickly. How many had this man broken? A second hand thumped against the window as the half-empty cup clattered to the floor, spreading its contents. Travis was breathing heavily. Something was flashing across the pixels, but Hunter couldn’t make out what. Something … in his eyes. Hunter took his hand off the intercom.

“Control, I need you to isolate whatever it is that’s playing across that screen. Think you can get something based on the reflection in the kid’s eyes?”

“I’m a technological genius, Hunter, not a magician.” Control sighed. “But I can try.”

“Please do. And bring it up on my eyepiece. I want to see what this kid’s seeing.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Just give me a shock if I start going under.” He smirked. “You know you like doing that anyways.”

“Hunter …”

“Alright, alright, I’ll lay off. Just do your best, okay, Control?”

“… Fine.”

Hunter pressed the control panel and activated the intercom again. The tribal drums beat low, loud, and clear. The high pitched whine continued. Light flashed on the boy’s eyes and … oh no.

“You can’t stop watching, can you, boy?” the grating voice said. The sound of groans and moans could be heard from behind along with the dim hum of machinery and the loud clanking of weights. They must have already begun the routine.

“Can’t … stop.”

“Here come the images, Hunter,” Control said. “Mirror feed activating now.” And with that, Hunter could finally see what the kid was seeing. He cursed profusely in his mind. The giant square jaw and piercing grey eyes of Stone bored into his gaze. The image flickered from time to time, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the other boys behind the maniac. Each stared blankly ahead, a holo-display flickering from a headpiece they wore as the jocks watched and worked. They were practically as big as he was, and their tight-fitting lycra-spandex pants left little to the imagination. Their broad, hefty shoulders were accentuated by the shoulder pads beneath the jerseys they wore. Occasionally, Hunter would notice a larger, older man passing by and speaking to the boys. So, Stone had brought his bodyguards to keep an eye on the kids. That would make things harder.

“You’re falling into the screen. Falling … falling … falling into the screen. Falling into my voice. Falling into line. Falling … and as you fall, you listen to me. And you can’t help but listen to me. Can’t help but listen to my voice. Can’t stop staring. Can’t stop listening. Listening to me.”

“Listening … to … you …” Travis mouthed.

Images and words superimposed over the broadcast like JOCK, MUSCLE, GROW, and OBEY. Muscled beasts of men and teenagers stared ahead blankly as they posed and grinned before flashing away just as quickly. Images of footballs, lockers, padding, and other sports gear also flashed by.

“Good boy.”

The boy stared, slackjawed.

“Can you hear me, Trav?”

“It’s … Travis …” the boy said.

Stone’s brow furrowed. “You told me you hated that name, Trav. Don’t you remember? I think you said something along the lines of ‘only a fucking pussy would keep a nerdy name like that.’”

The times Travis’ brow furrowed. “… Fucking … pussy … fuck, what was I thinking?”

“You weren’t, but that’s alright, my boy. You don’t need to think. You just need to listen to me. Listen, and obey.”

“… Listen … and obey.”

“Good boy.”

Travis, now Trav, shuddered at the praise. He stood up and rubbed the side of his head with a hand.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh … yeah. Head feels all … fucking fuzzy.”

“It always feels fuzzy, Trav, remember? It’s why you always have trouble in school.”

“… Trouble?”

“Yeah. You barely pass anything. Most of the time you just scrape by with a C. You’re just that dumb.”

“… Just that dumb?”

“You said so yourself.”

“… Just that dumb. … Dumb … I’m … dumb …” Trav’s eyes grew more vacant as he stared. His hand dropped to his side as he processed what Stone had just said. Ever so slowly. Slower and slower. “Uh … right … dumb … dumb....”

“Come on, kid, fight it,” Hunter thought to himself as he clenched his hand into a fist. Stone sneered. That was one more reason this son of a bitch had to die.

“That’s right. I’m right. I’m always right, Trav.”

Trav nodded his head as it drooped ever so slightly. “… Always … right.”

“There’s only one class you ever got an A in, Trav. You know what that is?”

Trav shook his head.

“Gym.”

The word was like a bomb going off. Hunter watched as Trav began to sweat. He spread his legs, no longer comfortable to keep them so close together, and rightly so. The kid’s legs were starting to expand, and besides that, the sagging pouch in his strap wasn’t so saggy anymore.

“You love the gym. It’s the only place where you can actually think straight. The more you worked out, the more you did anything physical, the more focused you became. You just empty your mind and focus in the gym. It was great. It is great. Great to just empty your mind and focus on me. Focus on my voice. Focus on your coach.”

“… Yeeaahhhhhhh …”

“Of course, the only problem is, the moment you stopped working out, you stopped being around the gym and went back to class. Things got worse again. Things got fuzzy.”

“… fuzzy … uh … yeah. Hard to … hard to think.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and start a set on the bench there? Clear that dumb head of yours.”

“Yes, Sir.” Trav walked over to the workout bench and sat down, leaned back and waited. A machine lowered itself down from the ceiling and racked up the bench with three hundred pounds. He grabbed a hold of the bar. He strained, pushed it up, then began his set. As he did so, the sweat poured down his brow and his arms began to bulk up ever so slightly.

“Good jock.”

“M’not a–” he grunted as he pressed upwards “–jock.”

“Not yet,” Stone said.

“Not yet …”

A piece of plexiglass descended over the boy as he pumped, arms growing, hands firm, chest expanding, shoulders broadening. A light beamed from a tiny projection device behind the glass, forming the image of Stone properly. Hunter didn’t need the reverse mirror camera anymore.

“But don’t you want to be?”

Trav grunted as he pressed into another set.

“So large, so strong, so … hung. The boys at home would worship you, and you could crush them under your feet if you wanted.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, pressing again. Don’t … wanna be … like … like …” Trav was staring up at the screen above him now. The images and words had returned with a vengeance. “Like … uhh …”

“Something the matter?”

“Be … like … something …” He grunted as he pressed again. His jaw grew more defined while his brow pressed out ever so slightly. “Can’t … remember.”

“Like your posters, perhaps?”

Trav pressed again, turning his head ever so slightly to view the players. “… Football …”

“Yes. Football. Your favorite sport.”

“… Favorite … sport.”

Hunter gritted his teeth. The setup made sense now. This was a form of isolation chamber. The whole point of the room was to reinforce the idea of being another mindless meathead, only this time, they were molded to fit the jock stereotype. What was Stone’s plan? World domination?

“Football is your favorite sport.”

“Football is my favorite sport.” Trav’s voice cracked as he said it with the other jocks.

“Do you know why?”

Trav grunted and favored the bar instead, pressing harder as he widened his legs. The jockstrap was rapidly inflating now as he continued to work, and a six pack was starting to form in his abdominals.

“It’s because sports are your life. Your body is your life. Muscle is your life. Growing it, working it, reveling in it. And the bigger your muscles, the better you feel. Bigger balls, bigger dick, bigger you.”

“… Yeah,” Trav slurred.

“There’s just one catch.”

“Wut?” Trav asked dazedly. A fine sheen of sweat covered his now significantly larger body. His broad shoulders pressed out from the edges of the bench. His arms practically ballooned outwards as veins pulsed and throbbed beneath the tight skin. And worse yet … he was grinning.

“Damn, that stuff works fast,” Hunter thought.

“The bigger you are, the dumber you get,” Stone said.

The results were nigh instantaneous. A full body tremor ran through Trav as if he had fallen flat on his face. The light in his eyes dimmed as he stared up at the screen, the grin still holding. He chuckled as his tone of voice shifted to fit the dull, empty look in his eyes.

“Good boy.”

Trav chuckled again. “Feels fucking great, Coach.”

“Of course it does, Trav. Being a big, dumb jock always is. And right now, that’s just what you are, isn’t that right?”

Trav’s brow furrowed. “Uh … I … don’t know …”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t know anything but football and weights. Just like a good jock.”

“I–”

“Because you are a good football jock. Wearing your big jock jockstrap for your big jock junk and your big jock bod.

“Big … jock …”

“Why don’t you try on some of that gear, muscleman? You’re looking a little … underdressed.”

Trav blushed as he put the bar back on the rack.

“Start with the girdle and pants, jock boy.”

“Pants …”

“Put them on. The clothes make the man. You dress like a jock, you think like a jock, you act like a jock, you become a jock. And you’ll like it. I guarantee you’ll like it.”

“But what if I don’t want to–?”

“Listen. Obey, jock boy,” Stone snapped.

Trav went rigid again as he stood up and clomped over to the girdle and pants that lay in a crumpled heap next to the drink stand. His significantly larger feet and heavier frame created a loud smack on the floor as he passed. “Yes, sir, Coach,” he droned as he retrieved the items from under the bed and began to slide the material over his calves. He shuddered. “I listen … I obey … obey …” He adjusted his bulge absently once he’d finished putting everything on. The pads accentuated his larger legs and glutes as he stared blankly at the screen. It had adjusted on a rotating axis to keep level with Trav as he pulled on his gear. He pulled his arms into a pose and watched his bicep as he flexed it, enjoying the pump he’d experienced from the sudden increase in muscle mass. The lighting of the room shifted almost imperceptibly to a bright green that flickered and pulsed. “Fuck,” Trav groaned pleasurably.

“Feeling good?”

“Hell yeah,” Trav bellowed.

Stone smirked. “You know, that pump would look even better if you had something tight wrapping around it. Show it off more, you know? Why don’t you try on that under armor you have hanging out from your dresser over there?” He chuckled. “Honestly, you jocks are all alike. Always so messy.”

Trav rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Coach.” This time he sauntered over to the shirt and shrugged into it. Pulling it down for a tight fit. The number 54 shone boldly on the front and back in white over the dark grey material. He turned to face the dresser mirror. Hints of the substance responsible for his changes had formed dried specks on the bottom, but Trav didn’t care as he took in the new contours his body had developed. “Fucking tight. Fucking swole. Fucking huge. Fucking big … big … so big …” The lights continued to pulse as Trav flexed and posed in the mirror.

“That’s right, Trav. And getting bigger. Bigger and dumber.”

“Bigger and dumber.” Trav sounded more confident now, almost as if he welcomed it.

“Let’s try on those shoulder pads next, hmm?”

“Yes, Sir!” Trav grinned, his heavy footsteps jostling the lighter objects in the room as he ran across the floor. He seized the pads with relish and quickly put them on.”

“Now pull the straps to their loosest setting.”

“But Coach, won’t that–?”

“Don’t question, Trav. Just do it.”

Trav did. The lights pulsed in his eyes as he stared before uttering a loud hiss of pain. The pads had pushed themselves up slightly, just enough for Hunter to make out the needles. They retracted a few seconds later, leaving a very dazed-looking Trav.

“Now grow into those pads, jock boy. I need a bulky, burly, brawny defensive tackle.”

Trav let loose a primal roar as his body expanded yet again. His calves and thighs grew to practically twice their size as he shot up to six and a half feet. His chest and shoulders broadened as his muscle mass increased. The pants, once snug, now strained against his new shape as he continued to grow. Body hair sprouted along the tops of his arms, growing thick and rugged as he stared blankly ahead, his brows protruding further to make a permanent scowl. He now stood at six foot nine. His jaw cracked and widened with the rest of his face, giving it the same square, blocky appearance all the drones bore. The shoulder pads creaked as he breathed, but were still a little loose.

“That felt good, didn’t it, Trav?”

“… Yes,” Trav lowed in his new deep voice.

“Good to be big.”

“Yes.” Trav’s nose broadened and flattened slightly, as if it had been pressed in by an invisible hand.

“Good to be dumb. Because bigger is dumber, isn’t that right, Trav?”

“Bigger is dumber,” he droned. “Yes, Sir. Want to be bigger. Want to be dumber.”

“Dumb and obedient.” The flashing grew more intense.

“O … bedient … dumb … and obedient … listen … obey …. Must … obey.” Trav stared, blankfaced at the screen, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

“That’s a good jock.”

“Good … jock …”

“And a good jock is always in uniform.”

“In … uniform.”

“Which you are not. Pull on that jersey, boy. Be a good jock.”

“… Yes … Coach …. Must obey. Be … good jock,” Trav droned as he moved to pick up the old jersey. The under armor looked more like a second skin as it strained against his new muscles. He leaned down and picked the jersey up. The number 54 again showed prominently as he donned it.

“Much better,” Stone purred.

“… Better. Bigger … is better. Bigger … dumber …”

“Jock.”

“Jock,” Trav repeated.

“Nothing but a big, dumb jock, Trav. That’s all you are. All you will be. All you want to be.”

“Want to be … big … dumb … jock …”

“And a big, dumb jock is part of a team. A team of big, dumb jocks just like you. Just like them. Because you’re all big, dumb jocks. Why don’t you tell him, boys?”

A series of plexiglass panels descended, surrounding Trav one after the other until a full nineteen panels flickered to life. The faces were nigh identical. Skin tones varied, along with one or two of the hair styles and colors, but ultimately, they all shared the same facial construction and vapid stares. One looked slightly different, but only for a few moments before his neck thickened, his brow pressed outwards, and his shoulders broadened beneath his pads. That one must have been Marcus. He opened his mouth and the others opened with him.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Thick muscleheads as dumb as rocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Just want to be a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We love becoming big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks….” The chant repeated over and over in a united chorus.

“The more you push at the gym all day, the more you push your thoughts away,” one of the kids said as the chanting continued in the background.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“The bigger you grow, the smaller the mind. The more you leave your old self behind,” a second said as the first rejoined the chorus.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“No going back. You’re here to stay. The bigger you grow, the more you obey.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Bigger … obey …” Trav droned.

Hunter could see what was going on now only too clearly. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to look away as he watched Trav stare, listening to each and every boy as the chanting continued.

“The stronger you grow, the harder you play. Be more like a jock bro every day.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“More like a jock … every day … bro …”

“Gotta bulk up. Gotta get swole. Put the meat in your head. Put the jock in control.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

Trav slumped forward slightly as his shoulders broadened again, filling out the uniform even further. “Meat in my head … jock in control …”

“Damn it! Come on, kid. Fight,” Hunter thought to himself as he watched. His head was starting to ache a little.

“A thicker skull to charge like a bull. Squeeze out the brains. No pain, no gain.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

A loud crack sounded as Trav’s skull flattened on top and jutted forward yet again in his brow and chin. “Thick skull. Squeeze brains.” He chuckled. “No pain, no gain, bros.”

Hunter hissed in pain. His skull felt like it was about to explode. A few seconds later, it stopped. He reached up and felt over his face. His eyebrows felt bushier. His brow had become more prominent. He barely stifled a groan. “Control,” he whispered. “What just happened? My head feels like someone put it through a … a …” His mind was drawing a blank. He could picture the item. See it squeezing, the crank handle, the two metal bits drawing closer together as the lever was turned. “A squeezy thing.”

“A squeezy thing? Hunter, you should stop. Get out of there. Complete the mission.”

“I can’t, Control.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I mean I physically can’t.” Hunter did everything he could to remove his hand from the control pad, but whenever he tried, his body refused to comply.

“Big, dumb jocks must stay and play. Big, dumb jocks always obey,” the seventh of the boys said.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Play. Play football. Yes. Stay and play. I obey,” Trav said as he gaped at the screens.

“Control, I swear I can’t move,” Hunter whispered. “My body wants to stay and play … a big, dumb jock always obeys … big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Turn into a big, dumb–Ow!” He hissed. “Thanks, Control.” He tried to remove his hand. It still wouldn’t budge. “But my body still won’t move.”

“Hunter, I swear, if you make it through this, you’re going straight to kill Stone, got it?”

“I make no promises.”

“Hunter!”

“You see what’s happening here. What about the other rooms?”

“We can scavenge them after you do the job. Take out the head, Hunter.”

“Fine,” Hunter said as he rolled his eyes. Control had a point. The weapons and research could be analyzed later. Assuming these goons were all as dumb as the recordings made them sound, and apparently become, they would probably just keep repeating their programming. Hopefully the organization could help put things right after this was over and get these poor souls back to normal again.

“The longer you listen to us talk, the more you turn into a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Listen. Become. Jock. Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock.” Trav’s shoulders broadened yet again as his calves sculpted further, inflating inside the pants. His feet cracked, then grew longer and wider as he shifted his stance to fit his new frame.

Hunter grunted under his breath. The stealth suit was starting to cut into his skin ever so slightly. Not good.

“Clear out our heads. Empty it all, till all that’s left is weights and football.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Empty … football … yes.” Trav grunted as he listened, flexing a bicep as he looked at the weight bench. Travis was long gone now.

“Obey Coach Stone. There’s no other way. The better we listen, the better we play.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Obey … listen … better. No other way…. Must obey Coach. Obey Coach Stone.”

“All the meatheads we used to mock. Become just like them, a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

Trav chuckled with his new deeper voice. “Dude, do you even lift, bro?” He flexed a bicep and kissed it. “Fuck yeah, I do, ‘cause I’m a big, dumb jock. A big dumb jock. I’m turning into a big, fucking dumb jock.” He grinned as he started picking up the rhythm of the chant.

“Atta boy, Trav. That’s the spirit,” Stone said approvingly. “Keep going. You’re almost ready to join the team.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Fuck yeah!” Trav cheered. “Put me on the field. Let me show you what I can do. Let me obey. Let me grow. Turn me into a big, fucking dumb jock!” His arms expanded further as his legs grew longer. His thighs and calves thickened, turning into pistons to propel him forward on the field. “Thick musclehead as dumb as rocks. Fuck yeah. Fuck … yeah ….”

“You must conform. You must obey. Be just like us if you wanna play.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Wanna play … just like you. Big, dumb jock. Must conform. Must obey.” Trav’s voice grew more distant again and less cocky. “Just … like … you. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock.”

“The harder we stare, the longer the glance, the deeper we fall into dumb jock trance.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Deeper … stare … trance … yes. Just want to be a big, dumb jock.”

Hunter swayed on his feet. “Control?” he whispered

“On it.”

The familiar pain shot through his arm and cleared his head. “Thank you.”

“We’re big, burly brutes with abs like stone. Big fucking dumb jocks right down to the bone.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Dumb jock … down to bone … yes. Big, dumb jock. Love becoming a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, bulky, brawny. You ain’t no wuss. You’re turning into one of us.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Turning … one of you … Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Turning into a big, dumb jock.” Trav hunched forward as the muscles in his neck expanded.

“More muscles. Less thinking. Work out. Can’t stop. Until we become Coach’s big, dumb jocks.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Can’t stop … work out … more muscles …. Big, dumb jocks … Coach’s big, dumb jocks … become … for coach. Musclehead … dumb as rocks … yes.” Trav slowly lumbered his way to a rack holding several dumbbells. The screens followed him, maintaining their droning chant. He picked out two of the larger ones before he began performing sets of curls while staring at the screens.

Stone laughed. “That’s right, Trav. Lift those weights. Work out. Get bigger. The harder you work, the easier it is to just listen and obey like a good jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… Just want to be a big, dumb jock …. Good jock for Coach. Lift. Listen. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock. Yes, Coach. I obey.” Trav grunted as he pumped and stared. The shoulder pads began to creak and strain as he continued to sweat with that vapid grin. His clothes grew tighter still as a shudder of pleasurable growth ran through him.

“The bigger the muscles, the more we get swole, the deeper we fall under Coach’s control.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Must … obey Coach. I obey. Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Just want to be … only want to be. Must be … for Coach.”

Trav dropped the weights with a heavy thud as they dented the wood and stayed. He made his way towards the squat rack and stood in front of a scanner as it ran over his eye. With an electronic chirp, a full four hundred pounds was piled onto the waiting bar bell. “Lift … for Coach,” he said as he heaved it up over his shoulders and proceeded to squat. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the room as the rear pads fell with a gentle smack onto the floor. Soon the flesh began to be exposed as spandex burst and fabric began to separate. The jersey ran up on his torso and his underarmor followed suit as one of the straps on the shoulder pads snapped.

Hunter gaped.

“He looks … practically simian,” Control said.

“Not quite. Just more masculine traits. Thicker jaw, jutting brow. No thick skin either. And normal body hair. It’s just his face that’s changing. His head. Like … like mine,” Hunter whispered back.

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah …”

Trav continued to squat obediently as his pants were quickly reduced to tatters.

“From the scrawny nerd you used to be. Now a big, dumb jock is all we see.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… We love becoming big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks.” Trav’s shoulder pads gave up the ghost with a series of metallic pings as the buckles broke and he sluffed them off, exposing the series of tears that had formed over the rest of his clothing.

“Flex out of your uniform. A big, dumb jock boy now is born.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… We’re turning into big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Thick muscleheads as dumb as rocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Obey, become a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Just want to be a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We love becoming big, dumb jocks.” Trav repeated the chant over and over with the other boys as he continued to squat and grow. He shredded out of his uniform, so that only tatters clung to his shoulders and waist. Soon those were gone, too, leaving nothing but the bright emerald-green sweaty jockstrap which now barely held against his much broader and muscled frame. It seemed … paler in the sweatier parts. He shuddered and grinned as he placed the bar back onto its mount after finishing his set.

           “So that’s how they started them on the chemicals, absorption through the skin. God, look at him. No wonder he’s so … well, you know.”

           “Well endowed? Hung like a horse? Bull balled? Packing heat?” Hunter allowed himself the briefest of smirks at the dirty humor and the squirming he knew he was likely putting Control through, before he dropped it and sighed. “Looks that way, Control, but look at the price.” He watched as Trav pulled at the tight waist bands cutting into his flesh. The kid’s eyes were so blank. Must be high on his own endorphins and testosterone, and he wouldn’t be coming down any time soon. Hunter shook his head consolingly. “I can relate, kid. I can relate,” he whispered, fiddling with his own suit as it squeezed uncomfortably against his neck, arms, and crotch. It would definitely be hard to move in this thing. Once he actually could move, anyways. He’d probably tear through it if he tried full range of mobility, but there might not be any way to avoid that.

           Stone laughed. “See now, Trav? That wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re even enjoying yourself now, aren’t you?”

           Trav turned to face the screen projecting Stone’s face. “Yes, sir, Coach. It’s good to work out. Good to be a big, dumb jock.”

           “That’s right. And now it’s time for you to join your team in earnest.”

A whirring sounded from over by the dresser as the mountain of old cups toppled, having been shifted by the panel that was rising out of the sealed segment to reveal an armored safe. With a high pitched tone and a mechanical click, the door creaked open to reveal a headpiece just like the other boys had been wearing.

“Put it on, Trav. Complete the process. Join the team.”

“Yes, Coach,” Trav droned. He lumbered over to the mirror and reached into the safe. He pulled out the band, put it on, then adjusted it to fit his head. He checked himself in the mirror a few times, posed absently, then stood stock still as the glasses let out a chirp, followed by a whirring sound as two slim wire-like protrusions snaked outwards and entered his ear canals. A dim holo-screen projected over the front. A small progress bar flickered over the screen, displaying 99%.

“Congratulations, Trav. You’ve converted to muscle. You made the team. You are now officially one of the boys.”

The bar filled to 100%, and as it flashed, a dark sludgy-green slowly seeped out of his pupils and consumed the grey. With a pathetic snap, his jockstrap gave up the ghost. “Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. I’m nothing but a big, dumb jock.” He laughed then, a deep, empty sort of laugh. It made Hunter shudder.

“Good jock. Put on your new jockstrap, and report to the gym for your new uniform. A meathead will be waiting for you outside. As for the rest of you boys, get back to work.”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, Coach,” echoed through the room as the display monitors shut off one after another. Hunter hastily retracted his hand, his body his own again. The viewing window went dark, and a loud crackle sounded through the dome-like facility.

“Meathead, you didn’t follow orders. I told you to report directly to the gym. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Hunter bowed his head. “Sorry, Coach,” he replied as the voice simulator kicked in again. He shuddered as he felt his crotch grow tighter.

“You can apologize when you’re working at your station again. You’ve been gone for too long. I know you were watching. Now get the kid, and bring him here. Make sure he finishes cementing his programming, then report to me personally. Do I make myself clear, Meathead?”

Hunter shuddered. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead understands. Meathead obeys. Meathead is a good meathead.” He heard it and felt it at the same time as the suit began to tear, exposing his skin to the cool, sterile air of the lab. He turned, and stared at the door to the isolation room, waiting expectantly.

“Good Meathead,” Stone purred. Then the connection cut off. The door opened with a steely hiss as Trav thumped out.

“Big, dumb jock. I’m a big, dumb jock. Obey coach. Make more jocks. Yes, Sir. Grow the team. Good to be on the team. Football team. Love football. Fuckin’ love football. Yes, sir. Must report. I obey.”

“Meathead obeys. You will follow Meathead to gym. You will follow Meathead to Coach. Must obey Coach.” Hunter let out another grunt as he turned, doing his best not to tear his suit further. He could hear the kid padding behind, droning his affirmations. Poor guy. Now Trav stood taller at six foot eleven, but unlike Meathead, he didn’t try to dominate or throw his weight around. That probably came later in programming. Hunter paused a moment as he felt a tingling sensation running down his hand. Looking down, he cursed. His wrists had grown as well. The band barely clung to the expanded joint. “Control, we have a problem,” Hunter said.

“I know. Your readings are all practically dead. Circuitry’s pretty much shot. All I’ve got left are your watch and your head gear.”

“Those won’t last long. At least the watch won’t.” Hunter groaned. “That means … I don’t have much time left. It’s been nice knowing you, Control.” A massive shock passed through Hunter’s arm. “Ow! What the hell, man?”

“One last dose, before–” the wrist watch snapped. “–That happens.”

“My growth is increasing, Control. Soon enough, I’ll probably be just as far gone as this kid is. We have to take out Coach Stone before that happens.”

“Coach Stone?”

“You know what I mean, Control.”

“Just making sure you’re still with me, Hunter.”

“I am, Control. Now where to next?”

“Follow the corridor to its end, then hang a right. The gym will be at the end. Use Thirteen’s ID to register and pass through.

“Got it. Get to the door, use Meathead’s ID, deliver the package, then take care of Stone. Easy.”

New Writer on the Block

Hey, all. I’m Omni, also known as Omnikitsune on Furaffinity.net. I’m a writer who’s absolutely obsessed with transformation fiction. I particularly enjoy muscle growth and hypnotic themes, but I also enjoy other types, such as animal, and am willing to experiment with new ones, like inanimate, etc. For those of you who find this blog, I hope you enjoy the work that I post. Some of it will come from previous works that I’ve written, and others will be fresh material.

That being said, I do have some little rules I’d like to go over with people.

I may be willing to take requests, but if I do, it will likely be shorter posts. I love doing a properly developed story, but I do have real life work that I need to take care of, too, after all, so I won’t always be able to be so detailed on scenery and character development, etc. Suggestions are also welcome, if people have prompts, but I don’t guarantee I’ll be able to get to them all or even be willing to do them all.

Rule one may be changed, if I get enough subscribers who wish to see me write content for them to use full time. That being said, I would require an alternate means of support. So, any donations to Ko-fi or commissions would be appreciated. I don’t use Patreon, since I don’t really have enough followers to make it worth it at the moment. Kofi link will be below. If you wish to discuss commissions with me, you can send me a private message, and I can give you a quote. http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

I do not do adult content. I will go mature, and occasionally I may use more crude or crass things as certain characters may require in my work (Perhaps push the envelope), but I will not write graphic sex scenes. Please respect this rule when you send me requests or commission me. There doesn’t have to be sex for a story to be great or fit a trope.

I may occasionally ask for some advice or help with parts of tumblr, since I’m new to this particular blogosphere. I hope you guys will understand and be patient with me as I learn. Any advice you can give would be greatly appreciated on those topics as I ask them.

Thanks for reading, and I look forward to joining the tumblr community.

~Omni

This, I definitely agree with wholeheartedly.

Repost this anywhere

Real Men’s Journal Part 10

DOCTOR’S LOG

~February 28th~

It’s been nearly a month. Subject 56 has changed drastically. He’s grown in size and mass to the point of being truly “swole.” He’s been positively stacked with muscle and his penis has grown to the point where it’s remarkable he can manage to put together so much as a sentence. The boy is constantly swearing and cursing up a storm, repeating the words “Fuck” and “Damn” over and over again. Every time he speaks a trigger word, the easier it is for him to fall into trance. He’ll be lost soon enough and then I can move on.

Statistics as of last scan:

Height:  5’9

Weight:  290 lbs

Subject Response Rate:  90%

Subject Rank:  Advanced

Recommended Course of Action:  Advance to next level. Transfer to intermediary.

As for me, I’ve made some serious gains over the last month, and Coach Stone has encouraged me every step of the way. I’m grateful for the lights now. They help me to focus. I doubt I’d be able to get my work done if they were fixed. Viewing the statistics, watching 56 transform and convert, it’s been very … informative. I believe I have a better understanding of the language our subjects use now and occasionally, I use it around my colleagues as a joke. A few of them laugh, but the only one who really seems to get the humor is Coach Stone. We continue to meet on a regular basis for three hours a day at the gym while I work out. My musculature has improved vastly and my dates have been through the roof. I guess it’s true what they say. Working out is an excellent way to improve testosterone production. My sex life has been nothing but aces since I started. I’ve never felt better, and I’ve never been bigger. I am loving the new me. Goodbye, Doctor Seroyan. Say hello to Big Rookie.

 ~March 30th~

56 continues to grow. He’s gotten so huge. I’ve made it a habit to review his journals every day now. The way he slowly changes is so captivating. He started off so small, so out of shape. Now he’s essentially a god. Cocky, confident, boastful, and slowly becoming obsessed with sports, physical fitness, muscles, and of course, his bulge. Watching his hologram progress projections in sync to his entries as well as seeing the videos from security footage and the recorder in his tablet have become my new hobby. That, and spending some more time with Stone.

My own personal clothing has grown rather snug with the gains I’ve been making. Since the lab coats are specially tailored, along with my other garments for work, I have little choice but to shift to my work out gear when I can. I doubt it will go unnoticed, but I don’t have much choice. I have to go. It’s time for my work out again. Coach Stone and I have agreed we’re going to try to extend a little longer. I can see why our subjects love the gym so much. The rush of endorphins is incredibly pleasurable. So much so sometimes that I even find myself dreaming of the gym, working out, and continuing to grow. The ladies love my new muscles and increased masculinity.

…

So do I.

 ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Phase 2. Entered. Hard to think. People posing so much. FLEXing. I feel so small compared to them. I want to join them, but I can’t. Not after what COACH did. They’re trying to wear me down. I … can’t let them. Have to remember. Have to … think back. Back home. School. Classes. Man, they were so boring. And I was so weak. A fucking pussy. But … I liked being like that, didn’t I? Did I? It’s been so long. Can’t even count the days anymore. Who has time though? Got so much work to do. Worked so hard at school. Worked like a fucking dog. Worked and worked and worked out. Felt so good. Feels so good. Working out is good.

Damn that hissing! I’m not one of them! I won’t give in. Won’t let myself get SWOLE. Even if I am a fucking stud. Hell, I’m hung like a horse. Like a fucking bull. Feels so fuckin good with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. People coming up to me. Callin’ me bro. Yeah … lil’bro. We’re bros …

Damn it, we’re not!

… But we are. I’m so confused. It hurts my head. But I can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop touching myself. I’m fucking ripped. Look at me. Look at us. So HUGE. So SWOLE. FLEXing. Posing. So good. But … I was … thinking about … something …

…

Game time. Report. Go to showers. 56 Reporting. Must March. Must Report. Yes, sir.

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~April 12th~

I’ve been having such strange dreams lately. I don’t remember them well. Something about pushing. I remember a heavy weight. Grunts. A sense of satisfaction. I felt … almost mindless. I think there was a voice of some kind in the back pressing me on. I … I don’t know.

For reasons they won’t tell me, my superiors have had me confined to the base. I am having great difficulty dealing with that since my romantic life was doing so well, and it helped to relieve certain urges that are now building up in my system without release. I’ve lodged a complaint, but have yet to receive a response. The only things I can do now are observe 56’s progress and work out.

I’ve taken to referring to Coach Stone by his title, much like the other test subjects. My reasoning behind it, however, is a bit more logical. Since he has decided to dub me “Rookie,” it seems only fair that I call him “Coach,” much like the relationship between a boy and his trainer. I’m rather glad to report I took him by surprise when I said it. We both had a good laugh over it as I got to work on my routine. It’s a great joke: a nickname for a nickname. I’m up to five hours now in the gym. Time goes by so fast. It’s hard to stop. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to.

I think I’ll see about extending my hours again.

56 has been upgraded to Phase Two in The Process. “Coach” made the unfortunate miscalculation of starting into the desire to be a football jock too soon. He neglected to look into the boy’s, well, I guess I can’t call him a boy anymore. Let’s go with strapping young man’s history. It would appear that before he was recommended and brought into the program, Number 1 and Number 5 decided to act on the bullying program instilled in their subconscious as football jocks, which we use as standard cover for our operatives to fit in. The High Schools are so judgmental and cliquey that a living stereotype blends perfectly. Unfortunately, this bullying has led to a great aversion to the sport in the subject at a subconscious level. It will take some time before the desire to play takes root, I fear, though being around fellow members appears to be helping him in the long run.

The close proximity to greater muscle excites the subject and pulls him into a hypnotic stupor which allows the subliminals we play on the speakers every day to have greater effect. That combined with the trigger words we’ve installed in him will soon have him towing the line again. He’s already adopted the others in his new barracks as “bros,” and they have adopted him in kind. The command to watch sports and follow reinforcement protocol is also intact and he has followed it militantly with his brothers. Even as he fell in line, I watched as he gained an extra two inches in height while matching stride. His pre-programmed arousal only added to his euphoria and sense of displacement from his former self. Even if he claims otherwise, the subconscious desire to conform, to fit in, to be the same, to belong, is strong in every high school student. It is strong in him. I watched as his genitals expanded, while they marched in unison. While he is not yet at their level, he will soon catch up. Soon he will match in hair style, in weight count, in competitive nature, in muscle mass, and, of course, in I.Q.

Here is a recording of their transcript. Watching them as they filed in was quite the experience. Of course, I did make sure to include filters in the cameras to preserve dignity. It’s part of company policy.

ACCESSING PHASE 2 CONFORMITY CAMP CAMERAS

A group of boys line up in files and prepare to make their way to the showers. One is shorter than the rest with shaggy dark brown hair. As each file forward, they approach the camera and a light blue light surrounds them as they are scanned. A door opens, and they pass through. Eventually, this shorter boy walks up and stands inside as the entrance seals shut. His jaw is square and his eyes are open, staring obediently ahead as he spreads his legs, exposing his erection while he stands at attention.

“Identification?” a female voice inquires.

“Kyle Matthews,” the boy replies.

“Identification?”

“Kyle Matthews.”

“Please state registered identification.”

“Ky–”

“Please state registered identification.”

“… Number 56.”

“Voice identification imprint confirmed. Initiating scan.” The light blue light flashes up and down over the boy as he stands there, unblinking. His pupils contract as his erection presses further against his pants. His brow grows slightly more prominent as the hair along the ridges becomes bushier. “Confirmed. Player Number 56. On track.”

“Player Number 56. On track,” he mumbled back and shuddered as a smile crossed his face. A new door hissed open as he passed into the locker room and the camera angle shifts to the inside. He approaches a locker where another scanner waits. The shower room is cavernous and from the upper vantage point, multiple men stand side by side as they look into the digital eyes on the metal surfaces. No benches are anywhere in sight. The room slowly becomes more filled as the systematic hissing of the entry doors repeat rhythmically. More men march into the room at a measured pace. No one speaks. No one interacts. They just file and wait in front of the lockers. When everyone has arrived, the men turn as one body to the red lenses that stare back at them from the seamless metal before them. A large, bold number identifies which portion they are meant to stand before.

“Welcome, subject players. Identify.” As one, the men stare at the lens and announce their numbers simultaneously.

“56.” He flexes in front of the lens as others perform similar actions. A red beam fires into his eyes, scanning his retinas as his pupils dilate, then contract to pinpricks. “Gotta get swole. Massive, manly bulge,” he says in unison with the others. The beam disengages as a musical chirp sounds, followed by a loud clunk as the lock is undone on the locker unit and the metal hisses open. Unabashed, the subject proceeds to disrobe with the other men as he stows his clothing in the locker and takes the towel, shampoo, and soap provided. As one man, they turn and file towards the stalls with only their jockstraps left.

“Gotta catch the game. Can’t miss. Too important.” These and other snatches are caught on the camera being muttered by various men as they continue to file toward their stalls. A clouded glass door descends over their stall entrances after they disrobe and casually toss their jock straps to the side.

The sound of flickering screens turning on is heard as the sound of static surges through the air. It soon clears to a more bell-like tone. A calm, deep, smooth voice is heard.

“I want you to relax. Just sit down, and relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. So deep. So smooth, so relaxing. Just listen … and sit … and relax.” The silent whirr of machinery is heard as several dark shapes rise slowly behind the clouded glass. As one, the sound of shifting weight and slapping feet is heard. Flashes between cameras show the distorted shapes of the hulking men sitting on the shadowy shapes that rose. The camera then returns to stall 56. This distorted shape is still standing.

“I … don’t understand. Where is the game?”

“So calm. So relaxed. Just happy to sit … and listen … and relax as my voice takes you deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Until you are fully seated. Fully relaxed.”

“But … the game …” The form is trembling where he stands.

“Your legs are feeling heavy. So very … very tired. Even now, they want to rest. Want to relax. Just as you want to relax. Relax and listen. Listen and relax. As my voice grows stronger, clearer. It’s all you want to listen to. All you want to hear. Everything else grows less and falls away. Falling away. Just as you are falling. Falling into your chair. Falling into relaxation. Falling into peace. Falling into a warm, happy place. Falling and letting go as you sit. Falling into trance.” A chorus of mumbles echo around the showers, responding to the promptings, affirming them.

“I … I feel … heavy … so heavy … legs … tired …”

“And as you sit, and rest, you feel perfectly at peace. So glad to just listen and rest. To sit and rest. To listen and sit. To sit feels good. To listen feels good. So good, so restful, so peaceful. Just listening to my voice and letting go. Listen and sit. Listen and rest. Listen and sit and obey. Falling deeper and deeper. Listening more and more. You want to listen. You want to obey. To obey your legs as they say to sit. To obey the voice that makes you aware of what your body wants. Of what you want. And you know it’s the truth. You know that you want it. So sit. And listen. And obey.”

The figure in stall 56 has entered into a crouch and is trembling above the shadow. “S—so tired. I … I can’t. Can’t … have to …” A heavy thud is heard as the shape falls onto the shadowy chair. “I listen … feels good to listen. Sit. Listen. Relax. I follow. Yes …”

END TRANSMISSION

What follows is a series of continuous hypnotic dialogue as they are slowly converted to match the personality and body type we wish them to take. In that session alone, Number 56 grew to a full six foot three. He also consented to a haircut, calling the “fucking mop on my fuckin head a fucking disgrace.” Subject has clearly reached mesomorph status and is still growing. Body fat content has dropped to eight percent. His muscle has grown at an astounding rate since the treatment took place. The boys chant and sing together on a regular basis about their “MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.”

Odd … why did I use all caps? Perhaps a computer error? I mean, they are BIGGER. There it goes again. Why must I emphasize with capitals like that? The only time I see that is in the boys’ journals. But I’m clean. My scan said so. It must be the computer’s fault somehow. I’ll make a call in to the I.T. people tomorrow about it. After my workout with COACH.

Mmmm … Can’t wait to get my PUMP on. It just feels so right in the gym. Helps me work off some of that tension from being stuck on base, too. COACH just makes it all go away when I LISTEN. When I LISTEN to him, I can just let it all go. I LISTEN to COACH and just let it all GROW. Mmmm … flickering lights. Love em. Going off. Making me feel BIG. BIGGER is better. BUFFER is TOUGHER. COACH is calling. Time to work out. Gotta get SWOLE. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

 ACCESSING NUMBER 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Been a week now … I think?

Music. Pounding in my head. Crashing. Thrashing. Bashing. Tackling. Grunting.

So much fighting. Wrestling. …I want to join. But not ready yet.

Feeling so big. SWOLE. Not enough though. Still smaller. Too small.

Been eatin’ a lot. Workin out a lot. Just workin’ ya know?

Easy to let go that way. Easier to listen. Easier to get SWOLE.

Big and SWOLE MUSCLE bro. Just like 100, ya know?

Just like him.

All MUSCLE.

All BRAWN.

Want that. Don’t I? So hard to think.

Why think?

I … don’t know.

Maybe I … shouldn’t?

So fucking horny. I … gotta go. Time to report.

Report my GROWTH.

My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

GROWing MUSCLE in my head.

Other stuff goes to my dick instead.

BIG MUSCLES.

MASSIVE BULGE.

So much pleasure.

Can’t stop. Don’t wanna. Can’t stop.

Report. Train. Gotta train.

Bulk up the BRAWN.

Dim … dim … can’t think of the word. Can’t spell it.

Something about my brain? Forgetting?

I … I am forgetting.

Oh god, I’m forgetting.

What’s happening to me?

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~May 12th~

Doctor Seroyan

Big Rookie

56 is almost done. Soon he’ll be part of the TEAM. Just like the rest. COACH says it’s time to test him. Dunno how we’re gonna do it. COACH says he wants me to take the test, too. Be a sort of spy for him to see things up close and personal. He says I’m BIG enough.

I asked about the head honchos. The BIG guys. Not MUSCLE BIG, but the in charge kinda BIG. They said I couldn’t go in before. Said it was a bad idea. COACH just looked at me. I never felt so bad. If COACH says it’ll happen, it’ll happen. I have to listen to COACH. Trust him. The more I LISTEN, the more I OBEY, the better I feel. The BIGGER I become. Become. Yes. Become what COACH wants me to become.

Yes, sir, COACH. I’m listening. Spy is just like the others. Avoids suspicion. Acts just like them. I’ll spy for you. Be just like them. Yes. BIGGER. BUFFER. STRONGER. Make me fucking MASSIVE!

Um … yeah. Excuse me. I um … have to go now. Have to get ready. Ready to GROW—uhhh … I mean go. Besides, it’s gym time. Have to get used to their schedule if I’m gonna fit in. Gotta get SWOLE, right? And GROW my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Yeah. I’ll fit right in.

…

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 1

“Hunter? Do you read, Hunter?”

“I read you, Control. This is Hunter. How’s the image?”

“You’re broadcasting loud and clear; the image is clear as crystal. You are a go, Hunter.” A loud slurp followed in Agent Hunter’s earpiece.

“Still drinking that sludge, Control?”

“If you mean my coffee, then yes. Some of us have to stay up for days on end to make sure you agents don’t screw things up.”

“Please, you know none of those guys even come close to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova, dial it back a bit, alright? Your ego’s clogging up the lines.”

“I love you, too, Control.”

“Just get going already, Hunter. It’s going to be a long night. You know your objective. Get in, kill the target, download his data, and get out. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Now get into that compound, break those security codes, and crack some heads for me.”

Hunter smirked, his curly blonde hair glinting in the moonlight before he pulled the sleek black scuba mask over his face and inserted his air tube. Slowly slipping into the water, he pulled himself deeper and deeper into the lake. His tight rubber scuba suit clung to his broad frame as he swum through the murky deep. Fortunately, he had thermal and night vision to assist in his journey, along with a glow stick he pulled out from his tool belt. Cracking and shaking it, he soon found plenty of light to see by.

“You’ll find an old grate at the bottom of the castle on the east side, just beneath the bridge. Take your torch, blow it out, then get inside.”

“I know the drill, control. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“It may be your last if you don’t get moving already. I’m picking up a party crossing the bridge. Looks like … oh shit! It’s Muffati, Bugatti, Pakhtunkwa … looks like our whole top twenty on the terrorist watch list, plus entourage. This is serious, Hunter. I’m patching Director Skinner in now.”

“Hunter, this is Skinner. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Hunter, your mission directive’s just changed. I want you to see what these people are planning. Assuming they’re coming to see the target, we might be able to get some more information on his objectives. Get all the information you can, then proceed with assassination protocol. Time to earn some big bucks, gentlemen. Keep me updated, Control. Skinner out.”

“Damnit, why’d they have to make things so complicated?” Hunter muttered under his breath.

“You know I can still hear you, right? Now quit sulking and get moving, Hunter. If they see your lights down there, you’re dead.”

“Relax, Control, I’m in.” Agent Hunter chuckled as he pulled the grate out from its position and swam up the pipe. The current was surprisingly easy to swim through. “What did you say came through this pipe again?”

“I didn’t. And trust me … you don’t want to know.”

“Seriously, control?”

“I told you you didn’t want to know.”

Hunter sighed, putting his palm to his facemask.

“It’s not like you can’t clean yourself up later. Your gear will take care of that no problem, once you’re inside, anyways.”

“Jason, do me a favor and just shut up, will you?”

“Oh you know I can’t do that, Hunter. After all, I’m your eye in the sky. Now suck it up. You can worry about kicking my ass later in the gym. And it’s Control over the comms, Hunter, remember?”

“Don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Well, with your record and all …”

“Jason,” Hunter said warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Control chuckled. “I’ll let you focus on your work. You should be coming up on a three-way split in the next twenty yards. Take the pipe on the right. It’ll lead you to an escape tunnel.”

“An escape tunnel through the sewage grate? Seriously?”

“Well, you have to admit, it is pretty smart compared to some of the other people we’ve been up against. A lot more conservative.”

“And you’re sure this guy isn’t ex-ops?”

“Positive. Weren’t you listening in the briefing?”

“There was a briefing?”

“Hunter.”

“Relax, Control. Just getting you riled up again is all.” Hunter chuckled as he kept swimming, keeping hold of the newer maintenance handlebars as he pulled himself along, just in case.

“You should be coming up on the security port momentarily. It’ll take me a few minutes to hack in, so sit tight.”

“As if I could do anything else?” Hunter asked as he approached the steel door in question. A thick combination pad sat beneath a large digital screen. A long green cursor blinked within the slots for a combination.

“Actually, you can. Take that ID you got off that guard in the last base and slide it over the pad. I need the system to think someone is accessing it before I can override it.”

“Won’t that send a signal to the target?”

“I’ll intercept it before it can get that far. I just need the in first.”

“Acknowledged, Control. Scanning ID now.”

“Welcome home, Meathead. You have been away for seventy … nine … hours. Input verification code,” a feminine voice said.

“Alright, Hunter, I’ve decrypted the device. The code is 9-15-2-5-25.”

“Got it.” Hunter tapped in the numbers. They lingered on the screen only briefly before the digital display flashed, numbers flickering in and out of control before they resolved into a new visual format: I-O-B-E-Y. “I obey? Seriously?” A yellow light began to flash.

“Shit. It requires a vocal response. Give me a sec. I’ll boot up your voice synthesizer.”

“Hurry up, Control, things are getting a little uncomfortable down here.” The water had begun to change color as pipes emerged from the sides of the tunnel, releasing a green substance.

“Wait for it … wait for it …”

“I don’t have time to wait, Control. Give it to me now!”

“I’ve got it! Quick, say ‘yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.’”

“Seriously?” Hunter was surprised by the sudden change in his vocals as his tone of voice dropped, sounding more vapid.

“Just do it!”

Hunter activated his underwater speaker. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He shuddered at the sheer emptiness in his voice as the system read the synthetization. Memories of the giant thug who almost killed him played over and over in his mind. Over seven feet of height, near four hundred pounds of muscle, vacant expression as the thug smiled and tried to strangle him. And that bulging crotch. He just couldn’t get his mind off of it. How could a man be so large, and yet be so perfectly healthy? Perfect muscles. Perfect body. Perfect bulge. And he nearly won. His techniques were military grade, but there were no records of him in the system. Who was he?

“Bigger is better,” the feminine voice continued.

“Alright, the next line is–”

“Buffer is tougher,” Hunter replied. The machine chirped as a lock disengaged.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” a higher pitched male voice intoned.

Hunter switched off the speakers. “Little help here, Control? I only got the last one because Subject Thirteen kept saying it.”

“Oh, um … right,” Control replied as the sound of rapidly typing keys echoed across the comms.

“Getting a little green down here, Control, and I don’t think it’s the sewage,” Hunter said.

“I know, I know, give me a minute!”

“We don’t have a minute, Control. I need those key words now.”

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer chimed again.

“I … I can’t find it. Someone must’ve detected my hack. This command’s coming from another relay somewhere. I’m locked out. Get out of there, Hunter!”

Hunter stared at the screen. Everything looked so much the same now; the water was so murky. He could hear the poison flowing, the warning beep of the computer, the sound of the thug’s voice. What would he say? So big. So stupid. It wouldn’t be something complex. All that brawn.

“I said get out of there, Hunter.”

“That’s a negative, Control. I’m … I’m gonna try something. This test … it was designed for Thirteen, right? He’s … so dumb. He’d … need something to respond to. Those words … too complex.” The pipe was starting to wobble a little.

“Hunter, this is a direct order. Leave now.”

Hunter shut off his comms unit, and turned on his speakers, even as the pipe began to spin around him.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer said a third time.

Doing his best to sound as stupid as possible, he spoke. “Uhh … bigger balls, bigger dick.” He shuddered at the sound of his voice, and blushed as his wetsuit suddenly grew a little tighter down below. Of all the times. . ..

With a mechanical chunk, the door’s other lock disengaged, and a series of fans appeared around the tunnel, spinning to suck and filter the green substance out as fresh water was pumped in. Soon the pipe was back to normal. The door continued to repeat the phrase over and over again, alternating between the high sophisticated voice and the low dumb synthesized bass, even as it slowly swung open and Hunter desperately swam through. All the while, the computer kept playing in his head, chirping in the water, while static played across his speakers. Or was that just the water?

“… Bigger balls … bigger … dick …” he said again. Then everything went dark.