Hey Man, Loving The Stories! Any Chance You'll Do Some Inanimate TF Soon?

Hey man, loving the stories! Any chance you'll do some inanimate TF soon?

Hmm. I haven’t really tried my hand much at inanimate before, but it’s not outside of the realm of possibility. Was there anything in particular you had in mind?

Actually, you know what? I think I have an idea. It’s the funniest thing. You know those statue performers you see around on the streets, right? Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, but before I actually get into the story, I should probably give you some background.You see, I happen to be a master of transformation. I don’t know how I got this power. I just know that it exists. It sort of lurks inside of me. I’ve tried to access it deliberately, but the farthest it’ll go then is give me inspiration for my stories, allowing me to view transformations as they happen to other people in other worlds, or even in our own, if I have the right kind of luck. How else do you think I manage to get such detail in my work?

Now, the thing is, this power sort of … lunges out of me at times, usually when I’m frightened or startled. If the scare is big enough, the power goes to work, and I can’t stop it, no matter what. The first time it happened was when I was 13. It was one of my last years trick-or-treating, for good reason. You see, at one of the houses, a few adults had dressed up in scary masks to help get in the season and allow us to have a bit of a playful scare. The problem is, one of these individuals decided to get uncomfortably close and continually follow me around the yard as I went to pick up the candy and then make my way to the next home. He said hello, and continued to follow me. When I turned again, he was just an inch or two away from me, possibly less. And he towered over me at the time. My innate fear of the dark was already stoking my fear factor, so it was nearly ready to burst at this point. And, well … the man was the unfortunate person to burst the bubble. His face is horribly disfigured now. It’s covered in ugly red scars that crisscross over his face. His eyes are so large that they’re practically bursting from his sockets. I’d … rather not go into further details. His screams still haunt me. I’m … not proud of what this gift can do to people. It can do good, yes, but more often than not, it causes great harm.This other encounter happened in the middle of a park, where street performers lined up to offer their services. Unfortunately, in this case, I was startled by an exceedingly convincing man covered in a weathered bronze paint. He blended right in with the military memorial as he crouched before a pile of mortars waiting to be loaded into cannon by the other two soldiers. His old military helmet lay cocked back on his head, exposing the carefully gelled and dyed hair combed back in distinctive rivulets to mimic the style of the era and his fellow soldiers. His military fatigues and tight shirt hardly moved, most likely the effect of paint and starch. My friends and I had just stopped to take a picture together, and I was in front of our posing friend. The first few pictures were fun. And then the game was up, when he suddenly moved, clamping his hands on either of our shoulders.I screamed. … And then the power went to work. The man was hasty to apologize as he stepped down from the platform. He hadn’t mean any harm. Of course he hadn’t. It was his job to pretend. Even after the others had calmed down, though, I continued to watch in horror, because I knew what I had done. The others looked on at me in concern, even as I watched the staying hands of the mortar specialist twitch. I saw the loader turn his head to bore his gaze into me, and then into our fake soldier’s back.My whole body went cold. I watched helplessly as the two walked from the memorial’s dais one after the other. Their heavy feet clanked against the cement as they marched in perfect unison, coming to rest behind the performer.“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the performer asked after gathering his wits once again. Naturally, he had reasoned these two were also fellow actors. That assumption was his undoing. I watched helplessly as metallic hands grabbed his arms in a grip harder than iron. Yes, I know the comment is ironic, and no, the pun was not intended. Metal ground on metal as the two soldiers turned their heads to gaze at the man with those same immutable expressions. They pulled him forcefully towards the platform once again.It was when the performer began to struggle that he finally realized the cold, horrible truth of his situation. When he tried kicking one of the men in the shins, all he got for his trouble was a yelp of pain out of his own mouth. I watched as his eyes widened in fear. I watched as my friends struggled fruitlessly to get the statues to let go.The park was alive with screams in a matter of seconds. The performer tried going limp, dragging his feet. Much to everyone’s horror, the gentle sound of scuffing rubber soles soon turned into the heavy grating sound of hard cast metal on stone. He pulled at his legs with obvious effort as he screwed his face in consternation. He could hardy bend a knee. The weight only increased as his legs became more and more stiff.“Oh, god no,” he gasped. “Please, no!” His screams are still vivid in my mind. He sobbed, and tears formed in his eyes. That made it even worse. Instead of falling down his cheeks, the tears took on a dull metallic sheen, and I watched as it covered his irises. He blinked once, twice, and then blinked no more. Instead, a perfectly set pair of metal orbs stared out at the world with a grim, stormy expression. The very air radiated the sounds of fear and hysteria. And all I could do was watch dumbly as His hardened legs clanked up over the lip of the pedestal on which the monument stood. His head was a blur, turning left and right as he beseeched and implored.

Left.

“Please. L-let me go.”

Right.“You want my money? You can have it. I’ll donate to the veterans fund every week!”

Left.

“D-don’t do this!” His head was starting to slow, and I heard the beginnings of the telltale grating.

Right.

“Please.” It was more of a harsh whisper than a proper plea.

A slow turn to the left.

“I … I’m not….”Unblinking eyes met unblinking eyes. The breathing was short now, shallow, more of a hollow rasping as his chest rose, falling less and less each time as shirt and flesh began to blend into one solid surface. His helmet strap had already stopped swaying as he moved.

Again he turned right, and I watched his cheeks and lips twitch with the strain of it as the metal his neck and shoulders had become grated once more.

“I am … I … can’t move … my lips….” He struggled to speak, and I watched as his mouth settled into that grim set line of a soldier intent at his work, never to move again. I remember hearing one final rattling exhalation out his nostrils. And then the breathing stopped.

The two soldiers turned to look at one another and nodded. They released their grips and clanked over to their former positions, lining up with the imprints they had left behind before freezing into position.

One of my friends had enough presence of mind to try to pull the poor man away, now that he had been released, but I already knew it was too late. He pulled at the man, cajoled him.

The performer wouldn’t budge. He turned his head and peered with that same piercing gaze that only a battle hardened soldier could manage, captured so perfectly in his new sculpted features. He grasped my friend by both arms, lifted him in the air, and walked him to the edge of the platform, then dropped him.

With that task accomplished, the performer turned back towards the pair of soldiers, now his compatriots, who stared at him mutely. He marched into position, saluted them, then turned and crouched down in front of the mortar pile, gazing straight ahead. Metal bent and warped, flowing into place, then hardening to the point where one couldn’t tell he hadn’t been a part of the initial casting.

The performer was no more. Now, another soldier gazed out at passersby, a solemn reminder of a war that he would now forever be a part of.

As I said, I’m not proud of my gift. It can help others, yes. But more often than not, it hurts them. It’s best if you leave now, before it lashes out again. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

…

Why are you looking at me like that? What’s in that bag? What are you…? No. NO!

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 3

It’s been a long day, very exhausting as I drove to my sister’s college to move her out of her dorm and then drove back and unloaded. We had a little help, but it was still a full day where I didn’t get home till very late. So sorry for my post coming so late. Anyways, here’s part 3, and I hope you all enjoy it. Oh, and in this part, we get to welcome back an old friend. I know you all have missed him. *Insert wink followed by evil grin here*

“Come on, wake up, damn you!”

           Suspended. Floating. Was he still dreaming? What … what was that? He just blacked out and then … then …

           “Hunter, you son of a bitch, I swear if you don’t respond soon, I’ll put you through hell when you get back; I swear to god.”

           Control … that was Control. He … he was back. How long was he out? The stuff in the pipes. Must have been some form of sedative. But … he was still safe. Still on the other side. Alive. No one had come for him. At least not yet. He might still be able to manage this mission after all. “Control?” Hunter asked as he slowly shook his head to clear it. The dream was all a blur. Doesn’t matter anyways. Not important.

           A sigh of relief. “Thank god, Hunter. Your brain activity dropped for a while there.”

           “How long was I out?” Hunter adjusted his package absently as he took in his surroundings. He really needed to talk with ops about getting some tailored dive suits. This one could barely hold his massive meat. He allowed himself a mischievous smirk as he remembered a few of his more enjoyable conquests. Mmm, that brunette was a fine woman. He shook his head again. Stop that. Focus on the mission. Take in surroundings. Clear water, check. Underground lighting, check. Clear pipe, check. Upward slope, check. Big steel door behind him, check.

           “About five minutes. Hunter, you damned idiot, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

           “For guessing the proper combination and saving myself? If I hadn’t guessed that code, do you seriously think I would’ve been able to swim out of here in time before I went under, Control? Come on. The whole pipe was probably flooded with the stuff, whatever it was.”

           “Hunter, your orders are clear. Abandon the mission. The enemy knows you’re coming. We can try again another time.”

           Hunter rolled his eyes, then smirked. “Never going to let you live this one down, Control. For once it’s not my fault.”

           “Just get out of there, lover boy. And do try to keep it in your pants. I can see your vitals. Your heart rate’s up and your dopamine levels are starting to increase.”

           “You know you’re just jealous,” Hunter jabbed back as he swam towards the vault door of a hatch. A red light flashed from the screen. “Any chances of an override, Control?”

           “Just slide the ID across the door, meathead.”

           Hunter shuddered. His bulge grew more insistent. He needed to let off some steam when he was done with this mission. Maybe a nice vacation somewhere in the Bahamas. Yeah, that’d be good. Take on a few ladies, then work on bulking up for his next mission. If he only barely beat Thirteen, then he’d need to be better prepared for any others like that hulk. He took out the card, and swiped it over the reader.

           “Access denied,” the computer chirped

           He tried again.

           “Access denied.”

           “Control, a little help here?”

           “What did you do?”

           “Nothing,” Hunter growled in Meathead’s voice. “I did just what you told me to. Now get me out of here. And shut off this damn synthesizer!” he barked angrily.

           “Alright, alright. Sheesh. Don’t get your wetsuit in a knot.” The sound of rapidly typing keys played across the comms unit for a good minute or so.

           “By the way, Control, how did you get my comms back on? You don’t have some sort of emergency override switch on your end, do you?”

           “You’re talking to one of the best hackers in the business, Hunter, remember? Now stow it. I have work to do.”

           “Yes, sir. I obey,” Hunter said in an exaggerated monotone, only for another shudder to rock his body. This time he felt more than just a mild discomfort in the tight-fitting suit. He grunted. “Come on, Control.”

           “When I’m good and ready, Hunter. Try to distract yourself of something. Calm down a little.”

Hunter shifted position in the water, trying to keep himself occupied. He absently checked his oxygen supply. Still three quarters of a tank. He’d be fine. He breathed deeply, controlling his intake as he struggled to calm his body down. A good five minutes passed. Unfortunately, the erection hadn’t.

           “… Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Control asked.

           “Hit me.”

           “I can’t override the door. According to the coding, any employee that checks in needs to go to a second checkpoint and swipe the card there before he can leave through the pipe again. If I worked at it a while, I might be able to open it, but that would set off even an amateur’s radar. As it is, you’ll have to follow standard protocol for Stone’s employees.

           “Which is?”

           “How the hell should I know? Nobody we’ve sent to infiltrate reported back in, and you, of all people, know how difficult Thirteen is to interrogate.”

           “As it is, he knows we’re coming. He’s not stupid. I’ve handled worse.”

           “Just be careful, all right?”

           “All right, all right. I will. And Control, you might want to keep my voice changer on for now. Don’t know when I might run into some guards or something I’ll need to fool, so I might as well keep it going.”

           The computer chimed from its pad. “Meathead will report to the gym for immediate workout and debriefing. Acknowledge.”

           “Hunter, I–”

           “Meathead will report to gym. Meathead will obey. I obey.” Hunter shuddered as he said the words. He felt strangely lightheaded. The red screen cleared to yellow, and he turned around to swim up the pipeline.

           “Hunter …”

           “Relax, Control. I’m fine. I just need to–” he grunted “–get out of this suit. Besides, the computer mentioned debriefing. I’m guessing that means Thirteen’s master is going to make an appearance after he reports in. It’s the perfect place to kill Stone. I’ll stick to my mission first, drop in on the meeting, then pop on down to the gym for a little work out and kill him while I’m there.” Flashing lights guided the way up, shining in a multitude of colors as they strobed in their lines. Hunter swam up and above until he finally broke the surface, pulling his oxygen mask off and closing off the tank. He’d need it for his getaway. The room was surprisingly well lit as he made his way to the stairs, and he smiled as he passed the various screens the lined the walls.

           “Welcome home, Meathead.”

           “Report, meathead.”

           “The gym is waiting.”

           “Report to the gym, Meathead.”

           “Obey, Meathead.”

           A strangely annoying buzzing accompanied the messages as he passed, but he had no time to focus on that. His erection was killing him. Hunter quickly raced past the screens and into what appeared to be a massive changing room. An empty stall clearly indicated where he was meant to hang his suit, and seeing as his suit was so much smaller than the others, there was no need to worry about losing it. Spare tanks lined the walls, promising plenty of oxygen should he need a replacement. They were thicker and bulkier, most likely holding more air in higher concentrations. If Meathead was anything to go by, not to mention the sheer size of these other wet suits, Stone must have hundreds of these behemoths on staff. Where did he find them? What did he use to make them so large? Steroids? So many questions. With a heavy sigh of relief, Hunter stripped out of the wetsuit, releasing his body and the culprit of his misery in one go. Now he felt only pleasure. Pleasure, relief, the buzzing, and a nagging computer ordering him to report in, yet again. Of course, knowing Thirteen, it wasn’t that hard to understand. The big lug probably needed repeated instructions to get it through his thick, meaty skull.

           “Understood. Will report. Meathead obeys. I obey,” he murmured, standing there in his shorts as the cool air washed over his hot body. He sighed heavily. That deep voice didn’t sound so bad anymore. As a matter of fact, he kind of liked it.

           “Hunter, you’re past the monitors. I think you can drop the act now. Calm down. Your dopamine levels are running through the roof. … Actually, so’s your testosterone. No wonder you feel so horny. Either way, you need to find a way to stop it and focus on the mission.”

           Hunter shuddered again. “Sorry, Control. I, uh, think it might be a side effect from the chemical, or whatever it was the pipe got flushed with.” He hastily returned to the pipe, where his waterproof satchel sat waiting. He pulled it out midst the flashing bulbs and passed the screens yet again in his tight compression shorts. He firmly clamped his mouth shut, refusing to look at the screens as he raced past. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. After all, he had to report. That is, spy, then kill, then report. He smirked. “Getting a little ahead of yourself there, big guy,” he murmured as he chuckled, shifting into his stealth suit. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite so tight as the wet suit, and he was able to change without much difficulty. As a last addition, he placed a form-fitted set of display goggles over his eyes, before making his way through the tunnel and up into the castle proper.

           The halls were a bit on the chilly side, but Hunter was able to adapt quickly enough. Slinking by along the walls, he heard the distinct sound of hissing over loud speakers. Following the trail of wires, he eventually found the source. Interspersed a good ten feet or so apart, a series of loud speakers trailed. He heard deep voices and the sound of insipid laughter, and pulled against the side of the wall. His stealth suit flickered briefly, before his body blended perfectly with the stone work.

           “Yes, sir. Report to main hall.”

           “Must report.”

           “Must obey.”

           The sound of tromping feet echoed and redoubled, vibrating Hunter’s soles as twenty nigh-identical muscle men almost as big as Thirteen marched past in an orderly manner. They wore Tight black spandex outfits and matching helmets with bright green visors on their heads. A pulsing green light from the visors indicated potential cerebral programming as the men tromped along in dual file. Hunter pressed himself as hard as he possibly could against the wall. He barely managed to avoid being touched as the men filed on. “I’m in luck, Control,” Hunter whispered after they were gone. “They’ll lead me right to the main hall. I’m guessing they’re going to be part of some kind of display. Can you get me a route into the upper balcony?”

           “Easy as pie.”

           “Good. Lead on, good sir, that I may sally forth, and complete my quest.”

           “Shut up, Hunter, and just take the next left.” What followed was a series of directions guided by a projected layout on the display screen that was Hunter’s goggles. Eventually, the spy was led to a set of stairs, which in turn took him to a shadowy and dusty balustrade. He proceeded to duck behind it as he observed the proceedings of the meeting below.

A series of large display units hung above the long table where each of the twenty men and their escorts had been seated. At the head of the table, a great hulk of a man sat. His hair was a bright platinum blonde, his eyes a stormy grey. He must have been at least a good eight feet tall, maybe even nine. The mountain of muscle flexed calmly, his arms rippling as he cut at the steak that had been prepared. His business suit clung tightly to his body, but not so much as to overstrain it. Clearly he had a tailor.

“Now, I know you gentlemen view America as an affront to your beliefs. I admit, I have no great love for this nation myself. The financial system is flawed, men and women are left starving on the streets to fend for themselves for lack of an education they can’t afford, or worse yet, a corrupt business field where they’ve been systematically cut out of the picture.” He chewed his meat viciously for a time, gauging the men before him, before patting his lips with a napkin and continuing his speech. “I have been wronged by this system, gentlemen, but that didn’t stop me from trying to better my situation.” He chuckled. “As you can see, I succeeded. … I am one of the few.

“Much like me, you, and those who follow your causes, feel that you have also been wronged. Whether your sacred lands are being trampled and torn underfoot, or you have lost your homes to corrupt businessmen, or simply because you feel that your religious rights have been taken away from you and you must take arms to defend that right. Whatever the reason may be, in that sense at least, we are brothers. In that sense, at least, we have a common ground. Much like you, I want to change the world, to make it a better place. That is why I sent my men to contact you, and that is why you are here tonight. I have called you here so that, together, we can make the world a better place for all.”

“And just how do you propose, Mister Stone, to further our … common interests?” Muffati, a short and portly man with a heavy robe and a bright white turban said. His beard had grown long, and was well trimmed with the salt and pepper coloration that was typical of his racial background at that age. His accent was thick, but his English was well pronounced. The other men nodded in agreement, even as they finished their respective meals.

“As I said, I can offer you a weapon that no man could possibly expect.”

“And that is?” Muffati asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“The perfect soldiers, of course.”

What followed was fairly predictable. The laughter carried for quite some time, though a few of the men simply settled with glowering. “You have us come to this abominable country for a fable, Mister Stone? We do not take kindly to such jests.”

“And I do not take kindly to idle threats,” Stone responded in an equally flat tone. The silverware on the table began to clatter. Soon the goblets were jumping, the liquid rippling from unseen vibrations. The screens flashed into life as a military anthem began to play. From every doorway, they poured in. Tall, muscled, masculine, and armed to the teeth, the towers of muscle marched in unison, eyes fixed ahead as they formed ranks around the table and the hall. Their helmets still remained firmly fastened to their block-like skulls.

As the anthem played, Hunter felt a distinct sense of dejavous. He’d heard this music somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to play over and over in his head, even as the song finished and the men cocked their guns at the guests.

“As I was saying, gentlemen, I’ve developed the perfect soldiers. Large, fast, powerful, experts in multiple forms of combat, skilled marksmen, lightning reflexes, superhuman endurance, and best of all, they are completely obedient. Isn’t that right, boys?”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, coach!” echoed through the hall. The men saluted, lowering the butts of their guns.

“You would lend out mercenaries? This is your, as you Americans say, sales pitch?”

“No. What I offer is the ability to make soldiers of your own, just as obedient, just as powerful, just as well trained, all under your command.”

“I do not believe it,” a skeptical leader said. His frame was lean and well-muscled beneath his robes, and the guard who stood behind him was taller still, and lither.

“If you doubt their skills, then why not pit your own guards against them?”

“It is a hoax. These few could easily have been trained in advance. Where is your proof?”

“My process, as I like to call it, takes place over various stages, each a vital part in the conversion to become what you see before you now.” He lifted a remote to the screens and they shifted to reveal a CGI of an average human male. “I admit, I prefer this method because it ensures a closer connection between me and my men, or meatheads, as they like to call themselves. However, I have also developed a more streamlined method of application for you men to make use of back in your various war fronts.”

Stone held up a vial while the screen portrayed the same. “A few drops of this incorporated into a man’s body by any means leads to a dramatic increase in testosterone production, human growth hormone production, and a variety of other natural chemicals in the body related to masculinity and growth, along with great pleasure and arousal.” The model on the screens was injected with a syringe, and the man began to experience a growth in muscle mass, along with a large tent pressing against his shorts. “Given enough time to work, this substance incorporates itself into the human body’s natural functions, reprogramming the brain to produce the chemical naturally, and send it coursing through the entire body’s circulatory system twenty-four seven.” The image paled to reveal the circulatory system and the brain. As the body continued to change and work, it revealed the brain slowly changing color and that color spreading through the veins as the image continued to grow in breadth, height, and muscle mass, among other things.

“The end result is what you see before you: perfectly built soldiers. As for their training, admittedly, that requires some small amount of effort, though we’ve streamlined the process significantly. Making use of the pleasure centers of the brain, we take advantage of the surges of hormones to rewrite their minds, inserting a desire for unquestioning obedience to an authority figure.” An image of another man entered and began giving instructions to the other. “The more they obey, the greater the pleasure they experience, and the faster they are able to reach their final stages.” Each task the image that received the injection completed resulted in a surge of growth. “During this time of rapid intake and obedience, we expose them to a variety of stimuli that will train their bodies in the various arts they need to know, and have them exercise it in practice shortly after to make sure their bodies have transferred it into all forms of memory, including subconscious, conscious, and muscle.” The screens shut off. “Any questions?”

“How is this training accomplished?”

“So glad you asked that.” Stone pressed another button on the remote and a wall pulled up to reveal six men standing side by side in perfect formation. Their square jaws rippled with muscle in their necks, and their giant chests barely were contained by the button up shirts they wore. They stared vapidly ahead, their legs spread in a parade rest. Their burly arms were held behind their backs. Their broad shoulders gave them a square-cut appearance, and their stance was so identical they seemed almost like a paper chain.

“Meet Grunt, Crush, Thrasher, Masher, Pounder, and Grinder. Before these men saw the light and joined my soldiers’ ranks, they were sent here to infiltrate and spy on my organization. It took many of my meatheads to successfully capture them, but once I had them in hand, we immediately began putting them through the process. Once they had officially converted to muscle, I had every piece of information copied and downloaded from their brains through a unique neural probe one of my think tanks came up with. Completely harmless, and minimally invasive. A nice touch when you want to keep your subjects alive, wouldn’t you say? Taking the base neurological makeup of each subject’s brain, we combined them to create an ultimate design for our subjects’ brains to reach in their training. We then expose them to the proper stimuli throughout the process to ensure their brains develop the necessary pathways, and thus, the skills for the job. Our six professionals then spar with each soldier to ensure the subject has learned properly. Boys, come here.”

The six men immediately marched in unison, and took their places, three on either side.

“What are you?” Stone shouted.

The resounding cry was deafening. “Meatheads!”

Who do you all serve?”

“Coach!”

Who do you obey?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you fight for?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you live for?”

“Coach!”

Not a soul moved. The room was silent. Stone looked around the room. This time, his voice was softer, calmer, but filled with more intensity than any of the questions he had asked before. His eyes had turned cold, his pupils hard as agates. “And who is your coach?”

“Stone.” It started out small, a single voice, barely a whisper. “Stone.” It came again. This time two spoke. It continued to build one at a time, increasing in intensity, speed, and fervor until they reached fever pitch. The screens blazed to life as images and words flickered across in a virtual blur that verged on pure white. The green visors sprung to life, flickering on the drones that wore them. “Obey Stone. Serve Stone. Coach is Stone.” And so it continued, until the chanting fell into a mindless cheer. One name. One focus. The guards who had come with the terrorists clutched at their heads, and groaned in pain. In a matter of seconds, they had grown as large as the men who now surrounded the hall.

“Oh yeah, one thing I forgot to mention. The closer proximity to others who have been dosed with the compound hastens the process.” The new thick, burly men rose to their feet and placed their meaty hands over their former masters’ shoulders, securing them in place. “They have almost a hive sort of mentality sometimes, so a little affirmation here, a little obedience there, and then they’re just like the rest.”

Stone snapped his fingers, and more of the meatheads came from the doors, each holding a helmet similar to the ones the soldiers wore. “So here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to turn all of your funds over to me. You’ll liquidate your assets and resources, and leave your stupid struggle in the Middle East. Don’t worry, it won’t happen all at once. After all, I have to make sure that you and your men all become part of my little experiment, and we need to make it look like the troops you’re fighting against are winning. You’re only too happy to help, aren’t you, boys?”

The new giants shuddered, and grinned as they grabbed the proffered helmets in their hands. Then they shoved them on the various leaders. In a matter of minutes, their former masters had slumped in their chairs, while their helmets flashed. Stone had completely neutralized the threat, and now had every well-known terrorist in thrall. Up by the balustrade, Hunter gaped.

“Control, are you getting this?” he whispered.

“We’re getting it, Hunter. And … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me. Those men–”

“–Interceptor, Recon, Camo, Berserker, Napoleon, and Narcissus. We confirmed via retinal identification. If Stone’s telling the truth–”

“–Then he already knows about us and all of our operations regarding him and his men. All the more reason to kill the son of a bitch.”

“They were some of our best, Hunter. If he’s really trained every one of his men to be just as skilled, you’re up against some long odds. So am I for that matter. I thought the hack was too easy. He’s trying to play us.”

Hunter Smirked. “Then let’s play him. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll leave our new recruits in your capable hands. I have some business to attend to at the gym. Keep running the program for the next six hours at least. I want these men well oriented by the time I’m finished,” Stone said.

The men saluted. “Yes, sir.” A low murmur of agreement ran through the room as the other soldiers stared ahead. Their own helmets were flickering, indicating that they, too, were experiencing this orientation, even as these new men were. Content, Stone left the same way he had come, flanked by his guard of six. The rest of the men stood obediently as they watched the presentation. Hunter was careful to avert his eyes as he backed away from his hiding spot.

“Control, I need directions to that gym, and I need them now.”

“Already uploading. Get your ass out of there, Hunter. You’ve got a job to do.”

Real Men’s Journal Part 11

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

COACH came back today. He’s not MY COACH anymore, but he is still a COACH. He put us through the ringer. Mile run, pull-ups, weights, you name it. Course, we crushed it. Me n’ the bros. My BIG MUSCLE bros. Just kept calling me bro so much, I let it go. Too much work tryin’ to tell em my name, ya know? We’re all in this together anyways, so we’re all bros.

Coach brought some newbie. Said we’d be put against him for our tests. Wut wuz the guy’s name again? Brook? Wookie? Uh … Rookie? Yeah, Rookie. Think that was it. Wish he’d just get a number. Numbers are easier to remember. 100. 56. 13. You know. Numbers. Numbers are better to remember. So uh … does that mean they’re better than names? Maybe? I guess. Hard to think. So hard to think. It hurts. I just wanna BLANK OUT. LET GO. Forget about that stupid test.

What test? You know, the one with the numbers and all the hard questions on science and shit. It was so fucking stupid. I told COACH so when I turned it in. He just laughed! I wanna punch him in the face so bad. The jackass. I just wanna hit and keep on hitting and bashing and tackling and wresting and … and … fight. It’s good to fight. The more I fight, the clearer my head. Don’t have to think. Just let it all go. And … I feel good when I do it. Like I’m GROWing. Getting SWOLE. Have to go. Time to fight. Then we lift weights. The others said something about a special surprise. Said I’d enjoy it. Doubt I will more than my bulge. Or my muscles. Just can’t help but FLEX and grin a STUPID grin every time. It comes so easy. Just FLEX and grin and BULGE and SWELL. Can’t hold back much longer. Gotta fight. Wrestle. WIN!

DOCTOR’S BRO LOG

~April 20th~

BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE (You know it)

‘Sup, bros? So yeah, I took that test COACH told me to take. He had me sit in front of some screen first, just sorta look at it while it flashed in my face. Said it’d help me fit in more if I uhhh … rewrote my language synapses? I … think that’s wut he said. Hell if I know. I just LISTEN like a good JOCK, like a good ROOKIE should. A ROOKIE LISTENs to his COACH and let’s face it, that’s what I am to COACH. I’m his ROOKIE and he’s my COACH. I like it that way. Makes things simpler. DUMBs things down. DUMB. Yeah …

Uh … wut wus I saying again? Been spellin kinda funny lately too. But COACH says I have to act the part. Just like the rest of them. So uh … yeah, I been doin’ that. You know, spying and all that. Collecting STATS. Making GAINS. Getting SWOLE. Every once in a while, COACH has me watching that screen. Every few days. Keeps me FOCUSed. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on MUSCLE. I’m watchin’ it now, actually. So easy to just BLANK OUT and LISTEN as I FOCUS. FOCUS on GROWing. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on words. FOCUS on SPIRAL. Flashing. Swirling. Down. Down. Down.

Yes, sir. Write what I say. Write what I see. Repeat.

I LISTEN.

I OBEY.

Love my MUSCLES. Yes, sir. MUSCLES are good. MUSCLES are great. MUSCLES mean everything.

Everything GROWS. BIGGER MUSCLES means BIGGER BULGE.

Yes, sir. I love my BULGE. Love my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Want to make it BIGGER.

Everything GROWs. I FOCUS on GROWing. Everything goes into my body.

Put my brain into my body. Yes, sir. Brains go to MUSCLE. Brains go to BULGE. Brain turn to BRAWN.

I OBEY.

I forget.

I OBEY.

I LIFT.

I OBEY.

I train.

I OBEY.

LISTEN.

OBEY.

JOCK.

OBEY.

CONFORM.

OBEY.

Don’t think.

OBEY.

Don’t question.

OBEY.

I don’t think. I OBEY. I don’t question. I OBEY.

OBEY my COACH.

ROOKIE obeys COACH.

COACH says FOCUS on sports. COACH says LOVE sports. I OBEY COACH.

I love sports.

Yes, JOCKs love sports. I love sports.

JOCKs love MUSCLE. I love MUSCLE.

JOCKs love bulge. I love my bulge. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

JOCKs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

JOCKs LIFT weights. I LIFT weights.

JOCKs get SWOLE. I get SWOLE.

Yes … JOCK. Becoming a JOCK.

More like a JOCK.

JOCKs work out. I work out.

Work out. JOCK out.

COACH trains JOCKs.

COACH trains me.

COACH trains me …

COACH turns me.

BIG COACH. Makes BIG JOCK.

COACH turn me. COACH make me.

COACH makes me BIG JOCK.

COACH turns me into JOCK.

COACH trains me into JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE wants to be a JOCK.

BIG DUMB JOCK as DUMB as rocks.

WEIGHTS and MUSCLE fill my head.

I’m BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE. Old doc is dead.

BIG shot doc to BIG FUCKIN’ JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE will report.

BIG ROOKIE will practice.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

Just like the others.

Just like a JOCK.

Will remember nothing when I wake.

Yes, sir, COACH.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

…

Lights out. Time to sleep. COACH says. I’ll tell ya about the test later. Night, BROs.

 ~June 24th~

‘Sup, BROs? Been a few days. Hard to write when there’s so much PUMP to get on, ya know? Been hangin’ out with my new BROs. We do everything together. LIFT together. PUMP together. TRAIN together. TRAIN with COACH. They don’t talk much. Hard to get em to start. But I’m getting’ used to it. Better at it. They like to flex a lot. Talk about their MUSCLEs. Admire their BULGE. Hell, I get in line with them, start to pose, I lose track of time. Watching my PUMP. My ABS. My fucking HUGE six-pack. My SWOLE biceps. … My BULGE. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Straining my JOCK strap. GROWing BIGGER. Feels so fucking good. Uh … wut wus I talking about again? I forget. But … I don’t mind. Huh.

Bin growin’ like a fuckin badass last few weeks. Feels so good. I feel … younger. So fucking heavy though. I could totally take anyone. Been thinkin’ bout wrestling. Guys do it all the time. 56 is champion right now. Think I’m SWOLE? Bros, he’s a FUCKING GIANT! Every time I’m near him I just sort of … BLANK OUT. I come to, we’re lifting. He’s spotting, and I’m rock hard. I smile. I don’t know why. He just looks dazed. His BULGE GROWs. My BULGE GROWs. And we both just smile. I’m still smiling. My BULGE is still growing. So much pl … pl … uh … can’t think of the word. Just … feels good. Real gud. Fuzzy up top. Getting fuzzier. But … I like it.

I wus gonna tell ya somethin’. Uh … lemme think a bit. Hard to think. SO hard. So fucking hard. So horny. All the time. Gives me an edge when I work out. I love working out. Love to GROW and SWELL my MUSCLES with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Built like a FUCKING tank.

Built to FIGHT.

Built to LIFT.

Built to GROW.

Built to OBEY.

Yes, sir, COACH.

I’m your MAN, COACH.

Your young MAN.

Your boy.

Spy boy.

JOCK boy.

Your JOCK boy.

Time to LIFT.

I LIFT for COACH.

I GROW for COACH.

I OBEY COACH.

 ~June 30th~

Took a retest for COACH. Said the results were lost. I was pissed, but COACH said I had to to avoid suspicion. Test was so fucking BORING! I just stared at the page and I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t stop thinking about the GYM. About that PUMP surging through me. So much. Made it hard. Hard to think. Do I … even want to anymore? I don’t know. … Don’t know anything.

I wus gonna tell ya about that test, right? The first 1? I did pretty gud on it. Guys were jealous. Got out of the test early. I fucking crushed it AND the fitness exam. Wus a little harder first time, but retest wuz E Z. Exercises were nothing. COACH says I did gud. Makes me happy. COACH just laughed. The others. Guess I know how they feel now. BROS belong in a GYM, not a class. Desks are too fucking small. Felt too close. No room to stretch. No room to FLEX. How do those nerds stand it? How did I stand it? I don’t burn fucking bunsons, I burn calories. Gotta get SWOLE with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Each time I say that. Each time I write it. My head feels fuzzier. And I want 2 wurk out.

Spelling’s not 2 gud anymoar, but that’s O.K. BROs don’t mind. Don’t have a mind. I’m a BRO too. So … I don’t have a mind? Let me … th … th … fuck, head’s all fuzzy. Gotta … can’t … LIFT. Gotta LIFT. So DUMB. Can’t do nuthin’ else. Won’t do nuthin’ else. Just LISTEN to COACH. LIFT for COACH. OBEY COACH. Cause I’m a good JOCK boy.

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

I am the fucking KING! Aint no one can touch me. They try, I WRESTLE them til they SUBMIT. Every time I win I feel BIGGER. BUFFER. SWOLE.

My BROs respect me. Call me Q.B. Even get to help Lil’ BROs adjust. Plug em into their ear buds n’ listen with ‘em. They don’t mind so much after the first time.

I’m so fucking HUGE. Love my muscles. My bulge. Just posing in front of the mirror. Workin’ with the new guys. This one guy, Rookie, he’s pretty legit. COACH said he’s been trainin’ on fast track. Dunno Y, but I can’t stop trainin’ with the guy. Build him up. Make him SWOLE. BIG n’ DUMB. Just like me. I didn’t like it at first, ‘specially when I failed COACH’s test. Then I got used to it. Just sorta went numb up there. Numb n’ DUMB. Hey, that’s catchy. COACH says my I.Q. is down. I say screw I.Q. Who the hell needs it?

I want 28. I want Kevin. I miss him. COACH sez I’ll see him again soon if I TRAIN real hard. Sez he’s WEIGHTing for me. WEIGHTing at the final phase, whatever the fuck that is. COACH sez we’re nearly there. Me’n the team. Got some more shit 2 watch’n listen 2. COACH sez we graduate after phase 3. Then we gotta choose sumpthin’. Final play, I guess. Days have bin hard 2 keep track of. We moved to underground. Don’t see the sun much. Don’t really wanna anymore. I’m actually pretty happy here. Things’re smooth, like my reps. Get up, shower, LISTEN to COACH. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Zone out. JOCK out. Showur agen. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Listen to COACH. Eat. Showur. Scan. GROW. Sleep. Repeat.

Balls itch so much. More I scratch em’ the bigger they feel. That fucking weight between my fucking legs, like a bull, BRO. A HUGE fucking bull, ready to charge. Smash. Beat. FUCK! Head’s so dizzy. Can hardly rite. Barely reed. But … that don’t matter much, does it? I’m fucking HUGE. I do wut I want. But uh … wut do I want? I … I don’t know anymore. Don’t know. Don’t know anything. Just … weights. Clacking. Clanking. Wrestling. Grappling. Fight. Burn. GROW. GROWin’s gud. GROWin BIG. BIG balls. BIG dick. BIG bulge. BIG MUSCLES. BIG me. BIGgur is DUMBur. And I’m fucking MASSIVE! A MASSIVE, MANLY MAN with a MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Can’t wait for fase 3. COACH tells me I want it. COACH sez I need it. Need to be a BIG DUMB JOCK. Need to OBEY. Want to OBEY. Want to be a BIG DUMB JOCK for COACH.

Huhuhuh. Funny word, DUMB. Makes my mouth feel all teengly. Sounds funee 2. DUMB. DUMB. So fucking DUMB. All I become, so fucking DUMB. Time to scan. Then I wurk owt.

 ~DAY ???~

‘Sup. Over seven feet tall now. Weigh like … fucking four hundred’r sumpthin’. Owtgrew my clothes. COACH gave me nu 1s. Thair sooper tight. Cling to my bangin’ bod. COACH sez I luk gud. COACH sez I should lyk em. Ges I do. They make me feel gud. Tingly. COACH even put my name on it. 56. In fucking HUGE numburs, lyk me. COACH sez he was real happy wen I wrote it on his test. Dunno Y he made me take it agen, but he wuz happy so that’s all that maturs.

I look like 100 now. Like my BIG BRO. It made me smyl. COACH sez I’m gonna make it BIG in sports. I believe him. I just wanna LIFT n GROW n wrestle n tackle. Feels so gud wen I do. Like a real man. A real JOCK. COACH sez I’m so gud, he wants me to help the noobs. So I bin doin’ that. Bringin’ shakes n’ helpin them lift. You know, make ‘em my lil BROS. Make em TUFF. Make em BUFF. Get em SWOLE. Bring out their iner JOCK. COACH sez I gotta make em all like me. Some try 2 fite. I just put em’ in a sleeper hold, TACKLE em’ to their bed, then plug in their headphones. They try 2 pull em out, so I hold their teenee toothpick arms 2gethur. Lil’BROs struggle for a bit, then they just sorta go limp. The rest of the lil’BROs join me n’we chant with em. Takes a time or 2, but the lil’BROs come round. They start 2 listen to their COACH. The rest happens cuz they see they want it 2. Lil’BROs get SWOLE, like me. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Don’t need ta think with the JOCK in control. Just LIFT. GROW. Get fucking SWOLE.

Time 2 LIFT.

 ~DAY ???~

COACH sez I’m a fucking natural. All my BROs look up to me. I lead em in everything. In the showers. LIFTin’ weights. OBEYing COACH. Just followin’ orders, ya know? Don’t need nuthin’ else.

COACH sez time for football. Can’t fucking wait to SMASH those fucking pansies to dust. The nerds call me Supreme Ky. I told em the name’s gay, asked em to call me Super Ky instead. They got into it after a few uh … persuasions from me n’ my fist. Give em a few throws n’ they fall in line real quick. I love knocking the nerd outta them. They call me Q.B. Then they bulk up. Then they’re with us in faze 2 with our MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Learning to OBEY the playbook. And LISTEN to COACH. Have to go. COACH is calling. COACH sez report now. Sure thing, COACH. I OBEY. I’m your JOCK. I’m your Q.B. 56 reporting for duty. 56 is part of the TEAM. 56 is yours. Let’s play some fucking ball.

 ~DAY ???~

NUMBER 56 reporting.

56 is redee.

56 is MASSIVE.

56 is 1 with the TEAM.

56 is all for COACH.

56 lives for COACH.

56 OBEYs his COACH.

56 is COACH’s boy.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

MASSIVE, BURLY, BIG DUMB JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is BRAWNY JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is perfect JOCK.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

…

…

…

56 is redee for faze 3.

Are you open to requests? I have a bunch of ideas for inanimate tfs if you want some inspiration. Featureless mannequins, action figures, crash test dummy, training dummy, green army man, robots, figurines, statues, trophy, art...

I’m open to suggestions. That being said, I’m facing certain emotional difficulties right now, so I don’t know if I’ll be able to necessarily do huge quality writing at the moment or not. I’d have to take it a step at a time. I do have previous stories that I’ve written that I’ll be posting on my tumblr here for people to read, so don’t worry, there will still be content. I just need some time, before I’ll be able to run full speed again, if that makes sense.

Real Men’s Journal Part 9

~December 11th~

The boy has returned to consciousness. As suspected, he was not pleased and proved to be rather disoriented. He appears to be far more susceptible to the subconscious commands we implanted now and is following the schedule fairly well. After a shower routine, he left in a dazed state to join the rest of his class at the mess hall. Coach Stone had a bit of fun with the subject after letting him meet with his former leader, Number 100. Files show his former name was Christopher Paulini. He now calls himself 100, or 100% Muscle. After he gave in, Number 100 progressed to be one of our best and “brightest” for his sheer will to obey and not think beyond our parameters. He has made a permanent home with us, here on the base, and is one of Coach Stone’s new favorites. The interaction and tests Coach Stone used were most enlightening, revealing that there must indeed be something unusual in the boy’s chemistry to allow him to resist, as shown by the return of subject’s genetalia to practically the same size. I will admit, the test was quite … provocative. I will discuss details with Coach Stone over recreation time at the staff gym. Perhaps during a treadmill run. I simply must get out there. If we can’t overcome the boy’s resistance, he may very well become immune before The Process is complete. Or perhaps I’m being paranoid. Either way, I need to de-stress. I will continue this log at a later time.

 ~December 12th~

Number 56 has fallen into trance again and is working out more regularly. As instructed, he listens to his files with his earbuds in and then returns to the gym to work out with support from 100 and 56’s hologram trainer, which has shifted to Coach Stone’s version. On top of being extremely fit, Coach Stone is also a surprisingly good programmer. He wrote the whole file for the boy’s personal use. I have recommended authorization to activate his other training components. Coach Stone said to wait a while longer. I attempted to disagree, but he convinced me. Coach Stone knows what he’s doing. I trust him.

 ~December 15th~

56 has woken up again and Coach Stone has deemed him ready for the measures I suggested. It appears he still faces trancing in the stalls of the bathroom and has even had a positive effect on some of the other trainees. Hopefully it’s only a matter of time now. Stone tells me he plans to earn the boy’s trust. How he plans to do so, I have no clue, but if he could convince me to let him take control, I’m sure he can convince 56 to trust him, too.

On a more personal note, I have filed a complaint with the head office, but still received no response. I have grown more used to the flickering buzz that comes from the lights, but it is still somewhat distracting to my work. I feel like I’m walking through a strobe-light sometimes. Coach Stone laughs and tells me the drones would love that. It’d be like a magazine photoshoot: perfect to pose in a frame by frame setting. Perhaps I should test that some time. They do listen to superiors and I am technically a superior. I never considered analyzing behavior after the changes were complete. Perhaps this might assist me in developing a method for those who demonstrate resistance like 56. I will consider this after my run with Coach Stone. We’re pushing three miles today.

 ~December 20th~

Subject 56 continues to resist, but it appears that he is weakening further. He has befriended three new recruits, the sons of the businessmen from our Industrial Retreat Program. We made them into industrial grade manual laborers and helped them to retreat from their worries and cares. Permanently. The results were quite interesting, to say the least. See files I.R.-666 through I.R.-668 for details.

56’s safeguards seem to be kicking in now. Based on the latest journal entry data, his subconscious is now blocking any attempts to delve too deeply into the idea of rebellion or the project itself. This has led to a certain amount of depression on his part, which has been made manifest in his video recordings, but he appears to still be keeping to regimen. We may very well break him soon. Excellent. Hopefully I’ll be able to break my own record for sit-ups today, too. Coach Stone bet me $200 dollars I’d fail. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when those bills enter my wallet.

 ~December 30th~

Number 56 is well on his way now. Even his dreams are working against him, or so his entries tell us. I must admit, the details he described would probably be arousing to many more if they read his narration. Watching and listening to him by night also shows he is falling into place. He listens to his recordings, repeats the trigger phrases regularly; all in all, I think my work here is done. Coach Stone has requested that I stay a while longer to see things through to the end, and if nothing else, then to give him a chance to win back his money. I admit, it pains me to leave. I’ve grown to like it here, and the atmosphere with these men is rather contagious. I still feel rather tired at times, but it’s a good kind of tired after a long day’s work. These coaches are almost as religious about their workouts as the drones are.

Speaking of coaches and drones, I notice that Coach Abrams seems to have gone missing. I hardly see him anymore. Anytime I try to say hello, he just grunts and continues on his way. What a curious alteration in behavior. He also appears to have packed on a few more pounds. I caught him once or twice measuring himself in front of a mirror. Coach Stone told me not to worry about it too much and that he’d take care of it. I trust Stone, so I’ll leave it in his hands.

 ~Personal Log: December 31st~

It appears I will be staying to the end after all. I just received orders from my superiors. They want me to make absolutely certain the boy, Subject 56, is completely converted to his new life before I return. I suppose I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve here with the coaches and other staff. For my resolution, I’ve been thinking of turning over a new leaf with my fitness. Having all this muscle around has made me want to build some of my own. Not that I haven’t made some gains over the last couple of months, but it never hurts to get better. I’ll discuss it with Coach Stone over drinks tonight at the party. He makes a mean cup of coffee, so I can’t wait to see what he can do with the other drinks.

 ~Personal Log: January 1st, 2017~

Oh, my aching head. Coach Stone really knows how to brew. I hardly remember what happened last night. We were laughing, I got a few solid thumps on the back. I … think I passed out or something. And Coach Abrams carried me in his arms. I think Coach Stone was with him. He said something, but I can’t remember what. Just a deep voice. Deep. And soft. I need a drink. These lights are doing a number on my skull right now. Maybe I’ll go on a run afterwards. Sweat off this hangover. Yeah. I should do that. 56 can wait. Stone says he’s almost won the boy’s trust, and I can’t work with this headache. I can work out though. Maybe just an hour.

 ~Doctor’s Log: January 10th, 2017~

Coach Stone has succeeded. And then some. The boy has begun to show signs of mental degradation, including memory loss and a more submissive and obedient nature. His last entry leaves me wondering where Coach Abrams may have gone, though. I haven’t seen him at all lately. Not even in the gym. I miss his presence. He helped me with my form on the weight bench. Coach Stone says not to worry and I’ll see Abrams again soon. I hope so. I liked watching him work out. Funny … I think I remember him in spandex? But coaches don’t wear spandex. Spandex is for the drones. It accents their muscles and stimulates further growth and circulation to their groin, causing their manhood to swell into a truly massive, manly bulge. There’s no going back after that. The subject is completely gone. But at least he’s happy by then.

 ~January 11th~

Number 56 is guzzling down protein shake after protein shake. He appears more dedicated to his work now and is starting to manifest more of a crude nature. It’s only a matter of time. Speaking of time, it’s time to meet Coach Stone in the gym again. Will report when new developments arise.

 ~January 13th~

Number 56 has begun the narcissus stage. He is looking at himself in mirrors and has begun to flex. At the end of his most recent entry, he has begun to use more crude language and focus on increasing size, especially his bulge. Subconscious commands alongside binaural sleep tracks are causing it to slowly grow larger each day. Soon the haze will begin to set in, followed by the euphoria. Coach Stone tells me he has a plan of some kind to determine how far their I.Q.s have dropped, but he wants to wait to put it into effect until later. He says he wants me to participate as well. I am most intrigued. Perhaps he will tell me more after our workout today. I always find myself in a better mood after a session with Coach Stone.

 ~January 18th~

Number 56 has made quite a bit of growth lately. He’s torn through his old set of clothing and was given a new set courtesy of Number 100. While it does cause the boy to appear smaller, he is merely entering a second stage in growth. The cursing is coming more naturally now, and he is beginning to find true pleasure in his increasing size. The haze has definitely come. He spoke specifically of fuzziness in his head. With the increase in muscle and testosterone has also come an increase in virility and a desire for dominance. He has grown more cocky and has developed a desire to show off, along with a persona that is slowly manifesting in the form of a cocky jock. The last portion of his entry left me rather … let’s just say it encourages a certain type of reaction in my system that I’m not entire certain that I like. It’s rather uncomfortable walking the halls and having everyone in the facility look at me with knowing smiles. It’s as if they’re all in on some joke while I’m stuck on the outside, and it makes me so angry!

Look, I need to work some of this aggression off. Before I hurt someone. I’ll be back later. After I work out.

 ~January 25th~

56 is obsessed with his size now and is taking actions to obey and follow orders. He is being rewarded accordingly by his body. The three other subjects he befriended are slowly joining him, well two of them were. The third required more pressing. We placed him in advanced conversion. Now he’s larger than 56 and obsessed with eating and muscle. His language centers have been heavily impacted, but the team mentality seems to have led to almost a pack type of situation where his fellows identify with how he feels and act accordingly. How curious.

56 will doubtless be ready for his test soon. Coach Stone tells me I’ve made great progress over the last month as well. It makes me glad to know I’ve found a place in this facility with people who are willing to talk with me and not judge when I’m dealing with man problems, you know? Though I admit I’m getting jealous of these kids. They’re growing so easily and I have to struggle for every inch I make. Perhaps I can work on a compound that doesn’t take away peoples’ brains. After I finish my workout with Stone though. Have to report to him.

 ~January 31st~

The boy is completely focused on obedience to his coach now. He didn’t even flinch after he made the connection to his last blackout, just that his coach needed him. And he’s right. His coach did. His coach will need him again before his changes are through. Need him to grow bigger. I wonder just how huge 56 will become. His resistance initially may well lead to him becoming one of the largest of all our candidates in the end. If his bulge is any indication, he’ll be a true giant. A pity he’ll have to become such an arrogant dick to go with it.

 ~February 5th~

Coach Stone has asked me to focus a little more on our workouts and dedicate further time to them. As fun as that may sound, I still have a duty to chart 56’s progress. Until his metamorphosis is complete, I have to chart every detail, every gain, every curl, every pump, every exercise. All of it. I have to do it. Just do it.  I have to do it. Do it. For my work(out).

Patient appears to be experiencing adverse effects as the enforcement triggers set in. When he thinks too much about what’s happening and his suspicion begins to grow, he experiences a mental block in the form of headaches and pain. 56 is growing much more compliant now. Soon he won’t be able to question orders at all, or anything for that matter. I’ll include an order to continue working out as much as he can in his recordings tonight, linking muscle mass and manhood size to the mental drain. Powerful subliminals.

Coach Stone and I have managed to create the ideal binaural for the boy. We tested it to be on the safe side. The effects were so potent, even Coach Stone and I felt dazed when we played it back. 56 won’t know what hit him. Instead, he’ll be hitting the weights himself like a man possessed. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Stone is expecting me. Today we focus on squats and chin-ups. You know, where you pull up on the bar, strain the muscles, and build your upper body. Then after the workout, I have a date tonight with a lovely lady on the staff. The way things have been going for me lately, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. A guy can dream.

 ~February 8th~

The date was amazing. We ate at a famous health restaurant she knows. The food was great, the music was relaxing, and the woman was beautiful. I can’t really remember what we talked about, but I know it was good. I woke up this morning and I still felt the buzz in my head. What a woman. Just thinking about her makes me dizzy … and I’ll admit a little aroused. Coach Stone just laughed and said he was glad I had it in me. Told me it’s good to just let things go sometimes. I’ll admit, a pleasant feeling does seem to be filling up my crotch this way. Coach Stone laughed at that too and simply said “welcome to manhood, rookie.” You know, I think I rather like the nickname.

ACCESSING SUBJECT #56 JOURNAL

~DAY???~

Posed in front of the mirror today. Damn I look good. Stripped down to my JOCK and just sorta let it flow, ya know? The more I FLEX, the BIGGER I feel. My muscles feel like a fucking powerhouse. The more I think about it, the better I feel and the easier it is just to BLANK OUT. Big muscles, big body, big dick, big bulge. Life’s good. And every time I show off, more people go to the bathroom. The more they go in there, the more they start to sound like me. And the more they sound like me, the better I feel. Like a real role model, ya know?

Coach says he’s proud of me. That makes me smile. Makes me feel like a man. He calls me Ky instead of Kyle, but I don’t mind too much. Kyle was for the old me, anyways. I’m bigger now. Better. Bigger is better. Buffer is tougher. I’m actually looking forward to working out now. I still think about home, but it’s not so bad as it used to be. I don’t worry too much about school anymore. I mean, I was kidnapped, right? So when they find me, they won’t try to make me do all that work at once, right? Right? I’ll just pick up on school after I finish here. No big deal. Well, I guess it is a BIG deal. For me. I stay. Listen to coach. Obey coach. Get HUGE!

Little Clark’s been gettin’ into it, too, ever since I hauled his ass to the showers. Little pansy stopped wearing his glasses, started acting like a REAL man. Turning into a real Super Man. See what I did there? Earned his JOCK strap today. The clothes make the man. That’s what coach says. And a fucking massive JOCK strap makes for a fucking massive, manly bulge. Huhuh, got so excited I shredded my sleeve. Gonna have to put a silencer on these guns. Voice has been cracking a lot, but Coach says by tonight it’ll be nice n’ deep, just the way I like it. So I can grunt like a real man as I PUSH my muscles to the max. Just gotta plug in my headphones and LISTEN to COACH. Sleep and LISTEN. OBEY.

SCAN. OBEY.

FLEX. OBEY.

LIFT. OBEY.

GROW. OBEY.

CONFORM. OBEY.

I LISTEN. I OBEY.

Yes, COACH.

BRAWN. OBEY.

BIGGER MUSCLE.

MUSCLE IN MY HEAD.

Yes, sir, COACH.

56. PUMP MUSCLE in my HEAD.

I OBEY. 56 OBEYS.

MUSCLE in HEAD.

Just MUSCLE.

MUSCLE HEAD.

YES, SIR. Just a MUSCLEHEAD.

BIG. DUMB. MUSCLE. OBEY. JOCK. FLEX. BRAWN. OBEY. MASSIVE. MANLY. BULGE. OBEY. MUSCLE is MEAT. MUSCLEHEAD is MEATHEAD. I’m a MUSCLEHEAD. So I’m a MEATHEAD. I OBEY. Yes, sir, COACH. Want to be a JOCK. Your JOCK. OBEY. I OBEY. BIG JOCK. DUMB JOCK. FOOTBALL JOCK … football jock? Wait … what’m I …?  Dude, what the hell? Coach? I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU, MAN! Well, FUCK YOU!

Fuck, why’d I have to be so damned stupid?

So stupid. Head’s all fuzzy. I … I gotta sleep. Sleep this off. Yeah. See you later.

Real Men’s Journal: Part 3

~Day 6~

Okay, what the heck just happened? I don’t remember anything after that scan. I walk around and the thugs just smile when they see me. And what’s with the other guys suddenly giving me pats on the back? Something weird’s going on here. I’m hearing more talk about football and baseball, stuff like that. It’s all half the guys ever talk about now. I suppose given this is a fitness related center they likely are restricting things that can be watched in the showers to sports. Still … I don’t know.

The camaraderie with the coaches is getting out of hand. They ordered a fitness test today to assess our progress. Abrams ordered twenty pushups, thirty crunches, and a half mile run. Naturally, I sat out. I know my limits. Some of the others though … they seemed a little too eager. Abrams would complement them, and they’d respond like we were in the army or something. “Thank you, sir!” Abrams would smile then and smack their butts or backs and they would just shudder and return it!

“Almost ready,” he said. I don’t know what he means by that, but I don’t want to find out. Kevin was one of the most zealous in the group, pushing his limits. At least that part hadn’t changed. I still decided to wait on the side, even as I watched. He grit his teeth, panting as he pressed on. The toned muscle paid off nicely. Abrams congratulated him, then touched something on Kevin’s pad as he entered a code. He did the same for a few others. They all just smiled as they got up, immediately accessing the new whatever it was Abrams unlocked. Kevin saw me and walked over. I looked away.

“… Uh … hey,” he said, sort of lamely.

“… Hey,” I said.

“You um … weren’t participating.”

“Asthma, remember?”

“Didn’t stop you yesterday,” he said. There was an awkward silence where we both weren’t willing to say anything. “Uh … guess I’ll see you later …” With that he left as he pulled out his tablet and plugged in a set of headphones. He hit play and walked off, joining with the few chosen ones as they gathered together. They don’t know how good they have it. It’s dinner time now. Stomach’s growling. I’ll just grab a bite to eat, scan, and go to bed. After all, I gotta update my stats. Even if I don’t want to. *sigh*.

 ~Day 14~

Hey, sorry I haven’t updated in a while. Not much to report except more of the same until now. The barracks are feeling empty today. Our special group of golden boys have officially gone off to who knows where. Abrams said it was the second tier in their training. With the looks on their faces, you’d have thought they won the lottery. Kevin looked a little worried towards me, but even then, he still smiled like a fool as he picked up his tablet with the others and filed out. He took one last look back at me, waved sort of timidly, and then the door sealed shut. I’m pretty much alone now.

I’ve been dealing with annoying offers to be workout buddies, and received endorsements for recordings. Seriously, you’d think these guys were traveling salesmen or something. I’m just glad I’m not the only one being targeted. When I refused, the men just shrugged and walked to the showers. I could hear the water running as the TVs blared.

They sure have been taking their sweet time. Water’s still running, TVs are still going, and that stupid smell is still wafting in the air. Seriously, either these guys need to invest in a better air filtration system, or they need to let us get some air fresheners. I made a joke out of it and got a few chuckles. Most of the others just sort of looked at me funny before turning back to their tablets. I’m bored, so I might as well do something to relax. Since I have no idea what could possibly be so attention grabbing for the other men, I might as well take a shower and see what all the fuss is about.

…

What the heck are they doing to us? Seriously, I’m scared here. I went in, snuck to my locker number and pulled out my shower supplies. I’ve decided to use the Old Spice Wolfthorn body wash since it’s the fruitiest. They have these Axe exfoliation pads we can use to get the stuff over our skin without wasting so much. As for hair, well, I’m more of a head and shoulders kind of guy, myself, but that’s beside the point. Sorry, that gas was making me light headed. At least I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of gas. It’s the only thing I can think of.

Anyways, like I was saying, I snuck into the showers because I didn’t want anyone teasing me or approaching me while I was in the nude. I walked past the curtains as the sound of the speakers blared through. They were all watching a football game and I felt like it was pounding into my skull as I walked past. All the men were just standing there in the mist and the water. Nobody scrubbed up, nobody lathered. They all just stood stark still, straight as boards. It was … eerily quiet when I think about it. I didn’t even hear any cheers when a touchdown was made. No groans of disappointment either. Just silence. Then came the creepy part.

“Yes, sir …” I heard. I wondered why they would’ve said that.

“Will study …” A second said as I walked past.

“Will grow …” came the third.

“Will become …” said a fourth.

I could hear the heavy slap of feet on the tile as one of the men who’d been sitting on their beds messing with their tablets walked in with dreamy-looking eyes. He didn’t even acknowledge me as he walked past and into a shower. He closed the curtain, took off his towel, and turned on the flow as he stared into the screen. His longer black hair dripped around him as the television flicked on to the same game the others were watching.

“The team is all,” he said as he stared, his legs splayed as the water cascaded over him. I watched as the others suddenly shuddered in their stalls, immediately mimicking the first man’s actions.

“The team works as one. We fight for the team. We act for the team. We live for the team. The team lives for coach. Bigger is better. Buffer is tougher.” I watched as they flexed in synch like a choreographed ballet. “Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly. Bulge.” They repeated again and again and again. Louder, faster, flexing all the while as they shifted poses and positions. Then they yelled, groaned in pleasure, and stood there as the game broke for a commercial. A few minutes later they reached out, grasped their scrub pads and body wash and lathered up like nothing had happened. I heard cheers, whoops, hollers, and groans, and everything seemed to be normal again. At least until they were done.

When they stepped out, all of them had a good layer of stubble on their features. Their fat had receded from their necks and chins, leaving their faces more angular and square. They smirked at me, even as they swaggered off. One of them smiled blankly as he flexed a bicep.

“Mmm. Man it feels good to flex. This program ain’t half bad.” He smacked me on the butt, which led to me jumping in the air. He frowned momentarily. Then it cleared. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it, too. Enjoy the shower.” He walked off. Half way through, he removed his towel as he casually went to his locker. I immediately turned away as I got into a stall and turned on the water. As I said before, something is definitely up. There’s no way these kinds of results can happen so quickly. And the whole blank voice, unison thing? Seriously creepy. Next thing they’ll be wearing jockstraps and slinging slang like a bunch of meatheads. A bunch of big, dumb, meatheads.