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 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.”

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.

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 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.

What Have you Done?

I had intended that inanimate story from earlier to be a one-off piece, but after receiving a comment, I think I’ve seen an opening for it to continue, though I think I’ll shift this one to the third person perspective. Please, enjoy.

That was the cry, over and over again as the target breathed shallowly. The barrel of his gun pointed directly at the man’s head. He couldn’t have been much older than his early twenties, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Whether he was a mutant, an alien, or the result of some strange supernatural event, the agency had sent Stallone to acquire him, alongside his partner. “Briggs, you got him?” Stallone asked of his partner, never allowing his eyes to stray from the man, whose head was currently in his hands as he shook it back and forth again.

A high pitched rising glissando signaled the charging in Briggs’ taser as he raised one hand to face the target. The other held a syringe. “Keep him in your sites,” Briggs said tersely. “I know what I’m doing, Briggs.” A choking stutter of a breath rose in the target as he struggled not to sob. Tears pattered against the hard wood of his table. “What have you done?” The light from the fixture overhead shone on his thin blond hair, revealing the receding hairline and the gleaming scalp beneath. A cold winter wind blew harshly against the apartment window. He had yet to move, or even to try to resist. Stallone blinked rapidly as his eyes became irritated briefly. When he’d cleared his vision, he refocused on the target. Briggs hovered next to the man, with the needle poised for insertion. His brow furrowed in concentration as his reddish-brown beard twitched from clenching his teeth. “What are you waiting for?” Stallone growled. Briggs moved slowly, imperceptibly towards the target’s neck, yet with every passing second, the movement became slower. The man’s arm began to tremble as the needle neared the skin, and his biceps and triceps strained, as if against some invisible force. “I’m ... trying,” Briggs grunted through clenched teeth. “Oh, for %#@!’s sake,” Stallone snarled. “Give it here.” He strode over and reached to grab the needle. That was when he heard the fatal pop as the taser launched. Then all he knew was pain. His muscles twitched and spasmed as the electrical current coursed through his nervous system.

Briggs’ eyes were wide with horror. “I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this!” he protested over and over, even as his hand continued to clench the trigger firmly. So caught up in his distress was he that he didn’t even notice how the plastic seeped over his skin, spreading like molasses, and then hardening into polished black metal. When he finally did notice, he dropped the needle in shock. “What the--?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” the target said as he looked up at the pair. Tears coursed down his cheeks in rivers as he watched. The light danced over his eyes, causing the gray-blue in those orbs to brighten.

Briggs clutched the offending appendage with his free arm, even as the substance continued to spread. Fabric bulked and strained as strong, well-built muscle surged into a block-like parody. “What’s ... happening?” he cried as he strained against his arm. Soon his body began to lean as the mass continued to expand and fabric began to tear. The current continued to flow as the taser writhed like a living thing. It seeped into his hand, then crawled up, never breaking the connection to the wires as two ports suddenly opened with a mechanical whirring along his forearm. “What did you do to m--?” He cried in pain as the needle he had planned to inject in his target jammed into the muscle between his shoulder and neck. 

Stallone writhed on the floor with each new electrical pulse. It seemed to run on a timer. It would sustain itself for a few seconds, then ease, and his limbs would twitch on their own as his nervous system struggle to compensate for the sudden disruption. Then, just as he was ready to act, the current would fire again, and he would be stuck right where he had been in the beginning. With each surge, his nerves would fire off all at once. And with each easing, the frazzled system would buzz and tingle, struggling to reconnect. Eventually, things became sort of ... numb. Oh, his body would still dance, like a marionette in a toddler’s hands, but he couldn’t really feel the pain so much anymore. A strange sense of apathy descended as he watched. And much to his surprise, when he blinked at something, he seemed almost to zoom in on that spot, sort of like a camera lens. He would have chuckled, had he had control of his body, a brief, humorless thing. He felt more intrigued than concerned when he locked onto the needle and followed its flight path. Another surge of electricity, and suddenly he could picture a hundred different scenarios at once for where the needle would land. Number 56 proved correct. He suspected it might. After all, trajectory was his specialty. He blinked again, and the brief whir and click of a mechanical shutter greeted his ears as a great red targeting reticle appeared around the edges of his vision. The next current laid him out flat as a board, his face frozen into a grim-set line.

Briggs heaved as he hunched forward, resting his new titanic metal hand on the floor. His shoulders snapped and cracked as they broadened, shredding the fibers of his shirt apart to reveal the currents of energy surging under his skin like circuitry, before the soft substance hardened into a bulky carapace. The wound from the needle spurted briefly, and then the current reached it, and the needle pushed in. Briggs shuddered. Everything felt so strange. A sort of fogginess filled his brain as he clenched and unclenched that piece of him in time to ... what was it? Some sort of--EXECUTE--command? For some reason, it felt so good, when that part of him went off. Why did it ... feel good? Wasn’t he ... supposed to be ... doing ... something? COMMAND PROMPT: EXECUTE SEDATION DELIVERY DIAGNOSTIC

A slow mechanical whirr, not unlike the sound of a hydraulic cylinder, sounded in his ears. His body vibrated, and pleasure sang through his brain as he locked onto the two silos that had opened on top of his shoulders. He shuddered again as twin belts began to move in those silos, cycling the ammunition, a familiar set of needles. 1 Chunk 2 Click 3 Chunk 4 Click 5 Chunk 6 Click

... It felt so good to count them. Rigid. Orderly. All must be in order. The whirring sounded again as he turned his head to the target on the floor. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. The current went on its own. He watched, unblinking, as the power jumped through his cable delivery system. His optic units cycled as they zoomed in on the target he had snared. Stallone shuddered as his body jumped again. He heard the popping detonation as the seams burst apart on Briggs’ legs. He watched as cold, hard metal replaced weak flesh. Knees and joints were replaced with intricate metallic counterparts. Feet burst free from the confines of the changing man’s shoes, only to reveal the thick metallic boot of the mechanoid he was rapidly becoming. Briggs’ eyes flashed a bright neon blue, and the sound of mechanical servos at work filled the air as the almost-robot rose to its feet, even as the needles that had once been one single item cycled through on their ammo belts. Ammo. The energy coursed through Stallone’s body once more. This time, the power spread over his flesh, just as it had Briggs. Stallone’s body practically exploded out of his clothes as his torso expanded, forcing his back up, and up, and up. His neck was consumed by the metal as his face became a convex sphere. The harsh creak of metal sounded as he groaned into an upright position, his body gleaming a sleek silver as his arms expanded into well-armored silos. Port after port opened to reveal a legion of gun barrels. His head hunched forward as the massive mound his back had become opened to reveal a silo filled with heat-seeking and anti-tank missiles. His eyes were gradually replaced with two bright red LED units covered in a red blast-proof polymer designed to shield his ocular units from damage. His mouth became little more than a flat line that flashed with red light as his speakers came on line. He slammed his hands into the ground and began to lift himself as his legs bent into an artificial crouch. Servos zipped and whirred as his waist spun left and right, testing the new system integration, while the rest of his lower parts expanded to support the weight of his hull. He felt no regrets as his weak organic heart slowed to a crawl, shuddered weakly, and then gave up the ghost. In a matter of nanoseconds, the pathetic organ had been remade into his true heart, a power core that supplied him with the vast stores of energy he required to fulfill his function. Fulfill ... its function. QUERY: WHAT IS THIS UNIT’S FUNCTION?

The new bot rose slowly to its feet. It towered over the other unit as its scanners passed over the room. It detected no current threats. But ... threats to what? It ran its logic processors over this new query as it watched its brother unit retract its stun prongs. Then its ocular units locked onto the organic that looked on them with an expression the unit did not quite understand. The last dim spark of its fleeting humanity whispered the word, haunted.  And suddenly, the unit knew its function. “PRIMARY FUNCTION IDENTIFIED: SERVE AND PROTECT DESIGNATED USER.” The ground shook with every step the combat unit took. It watched as the red organic hair melted into shiny red metal over its brother unit’s face to add a menacing element to its appearance. The material up top rose into rigid spikes that arced with energy. The hinges on its jaw creaked as it opened to reveal a speaker with several interlocking metal pieces along the inside. A swift scan revealed their primary function was to act as an amplifier and a method to control the direction the sound would travel. The system deployed briefly, then retracted once more as the unit finally finished cycling through its silos and lowered them again to blend seamlessly into its armor. “PRIMARY FUNCTION ACKNOWLEDGED. DESIGNATED USER IDENTIFIED. STUN UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WILLBREAKER, READY TO SERVE.” It strode in a rigid march to stand before its designated user and snapped to attention, its vibrant blue ocular units flashing as it completed its action. “AWAITING ORDERS.”

The massive combat unit lumbered over, its ponderous legs smashing into the ground as it joined its brother unit. “HEAVY COMBAT UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WORLDSHAKER, READY TO SERVE.”

The man sunk to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. The two units remained silent and unmoving as their new master cried himself out. Such organic things were beyond their comprehension. His vitals were all normal, so there was no need for them to intervene. Eventually, the fit passed, and their designated user looked up into their ocular units. “Why were you trying to kidnap me?” he asked in a tired sigh as his shoulders slumped and he fished out a tissue from a pocket to clear his nasal passages. “DOES NOT COMPUTE. PRIMARY FUNCTION IS TO SERVE AND PROTECT,” the two units said together. Their user sighed. “Okay, then, let me try this another way. Where is your point of origin? Where did you come from, before you came to me?” The two units stopped for a moment. The lights that helped to make up their “faces” flashed as they processed the request. Then the lights ignited completely as the search completed itself. “POINT OF ORIGIN FOUND,” they said together. Their user stared at them with narrowed, puffy bloodshot eyes. “Take me there.”