Of Spies And Muscleheads Part 4

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.”

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 1

“Hunter? Do you read, Hunter?”

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

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

“Still drinking that sludge, Control?”

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

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

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

“I love you, too, Control.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Loud and clear, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously, control?”

“I told you you didn’t want to know.”

Hunter sighed, putting his palm to his facemask.

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

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

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

“Don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Well, with your record and all …”

“Jason,” Hunter said warningly.

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

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

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

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

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

“There was a briefing?”

“Hunter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Acknowledged, Control. Scanning ID now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait for it … wait for it …”

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

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

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

“Just do it!”

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

“Bigger is better,” the feminine voice continued.

“Alright, the next line is–”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, I know, give me a minute!”

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

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

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

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

“I said get out of there, Hunter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real Men’s Journal Part 12

Here it is, folks, the final chapter in our great meathead odyssey. It’s been quite the ride, and I’m glad to have shared this piece with you, grammatically flawed though it is (I was too lazy to go back and edit, after I’d learned how. :P). So, I hope you all enjoyed the characters. And don’t worry. Coach Stone will be back soon enough, with a new bevy of obedient meatheads at his beck and call. You’re not gonna want to miss it. ;)

MASSIVE MANLY BRO LOG

BIG FUCKING ROOKIE

~July 15th~

Bin workin’ hard every day. Wurkin’ for COACH. He put me with 56. Super Ky. He’s the fucking best partner a guy culd ask for when he LIFTS his WEIGHTS. COACH asks ‘bout 56 all the time in the showurs. I LISTEN to him there. Sit back. Report. OBEY. COACH sez higher-ups want me 2 stay. Keep watching 56. Keep working with him. Watch him GROW. GROWING’s gud. GROWING BIG. GROWING BRAWN. GROWING BUFF. GROWING BULGE. GROWING SWOLE. GROW 2 fit his DUMB JOCK role. They say I can leave after. I’m … not sure I want 2.

I luk at 56 and I feel … jelus. He’s so BIG. BIGgur than me. And I can’t stop listening 2 him. Evry1 calls him Q.B., so I do, 2. Cuz, U no. Spy. But … it feels gud when I say it. Lyk when I say I LISTEN to COACH. Makes me feel kinda fuzzee up top. Makes me smyl. The guys LISTEN to him lyk COACH. Lyk we’re a TEAM. Gess the brainwash WURKs. Not on me tho. I’m a spy. I act lyk the rest cuz I have 2. 2 blend. Fit in, ya no? Talk lyk them. Rite lyk them. LIFT lyk them. Act lyk them. Just like COACH sed. Then I report. Report in the showurs. I don’t remember much, but I don’t worry cuz COACH sez not to. Cuz I’m his ROOKIE. He’s my COACH. And ROOKIEs LISTEN to COACH. ROOKIEs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

I OBEY.

 ~July 30th~

DUDE! 56 is so fucking ripped! He just shredded his fucking clothes today, man! COACH had to give him new stuff. Sumpthin’ like a … suit of some kind? All black. Two piece. Shorts and top. Looked fam--uh … lyk I seen it B4, ya no? But … can’t think where. Can’t think. Head … 2 fuzzee. I … why? Supposed 2 B spy. But … don’t feel like 1. Feel lyk 1 of the guys. Wut wuz I saying again? So hard 2 think. Gear’s 2 tite. So fucking horny. Can’t concentr8. Feel so hevy. My BULGE … it’s GROWing. I … must record … sounds. COACH sez. … Rite wut I say … GROAN … COACH … wut’s happening 2 me?

Abrams … COACH Abrams … he … he wuz wearing … wut 56 is wearing. They … used 2 be … difrent. More smart. … I used 2 be more smarter 2. GROAN so fucking horny. Can’t think. But … have 2. Sumthin’ about … hypnosis. A … program? Some kinda … trigurr? Oh god it hurts to think. Hurts my dick. My huge … fucking dick. So huge … so DUMB … I … no. Have 2 focus. Sumpthin’ 2 do with my JOCK strap. My … BULGING … straining … BIG DUMB JOCK strap. For BIG DUMB JOCKs. JOCKs lyk 56. JOCKs lyk 28. JOCKs lyk me. Redy 2 snap. … snap. Snap? I … think (god that hurt to rite) has 2 do with snap. Sumpthin’ bout … uh … bout … no turnin’ back. Lyk uh … That’s it! Snap the strap n’ subjects furget! Makes em focus more. Snap the JOCK, unlock the JOCK. Become more JOCK. … Reinforce training. … Uh-oh … Shit, someone must’ve falsi … fals … fal … FUCKING FAKED MY RESULTS! But … who? Why? I wuz a gud JOCK … gud JOCK … SHIT! Didn’t mean 2 rite that.

Gud … gud … so fucking gud. BULGING. GROWING. STRAINING. I feel it. So close. Gonna BUST my fucking JOCK. Be a DUM JOCK. Gud DUM JOCK 4 COACH. Cuz that’s wut I am. All I am. BIG 4 COACH. FLEX 4 COACH. DUM 4 COACH. JOCK 4 COACH. Gud JOCK.

NO!

Can’t break my fucking JOCK if I take it off. Gotta hurry. Can’t let it …

…

…

…

REMOTE ACCESS INITIATED

SYSTEM OVERRIDE AUTHORIZATION CODE ACCEPTED

SYSTEM COMMAND: ACTIVATE RECORDING SYSTEMS

ACTIVATING RECORDING SYSTEMS

“Coach, wut’re you GROAN doin’ here? I … I gotta do something. Please. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, Rookie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Coach. Please.” The voice catches.

“Just relax, Rookie. I’m right here. Calm down. We’ll work through this together, just like we always have.”

“No, coach, we can’t. I can’t let what happened to Abrams happen to me. I won’t. I can … can still … think. GROAN.”

Easy, Rookie. Let’s not be hasty here.”

“Coach, I’m almost out of time. I have to do this. If I don’t, I’ll … I’ll ...”

“Turn into a muscle head? Grow into a jock? Didn’t you want those things?”

“You knew? You knew what was happening to me?”

“Of course I know. You wanted it to happen. You told me so in our meetings. Don’t you remember?”

“M—meetings …”

“Yes. Our sessions. It was all you could talk about. Growing, getting bigger muscles, your bigger ‘equipment,’ all of it. And you sure as hell loved your new sex life.”

“I’d never … I … I wouldn’t …”

“You would. You did. Hell, you spent half a workout bragging about your conquests. I have your paperwork right here. You signed on to become a part of this program. You wanted this.”

“That’s a lie!”

“That’s the honest to god truth, Rookie. Look at you. Look how you’ve changed. The Process regenerated you. Rejuvenated you. You’re young. And thanks to your latent desires, you’ve unlocked your hidden genetic potential. You’re a perfect physical specimen. A teenager who has yet to hit his peak. Just like you wanted. If you don’t believe me, then read the papers yourself. I have them right here.”

“Why … can’t I remember?”

“Plausible deniability.”

“… What?”

“You volunteered for a new form of the process, a different formula. But you wanted to keep working, too, helping 56 progress. We agreed so long as you could remain professional. But the organization needed to be able to deny any charges you might make while you forgot. And it needed to be able to observe each stage as if you didn’t know about it. So we wiped your memory and left the subconscious commands intact. … I see you still don’t get it. Damn, that stuff works good. Basically, it was so we could say we didn’t do anything bad to you and had no idea what was happening.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because it acts as a distraction.”

“Distract—oh crap! Let go of me!”

“Sorry, Rookie, I can’t do that. Not until you’ve finished this phase.”

“Coach, stop!”

“Just let it happen, Rookie. Stop struggling. I know how badly you want this. How much you need this!”

“I need to stop this! I never wanted this! Let go! I don’t wanna be like them! You’re lying, you have to be!”

“Listen to me, Rookie! We know that’s not what you really want. What you need. You need muscle, power, strength. You need to be a jock. Cocky. Powerful. A man. A real man. A massive man with a massive bulge. Can’t you feel that? Feel it straining. Growing. Swelling. Just like your body. You reek testosterone. Why? Because you’re a jock!”

“St—stop it!”

“A huge jock.”

“Coach …”

“A massive, brawny, meathead obsessed with weights.”

“No…”

“You might as well let it happen, Rookie. It’s too late to turn back. You’re my Rookie and I’m your Coach, remember? And a Rookie always listens to his coach.”

“…”

“So listen to me now.”

“… Coach …”

“Just relax and listen to my voice, Rookie. Let it go.”

“Coach …”

“Let it go.”

“… Let it … go …”

“Relax.”

“Y-yes … sir.”

“Good boy.”

“…”

“Can you hear me, Rookie?”

“… Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“… Coach.”

“Do you know who you are?”

A breathy sigh is heard. “Rookie.”

“That’s right. You’re my Rookie.”

“Your Rookie.”

“And Rookies listen to their coach, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie is listening.”

“Good boy. Everything I say is truth. Understand, Rookie?”

“Yes.”

“You will accept everything I say without question.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.”

“And you’ll obey everything I tell you to do, right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie listens to Coach. Rookie obeys Coach.”

“Good boy. I’m going to get off of you now. I want you to stand up slowly and not run or do anything else. You’re just going to stand there and listen.”

“… Yes, sir.” There is the sound of shifting bodies and the heavy tromp of cleats on cement.

“That’s a good boy. Now, Rookie, tell me, do you like your muscles? Do you like how much you’ve grown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like how easy it is to lift?”

“Yes.”

“And you like watching those muscles grow in the mirror.”

“Yes.”

“You think about weights a lot, don’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“What do you think about most?”

“… Lifting. Getting swole. Muscles. Chicks. My dick. Fuck, It’s so massive. So tight. So … bulgy. Like me. Growing. So big. Fucking huge.”

“*Whistle* That thing is growing pretty fast, isn’t it?”

“*Grunt*”

“Now listen to me, Rookie. You want it to grow. You want to keep growing. Just like your training said.”

“… Yes, sir, Coach.”

“You love your size. You love your body. You love what you’ve become.”

“Love my size … love my body … love what I’ve become.”

“Good boy. Tell me, what is the square root of 81?”

“Uh … Give me a sec.”

“Take your time.”

“I … I know this. I … know … this … *Groan* … god, I can’t think!”

“Relax, Rookie. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s … not?”

“That was a test. You passed. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I … wasn’t?”

“You don’t care about math, remember? The only time you use it is when you’re focusing on your stats.”

“… Yes. That’s right … I … I don’t care about math. Don’t care …”

“Math is stupid. You said so yourself.”

“Course it’s stupid. Math’s for nerds.”

“That’s right, Rookie. And you’re not much of a nerd anymore now, are you?”

“Fuck no … I mean … maybe a little.”

“*Chuckling* Don’t worry, that won’t last long. All you want is to keep growing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Growing boy. Growing body. Growing bulge. Growing brawn.”

“Yessssss …”

“Remember what happens the bigger you get?”

“Dumber I get.”

“That’s right. And you want to be big, so …?”

“I wanna be dumb.”

“That’s right. You want to be dumb. You were tired of being smart.”

“Tired of bein’ smart.”

“No room for smarts anymore. All that brain’s being filled with pure muscle. Pure brawn.”

“All muscle. All brawn.”

“That’s right. All those smarts are going to your manhood. Everything. Make you a massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge.”

“*Groan* Massive, manly man … Massive … manly … bulge …” There is the sound of straining fabric.

“That’s right. You love this feeling. You love being big. And you want more. You always want more.”

“*Grunt* More massive … *Groan* More manly … *Grunt* More bulge.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 28.”

“… Just like 28.”

“Just like Abrams.”

“… Just … like … Abrams.”

“Just like a jock.”

“… Just like a jock.”

“Because that’s what you’re becoming: a big, dumb jock. My big dumb jock. And you want that.”

“… Becoming a jock. A big, dumb jock. Want to be a big, dumb jock. … Your big dumb jock, sir.”

“That’s right. Good jock boy.”

“*Groan* Rookie is your jock boy, sir.” A sudden echoing snap breaks across the recording, followed by a deep, dull laughter. “Wanna be a big, dumb jock. Rookie will be Coach’s big, dumb jock. Getting’ buff n’ getting’ swole. I’m big fucking Rookie!” The sound of shredding fabric is heard.

“Big Rookie is right.” The coach’s voice echoes as he laughs. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for phase three in no time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get you dressed, Rookie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spandex, I think. Something tight to show off your body. Is that alright with you?”

“Fuck yeah. Who wouldn’t wanna see this jock bod?”

“Good jock.”

“Yes, sir, coach. Rookie listens. Rookie obeys.”

END TRANSMISSION

 ~August 30th~

Been LIFTING like a fucking BEAST, like COACH told me 2.

I see COACH in the showurs. Evury day.

COACH sez I’m speshul.

COACH sez see him 3 tymes a day.

ROOKIES LISTEN 2 COACH.

ROOKIES OBEY COACH.

So I OBEY.

COACH gives me special proteen. Sez it’ll make me SWOLE. I lyk SWOLE. WURKS OUT. I’m Fucking HUGE. BIGGur than 56.

BROS don’t talk much eneemore. Don’t need 2. We LISTEN. We OBEY. We LIFT. We GROW. We SWOLE.

Sum talk, but we GROW ther BULGE. Make them MASSIVE lyk us. They fall in lyn. They JOCK out lyk us. Don’t talk much after that. It’s bettur that way. Easyer 2 LISTEN 2 COACH. Easy 2 OBEY.

56 left. Coach sez he went 2 faze 3.

I’m in charj now.

New clothes feel so fucking gud. Wear em all the time.

Shows off all my MUSCLE.

I am MUSCLE.

MUSCLES do what they’re told.

MUSCLES OBEY commands.

I OBEY.

MUSCLES don’t think.

I don’t think.

MUSCLES GROW wen they WURK OUT.

I GROW wen I WURK OUT.

ROOKIE is MUSCLE.

MUSCLE is ROOKIE.

COACH gave ROOKIE a new name.

ROOKIE is Number O-000.

ROOKIE is Zero becuz ROOKIE is nothing.

Nothing but a JOCK.

A BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is COACH’s BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE OBEYS COACH.

ROOKIE GROWS wen he OBEYS.

GROWS BIG. GROWS DUMB.

ROOKIE is STRONG wen he OBEYS.

ROOKIE OBEYS wen he is STRONG.

ROOKIE OBEYS.

Zero OBEYS.

I OBEY.

OBEY.

OBEY.

…

 ~September 5th~

Yes, sir, COACH.

ROOKIE is 0

0 OBEYS COACH.

0 does not think.

0 is DUMB.

0 has 0 brains.

0 is DUMB.

0 OBEYS.

0 is MUSCLE.

0 FLEXES.

0 OBEYS.

0 LIFTS.

0 OBEYS.

0 is SWOLE.

0 OBEYS.

0 is BIG.

0 OBEYS.

0 is JOCK.

0 is COACH’s JOCK.

0 is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

0 OBEYS.

0 GROWS.

0 is MASSIVE MANLY MAN with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 is just like the TEAM.

0 is 1 with TEAM.

Yes, COACH. 0 will go.

0 OBEYS.

0 will go to faze 3.

0 is redee for faze 3.

ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 FILES

~DAY???~

LIFTING gud.

Thinking bad.

56 wants to LIFT.

COACH sez 56 shuld rite tho.

56 OBEYS.

56 LIFTS with the TEAM.

56 rites with the TEAM.

56 chants with TEAM.

56 is 1 with TEAM.

28 WEIGHTed for 56.

28 and 56 were happee.

TEAM wuz happee.

Now 56 is just lyk 28.

56 and 28 R BROS.

Fucking HUGE.

GROW for COACH.

OBEY COACH.

LIFT.

DUMB.

LIFT.

BIG.

LIFT.

JOCK.

56 doesn’t need recordings.

56 heres COACH all the tym.

56 is part of TEAM.

56 OBEYS with TEAM.

56 doesn’t think.

COACH thinks 4 56.

COACH thinks 4 TEAM.

Yes, sir, COACH. 56 heres.

56 OBEYS.

I am 56.

56 is drone.

56 will GROW TEAM.

JOCK now. JOCK 4ever.

MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

56 will chant with TEAM.

TEAM is home.

Home is TEAM.

56 is home.

Lyk … wut’s the play, COACH?

SUBJECT O-000

~September 30th~

0 is part of TEAM.

0 WURKS OUT 4 COACH.

0 GROWS 4 COACH.

0 is COACH’S JOCK.

0 is BIG DUMB JOCK with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 knows his place.

0 is OFFENSE.

0 FIGHTS.

0 makes BROS.

0 OBEYS.

0 will make JOCK BROS.

0 will GROW the TEAM.

0 will be COACH’s point guard.

0 will be assistant COACH.

0 OBEYS.

END TRANSMISSION

RESEARCH NOTES: OMEGA PROJECT FORMULA

C.E.O. SIGN IN: VICTOR STONE

The program has been hitting some snags of late. Those with a high enough I.Q. have been able to resist The Process to the point where some have been able to hold on for several months to their original psyches. This was unacceptable. So, of course, I had to fix it.

Number 56, formerly known as Kyle Matthews was the last straw. Abrams had been failing for too long. He was too sympathetic, too gentle. I fixed that. Now he’s the most aggressive offensive lineman you’ll ever meet. As for 56, well, I simply pushed him in the right direction. Even with my skills though, the boy was still surprisingly resilient. It took me too long to break him for comfort. I immediately authorized initialization for The Omega Project.

This new and improved formula for The Process is specially designed for the higher I.Q. It drops the test subject down to a basic grunt. I called in Doctor Seroyan for testing and gave him his own office. Little did he realize the special ingredients I included in his food and drink. He didn’t take long to show signs of change. Within the month, he was already beginning to crack. The subliminals from the lights helped of course, but a lot of it had to come from the treatment itself. Notes from my other workers revealed similar results in isolated test subjects throughout the compounds.

I got him hooked on working out and the rest was history. I kept conditioning him alongside 56 so they could interact when the time came. I wanted to see if I could incorporate him into the system without him knowing. After all, that’s the whole point of the Omega Formula. That, and of course, it breeds a stronger, more obedient jock drone. Best of all, it’s completely undetectable. Seroyan became my subject zero. And he’s perfectly happy fitting his new role as my personal assistant. I’ve given him free reign over 56’s team while I’m away and designated a new coach to keep tabs on him while I’m gone. I’ve given specific orders not to interfere, though. Omega Zero has potential to be a great coach once I’ve taught him how. Until then, I’m having him run over exercises with the team as they practice and play their programmed sport. More than a few of them are going to enter the N.F.L., that’s for sure. I love seeing my boys making me money.

We’ve come such a long way from when my project first began. I’m so glad I blew up my lab all those years ago. Hell, the results were definitely worth it. I still haven’t been able to fully replicate the accident that made me this way, but that doesn’t matter much. I like being the alpha. And once I got our investors to try my … unique product, they were happy to fall in line. They signed over ownership to me, obviously, and pursued their own careers in their respective muscular fields. I still get a monthly check from them after they’ve won a big competition or something along those lines.

Next phase will be accelerating the process. I want to have nigh instant results. When I’m not working as a personal coach for my jock force, I get back to the lab to work with the boys on progression. Now that we’ve found a compound that breaks past the I.Q. barrier, it’s only a matter of time. Soon enough, I’ll be everybody’s coach in a perfectly healthy, masculine muscleman society. I can’t wait.

Real Men’s Journal Part 11

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

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

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

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

DOCTOR’S BRO LOG

~April 20th~

BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE (You know it)

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

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

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

I LISTEN.

I OBEY.

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

Everything GROWS. BIGGER MUSCLES means BIGGER BULGE.

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

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

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

I OBEY.

I forget.

I OBEY.

I LIFT.

I OBEY.

I train.

I OBEY.

LISTEN.

OBEY.

JOCK.

OBEY.

CONFORM.

OBEY.

Don’t think.

OBEY.

Don’t question.

OBEY.

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

OBEY my COACH.

ROOKIE obeys COACH.

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

I love sports.

Yes, JOCKs love sports. I love sports.

JOCKs love MUSCLE. I love MUSCLE.

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

JOCKs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

JOCKs LIFT weights. I LIFT weights.

JOCKs get SWOLE. I get SWOLE.

Yes … JOCK. Becoming a JOCK.

More like a JOCK.

JOCKs work out. I work out.

Work out. JOCK out.

COACH trains JOCKs.

COACH trains me.

COACH trains me …

COACH turns me.

BIG COACH. Makes BIG JOCK.

COACH turn me. COACH make me.

COACH makes me BIG JOCK.

COACH turns me into JOCK.

COACH trains me into JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE wants to be a JOCK.

BIG DUMB JOCK as DUMB as rocks.

WEIGHTS and MUSCLE fill my head.

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

BIG shot doc to BIG FUCKIN’ JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE will report.

BIG ROOKIE will practice.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

Just like the others.

Just like a JOCK.

Will remember nothing when I wake.

Yes, sir, COACH.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

…

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

 ~June 24th~

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

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

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

Built to FIGHT.

Built to LIFT.

Built to GROW.

Built to OBEY.

Yes, sir, COACH.

I’m your MAN, COACH.

Your young MAN.

Your boy.

Spy boy.

JOCK boy.

Your JOCK boy.

Time to LIFT.

I LIFT for COACH.

I GROW for COACH.

I OBEY COACH.

 ~June 30th~

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

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

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

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ~DAY ???~

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

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

Time 2 LIFT.

 ~DAY ???~

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

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

 ~DAY ???~

NUMBER 56 reporting.

56 is redee.

56 is MASSIVE.

56 is 1 with the TEAM.

56 is all for COACH.

56 lives for COACH.

56 OBEYs his COACH.

56 is COACH’s boy.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

MASSIVE, BURLY, BIG DUMB JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is BRAWNY JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is perfect JOCK.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

…

…

…

56 is redee for faze 3.

Real Men’s Journal: Part 3

~Day 6~

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

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

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

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

“… Hey,” I said.

“You um … weren’t participating.”

“Asthma, remember?”

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

 ~Day 14~

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

“Will grow …” came the third.

“Will become …” said a fourth.

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

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

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

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

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

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 2

Hunter could hear Subject Thirteen laughing, chuckling deeply. Such a low, empty voice. It guided him in the darkness. Hunter opened his eyes, and then, there Thirteen was. Hunter wasn’t in the pipe anymore. The castle was gone. Now he stood in Thirteen’s cell. The mammoth of a man was busy lifting iron, clanking weights up and down on the bench that had been provided beneath a single spotlight. He just smiled as he lifted, pumping for all he was worth and grunting all the while. He finished his set and sat up, staring with those vacant, murky brown eyes.

“A Meathead’s a meathead, head full of meat. Meathead must grow. Meathead competes. Meathead obeys. Meathead don’t think.” He chuckled again. “Meathead’s a meathead, bro. I know meatheads. I know you.” He laughed.

“You don’t know me,” Hunter growled.

“Know a meathead when I see one.” He laughed again. “Just gotta remember.”

“There’s nothing to remember, Thirteen. This is a dream, a hallucination, nothing more.”

Subject Thirteen shrugged. “If this is a dream, I don’t wanna wake up.” He flexed a bicep. “I don’t think you want to, either.” He smirked.

“I have a mission to accomplish.” Hunter reached for his watch controls, only to find himself bereft. He was naked, save for a pair of black compression shorts that hugged tightly to his frame. He tried reaching where his watch would be, and pressed the location of the emergency button to stimulate electronic shock. It didn’t work. There must have been a sedative in the water. He had to be dreaming. There’s no way a rescue team would have been sent to recover his body. If anything, he would have been captured, and placed in a holding cell. Either way, if he was stuck in this dreamscape, better to play along. At least for now. “What did you do with my things?”

“What things, Lil’bro?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your ‘bro.’ I’m not like you. I’m going to kill your boss.”

“Boss? Uh … didn’t know I had one.” Thirteen scratched his head with a meaty hand, the veins on his arms pulsing as the muscles twitched, accenting every curve, every bend, all the way down his arm to the thick slab of meat that was his pec. “Got a coach, but dunno why you’d wanna kill him. Meatheads love coach. Meatheads obey coach. Coach makes us big. Coach makes us swole.” He smiled, stood, and punctuated each sentence with a new pose. Then he stood up straight again, his frame towering over Hunter. “’Sides, you sound like Meathead already, bro.” He chuckled. “Just need the bod to match.”

“That’s my voice changer. This isn’t my real voice.”

“You sure?” He laughed again. “Don’t see none on ya.”

“This is a hallucination, nothing more. I’m going to wake myself up, and you’ll be back in your cell, while I’m working on killing your CRUNCHES.” Hunter coughed and cleared his throat. “What the hell?” His voice … it … cracked. That didn’t sound like Thirteen, but it didn’t sound like him either. And why did he say that word, instead of coach? Never mind. Try again. “Like I said, I’m going to CURL FOR COACH.”

Thirteen’s smirk turned into a sneer. “Sorry, what’d ya say?”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” Hunter demanded, pointing a finger at the muscle man as Thirteen proceeded to pull out a dumbbell and perform some curls.

“Me? I ain’t doin’ nothin’. I told ya. I know meatheads when I see ‘em. You just covered it up, blacked it out. That ain’t right. You took my voice. My voice woke yours.” He pointed down at the compression shorts. “Now all that black’s comin’ out. N’so’s the real you.” He grunted as he began another set. Hunter’s compression shorts had begun to turn white around the knees.

“This isn’t happening. It’s not real.” Hunter shuddered where he stood as little veins began to push out of his legs. “Need to WORK OUT. No! Get out, not WORK OUT.” Hunter’s hands clutched at his throat, only they didn’t feel right. Looking down, he watched them tremble and shake as the little veins popped up there, too. Soon they cracked, swelling a quarter their previous size. Big hands. Strong hands. Like Thirteen. They clenched open and shut against his will. The veins continued to spread up his forearms, and they grew more defined, expanding as the muscle tensed, relaxed, and grew. All the while, the black on his shorts’ legs continued to pull up and away, revealing the blank white beneath.

“Gotta lift, bro.” Thirteen chuckled as he put down his own dumbbell, went to a nearby weight rack, returned, and proffered a new set of hundred pound dumbbells.

“Somebody help ME GET SWOLE!” Hunter gasped as his chest and shoulders expanded, the trapezius muscles bulging and thickening, causing the muscles and sinew in his neck to swell as well. Down below, he could feel something stirring as a tingling sensation took hold in his legs and crotch.

“See, bro? You’ll fit right in.”

“This is my house, MEATHEAD, not yours.”

Meathead boomed with laughter. “Bro, course it’s not yours. It’s coach’s. Come on. Lift with me, bro.” He extended his arms, offering the weights yet again.

“I’m not your BRO. Get that through your MEATHEAD. Damnit! How do I BULK UP?”

“S’easy, bro. You know how it’s done. Curl. One. Curl. Two. Muscles grow. Bring out the real you.”

“No. Stop! What’re you doing?” Much to his horror, Hunter watched as his arms took hold of the dumbbells, and began to follow the rhythm of Meathead’s chanting. His body shifted, so his legs were shoulder-width apart as he worked to curl. A fit of dizziness overwhelmed him as he watched a new spotlight flicker on over a gigantic reflective mirror. The two-way. But why was it floor length? Another spotlight shone on him, and he watched as the black began to bleed slowly away from his waistband as well. The tingling in his crotch grew more intense. “Can anyone hear me? Control, get me out of here. Control! Anyone! BRO ME! SHIT! Somebody HELP ME GET SWOLE! Wait, that’s PERFECT. MEATHEAD, WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?”

“What’s–”

“–UP, BRO?”

Meathead just laughed. “Bro, welcome home.” The room was suddenly flooded with lights as exercise machine after exercise machine appeared, each with an almost identical man working on them. As big as Thirteen, as focused as Thirteen, as vapid as Thirteen. They were all consumed with their workouts, earbuds plugged, screens flickering, watching rigidly, working to a synchronized rhythm. No wonder the clanking was so loud before. It wasn’t just Meathead working at a set of weights, it was a legion of meatheads perfectly synchronized. Smaller men twitched under helmets as IVs pumped something into their blood, and they grew, feet bursting from socks, torsos tearing shirts. One of the helmets raised to reveal yet another hulk, an almost exact duplicate of Thirteen. Hunter watched as another smaller person with glazed brown eyes was shoved into an empty chair. His long, shaggy black hair hung to his shoulders in a style reminiscent of some Japanese haircuts. A series of flashing buttons and lights flickered across multiple panels as he was strapped in. He looked so familiar. As the huge dome descended, the letters CONTROLLER.EXE stood out in bold red print. He watched the man twitch and shudder as his clothes began to tear. Then it hit. Jason. That man was Jason. With that sudden realization, Hunter’s head jerked violently back to Thirteen and the mirror against his will.

“GOOD TO BE BACK. No! I’m not leaving HERE. Damnit! I’m not BIG ENOUGH, BRO. Gotta GET SWOLE.” Hunter stared, horrified as his face grew more square, his jaw jutted out, and his hair shifted into a perfect flat top, identical with MEATHEAD. Wait, no, Thirteen. MEATHEAD. No, … MEATHEAD, but that’s not … HIS NAME IS MEATHEAD, BRO. Hunter watched as his biceps blew up like balloons, while the room seemed to spin around him. The black on his compression shorts continued to dissipate, slowly being drawn from the back and sides to the front as it flowed towards his crotch. The more it did, the more he felt his privates press slowly outwards as his body expanded. “BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK. MEATHEADS DON’T THINK ‘CAUSE OUR HEADS’RE TOO THICK.” Those words … they came out of his mouth! But he didn’t want to. What the hell?

“S’right, bro. You’re a meathead now. Just like me.” Thirteen chuckled with his low, empty voice, and pointed at Hunter. A familiar voice came out over the loud speakers in the PA system.

“Larger penis, larger testicles.”

Thirteen grinned as he struck a pose, and stared. As one, the room resounded. “BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK.”

“BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK,” Hunter’s new voice said with them. “No! I’m H–UGE MEATHEAD.” Hunter’s brow furrowed and pressed further out as his eyebrows grew bushier, and his body hair thickened.

“C’mon, meathead. Let’s pump that other guy outt’a your head.”

“COOL, BRO.”

“No, not cool. Not cool at all. And … wait, why can’t I talk?”

“CAUSE I’M A MEATHEAD, BRO, NOT HUNTER.”

“S’right, meathead. C’mon. Machine’s waitin’,” MEATHEAD said.

“You’re not getting away with this.”

“AWAY WITH WHAT? YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DON’T BELONG.”

“This is my FUCKING body!”

“YUP. MY FUCKING BODY. SWOLE IS GOOD. JUST GO WITH IT, BRO. DON’T FIGHT. WE’RE THE SAME.”

“How are you doing this?”

“BRO. I AIN’T DOIN’ NUTHIN’. S’ALL YOU. I’M A MEATHEAD. YOU’RE A MEATHEAD. WE’RE ALL MEATHEADS.”

“We’re all Meatheads,” Meathead repeated. Soon the whole gym was saying it, echoing, repeating, beating it into Hunter’s head with every clank of the weights as they returned to their starting positions. A wave of pleasure washed over Hunter’s body. The black from his compression shorts had been reduced to a concentrated circle over his manhood spanning from one end of his waist to the other. He watched said manhood bulge further as the black circle shrunk. He saw and felt his still-expanding body flex one more time in front of an identical mirror to the one from before in time to the rhythm of the sets.

“We’re all meatheads.”

Clank.

“Big, dumb meatheads.”

Flex.

“Growing our meat.”

Clank.

“We follow the beat.”

Pose.

“The deeper we go,”

Clank.

“The bigger we grow.”

Flex.

“The more we obey,”

Clank.

“Grow dumber each day.”

Pose.

“Obey Coach’s voice.”

Clank.

“Don’t have any choice.”

Flex.

They dropped their weights as one, having finished their set, and stared ahead at their screens as they flashed and flickered. “Obey coach. I obey. We obey. Meatheads obey. We are meatheads. We obey. I am a meathead. I obey. I am a big, dumb meathead.”

Thirteen flexed, his eyes vacant as he posed next to Hunter, and stared into the mirror. Hunter followed his actions perfectly. “I AM A BIG, DUMB MEATHEAD,” the pair said together.

“Time to work out, bro,” Thirteen said, motioning to an empty weight machine. “Cycle starts again soon.”

Hunter felt his body shudder, then it patted his junk, shuddered again, this time in pleasure, and sat down where Thirteen had offered. Against his will, his arms reached out to grab a pair of earbuds from their position next to the monitor.

“GOTTA GET SWOLE, BRO.”

“I AIN’T going down without a FIGHT,” Hunter thought rebelliously, frustrated that the warbling had even followed him into the one free space he had left, his thoughts.

“BRO, I ALREADY TOLD YOU. YOU’RE ME, AND I’M YOU. YOU JUST LOCKED ME UP, BRO. NOT COOL. BUT I FORGIVE YOU.” Hunter heard the new voice laugh with his body. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t even grind his teeth as the buds were inserted into his ears.

“I am not a FUCKING PUSSY. I’m a special MEATHEAD chosen to infiltrate and CONVERT TO MUSCLE. No!” The voice continued to interfere. His body prepped itself. On the edges of his vision he could just make out the others staring blankly at their screens, breathing heavily as they tensed their arms. He could hear static filtering in through his buds, and assumed the others were hearing the same. Then came the music. His head began to bob. His eyes locked on the screen against his will. His arms reached up, and began to pull down on the cross bar, working his trapezius muscles as he pulled against the weight. A series of 1s and 0s cascaded across the screen for a time, mixed with the occasional flash of words and images too fast to keep track of. Hunter’s body breathed in time to the pump. In. Out. Up. Down. One. Zero. Zero.

One.

Breathe. Lift.

Two.

Feeling good.

And he was feeling good.

Three.

Falling. Listen.

Hunter could feel his mouth pulling up into a smile.

“BRO,” he heard his body sigh, “LIKE, WHY’RE YOU RESISTING? LIFTING MAKES US FEEL SO GOOD. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?”

“I remember TRAINING so I can kill. I don’t LIFT just for fun, BRO. Damnit!” Hunter swore in his mind. That … invasive voice was still interfering. He had to figure out a way to break its hold, take control of this dream.

Four.

Inhaling. Slowing down. Relaxing. Lifting is relaxing.

Hunter could feel his body slumping as he watched the screen. He could feel Th–MEATHEAD behind him. Why couldn’t he call him his subject number anymore? What … was his subject number again?

Five.

Breathing out. A hand on his shoulder. “Just have to remember, Lil’bro,” MEATHEAD said. Remember. Remember what?

“Stop FUCKING messing around with me!” Hunter screamed in his head. But … his mind … sounded strange. Felt … wrong. His body’s smile turned to a smirk.

“THAT’S IT, BRO. FEEL THAT ANGER. FEEL THAT RAGE. FEEL THE BURN! FEEL THE PUMP! FUCKING PRIMAL!”

Primal. So good. Roaring. Pushing past goals. Getting fit for service. Was that what he was supposed to remember? That feeling? That rush?

Six.

Listen. Watch the screen. Obey.

Not like he had much choice.

You have no choice but to obey.

No choice. Listen. No choice. Watch the screen. No choice. Obey. No choice. No … choice …

“Wha–? What’s happening TO ME, BRO?” Bro? But … he didn’t … think like that. … Did he?

“No choice but to listen, Lil’bro. No choice but to obey. Listen to us, Lil’bro. Talk like us. Think like us. It’s easier,” MEATHEAD said.

Listen to Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Obey Meathead. You are a meathead.

Lil’bro. Easier. Listen. No choice. Obey. Obey …

“But … but I don’t … WANT TO LIFT. WANT TO LIFT. Don’t …”

Seven.

Obey. Think like Meathead. Just like Meathead. Think like a meathead. Because you are a meathead.

Meathead loves to lift. Hunter loves to lift. Feels so good to lift.

Lifting is life.

Lifting is life. His life was always lifting when he wasn’t on a mission. Yeah.

Growing is gold.

Growing is gold. He loved to see himself grow in the mirror. Getting closer to his goal. Toning up for the next phase in training.

Training means listening. Training means obeying. Listen. Obey. No choice. Bigger Balls. Bigger Dick. Massive Meat. Smaller brain.

Massive meat. Bulging balls. Big brute. He could feel them. Heavy. Bulging. Swelling manhood. Tight. Close. Pleasure. Grinning. He’s … grinning. So hard to … think … head feels … funny.

Remember. Obey. Remember to obey. Think like a meathead, because you are a meathead. Meatheads are dumb. You are dumb. Dumb. Muscle. All muscle. All weights. No thought but working out and getting bigger. Bigger and more obedient. Remember. Remember to obey. Obey.

Yes. Remember. Remember this feeling. Remember pleasure. Obey and REMEMBER. REMEMBER to OBEY. OBEY. Think of meat. Meat is on the brain. Brain is in the head. Meat is in the head. Thinking of meat. Think like them. Think like a MEATHEAD, MEATHEAD.

“Watch, Lil’bro. Lift. Listen. Remember. Remember,” MEATHEAD said.

“REMEMBER.” Wait … did he just talk? Did he? Does it … matter?

“You’re a big fucking meathead, Lil’bro.”

“YEAH, WE’RE A BIG FUCKING MEATHEAD, BRO.” Lips moving. Not him again. But … maybe it is?

“Don’t … wanna be … want … wanna … WANNA be … WANNA BE … DON’T …”

“DON’T STOP,” his lips say, changing his sentence. Changing his thought. His mouth says. Not him. Or is it? Don’t stop. OBEY. No choice. OBEY.

Don’t resist. Listen to Meathead. Obey Meathead. Be like Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Think like Meathead. You want to be just like Meathead. You want to be a meathead. You are a meathead. Just a big, dumb meathead. So dumb. Brain clouding as you listen, becoming dumber. More obedient. Bigger muscles. Smaller brain. All meat. All meathead.

Listen to Meathead. Obey Meathead. Be like Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Think like Meathead. Just like Meathead. Want to … want to … “WANNA BE A BIG FUCKING MEATHEAD.” Sighing. His sigh. His words. He … said it. But … did he? Wasn’t that … the other him? Does he want it? Hunter didn’t know any more. Everything felt so strange. So bulky.

Pump.

Bulky is good.

Clank.

Bulky is good. But … is it? Watch. Listen. Watch. OBEY. Massive meat. Smaller brain. Smaller … uh … what is …? Hard to … to think. So hard … so … hard … hard … meat … big …

…

…

“M-My name … my name is … is …” Resist. Fight. Have to remember. Don’t let them take that.

EIGHT.

“Hunter … I … I am Hunter. I am … Hun … Uh … I am … I am …” Hard to think. Can’t remember. So damn foggy.

Strain. It’s heavier. More difficult.

Don’t remember. Forget your name, meathead. Fall into place. Listen. Obey.

Clank.

Don’t remember. Do not. No choice. OBEY. MEATHEAD. Must think like MEATHEAD.

You are horny. You are heavy.

“I … I AM H-HORNY … HEAVY … YES.”

Feels so good to pull down that weight now that he’s listening. Arms are heavier. Weight’s not so bad anymore.

Big balls. Big meat.

Clank. Release. Follow the rhythm. So easy to fall in with the others. Fall in and obey. Don’t think. Just move. Just lift. Just obey.

“BIG BALLS … Big … MEAT.” Did … did he really just say that? Sounds like …

Meat.

Meat … Meat … Mea–NO! Have to be strong. Have to remember. Remember who he is. “I … I am Hun … Hun…”

Switching to crunches. Press.

Massive meat. Tiny brain. Don’t think. Obey. I think for you.

Clank.

Massive meat. Bulging balls. Huge. Tight. Pleasure. Remember pleasure. Remember and OBEY. “Hun … I am Hun …” Don’t remember. Forget name. What is his name? It’s … starting with that sound. Can’t … can’t think … can’t … remember …

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“Hun–” Sounds like– Massive meat. Huge. Growing.

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“Hung–” Yes. Hung. That was it … wasn’t it? Tiny brain. Massive meat. Bulging. Feels good.

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“I am–” Can’t think.

Clank.

Hung like a horse. You are hung like a horse. Say it.

Crunch.

Obey. Say it. Talk like Meathead. “I’M LIKE SO FUCKING HUNG, BRO! LIKE A FUCKING HORSE!” Smile. OBEY. Pleasure.

Clank.

Laugh.

Must obey. Laughing. He’s laughing. Everyone is laughing. Switching to leg lifts. Eyes on screen. Don’t think. OBEY.

Deep laugh. Dumb laugh. Empty laugh. Deeper. Dumber. The more you laugh, the less you think. Empty your mind.

Lift.

Listen. OBEY. Lift. Relax. Laugh. Empty. Grow. OBEY. Deeper. OBEY. Dumber. OBEY. Empty.

Clank.

“EMPTY …” He said it. Not the other. So slow. So deep. Like … like uh … something slow. Weird, usually has better quips than that with his tiny brain. So tiny … because of his massive meat. No time to worry about it. Don’t think. Don’t worry. Obey. Keep working.

Lift.

“THAT’S RIGHT, BRO. FEELS GOOD, DOESN’T IT?” Other him again. Maybe … maybe not so bad, though. Deep voice. Deep is good.

Clank.

Deeper. Deeper.

Lift.

“Good … What … What’m I …?”

Clank.

Deeper. Dumber. Don’t think.

Lift.

Deeper. Dumber. Don’t think. Can’t think. Listen. OBEY. Muscles. Grow. “YUH … GOOD.”

Clank.

Good and dumb.

Lift.

“Uh … Yeah. GOOD AND DUMB.” He grunts. In control again. Feels right. Pleasure. So relaxed. Up and down. In and out. So dumb. So hung. So much meat. Just like he says.

Clank.

Big and dumb.

Lift.

Yes. Big and dumb. Wait … what was …? Don’t think. OBEY. Hung. He is hung. So hung. Good and dumb. Big and dumb. He is hung.

Clank.

You are hungry.

Lift.

He is hungry.

Clank.

Hungry for muscles.

Lift.

“Hungry … I … want … MUSCLES, BRO. NEED MORE MUSCLES.”

Clank.

Good boy.

“Good boy.”

“GOOD BOY.”

The three sound almost simultaneous. Ringing in his ears. In his head. His empty head. Empty. Same words playing across the screen. Good boy. OBEY. Pleasure. MEATHEAD. OBEY. Dumb MEATHEAD. Dumb brute. REMEMBER. OBEY.

Lift.

Obey.

Clank.

OBEY. OBEY. Must … must … “I … I … I OBEY.” More pleasure. Stronger now. So strong. So good.

Lift.

“WE OBEY, BRO.” Other him again. But he’s like Meathead. Gotta listen to Meathead. So, uh, gotta listen to him, too. Obey. Empty. Don’t think.

Clank.

“Meatheads obey, Lil’bro,” MEATHEAD said.

MEATHEADS OBEY. OBEY. OBEY.

Set’s over. Stopping. Staring. Listen. Obey.

You are a meathead, a dumb brute with an empty head. You listen. You obey.

“O-BEY…” DUMB BRUTE. OBEY. EMPTY HEAD. YES. OBEY.

“You’re a meathead, Lil’bro. Just accept it,” MEATHEAD said.

NINE.

DUMB BRUTE. HUGE. HUNG. CARE ABOUT MEAT. MEATHEAD. MASSIVE MEAT. MUSCLE. DUMB. BRUTE. “I … I’M a …”

“SAY IT, BRO.” His lips again. Not him though. Other him. Or … is it? DON’T MATTER. LISTEN. OBEY.

“M–Mmmmm…” OBEY. OBEY. OBEY. “MMmmEAT …” Something … in his head. Must …

Be dumb. Don’t think. You are a dumb brute. OBEY. Convert to muscle. OBEY. You are meat. You are a mindless brute. OBEY.

Grinning. He’s … grinning again. Frown gone. Yes … feels … so good. To–

Listen. Speak. OBEY. Say what you are.

“I’M A … A …”

OBEY.

“TOTAL MEATHEAD, BRO.” Pleasure. So much pleasure. Rebounding. Rocketing.

OBEY.

Yes. So good to just –

OBEY. Lift. OBEY. Drain everything. OBEY. Serve. OBEY. Lift. OBEY. Repeat.

“MEATHEAD. TOTAL MEATHEAD. OBEDIENT. I OBEY. YES. GOOD TO LIFT. GOOD TO OBEY. DUMB BRUTE. MORE I OBEY, MORE DUMB EVERY DAY. I OBEY. EMPTY HEAD. OBEY. I OBEY. I OBEY. I OBEY.”

“We obey,” MEATHEAD said.

“WE OBEY.” PLEASURE. LIFTING IS GOOD. PUMPING IS GOOD. SO GOOD. HEART PUMPING. GROWING BIGGER.

Yes. Say it. Own it. OBEY. MEATHEAD. MUSCLE. BRUTE. OBEY.

“BRO … I FEEL … LIKE SO FUCKING PUMPED! PRIMAL!”

REMEMBER. OBEY.

“TOLD YA, BRO. WE SWOLE.” Other him. He likes other him. He’s a meathead, too.

SWOLE. PUMP. MEATHEAD. OBEY.

His shorts. So tight now. Feel ready to burst. Good. So FUCKING GOOD. Good to flex. Show off.

Make more. Repeat.

“MAKE … MORE.”

“YEAH, BRO. MAKE MORE MEATHEADS. JUST LIKE US.” He’s laughing now. Feels good to laugh. Head is so clear. No. Not clear. Empty. More he laughs, emptier it gets. Yes. Because he OBEYs. The more he OBEYs, the dumber he gets.

Empty your head. OBEY. Laugh it all away. REMEMBER. OBEY.

“I OBEY. Huh huh huh.” The laugh is deep, not the same, sortof dull. Kinda like it. He’s … sitting. Staring now. No new sets. Body not moving anymore. Why? Uh …

Stare at the screen. Watch. Listen. Obey.

STARE. WATCH. LISTEN. OBEY. HE OBEYS. HE IS A MINDLESS MEATHEAD. WATCHING. SEES A BLACK DOT. IT’S … BENT. CURVED AROUND SOMETHING.

Focus on the dot.

“FOCUS ON DOT … I OBEY.”

You obey, sir.

“I OBEY, SIR.”

Obey my voice.

           “YES, SIR. I AM A MEATHEAD. I AM A DUMB BRUTE. I OBEY.”

Remember my voice. Remember to obey.

“YES, SIR. WILL REMEMBER. WILL OBEY.” LEANING INTO SCREEN. SO HEAVY. GOOD TO BE HEAVY. HEAVY IS MUSCLE. MUSCLE IS GOOD. MEAT IS GOOD. BIGGER MEAT. SMALLER BRAIN. SHORTS SO TIGHT. DOT IS SHRINKING. CURVE … GETTING BIGGER. WHAT … WHAT IS IT? SOMETHING FAMILIAR … CAN’T REMEMBER.

Your old mind is the dot. Watch it shrink. Make it shrink. Focus. The smaller the dot, the smaller your mind, the more the muscle.

“SMALLER DOT, SMALLER MIND. YES, SIR. I OBEY.”

And?

“SMALLER DOT, MORE MUSCLES, SIR.”

Muscle is meat. Bigger muscles, bigger meat.

“YES, SIR.” HE SHUDDERS. HE FEELS IT. BODY SO FULL. BIG. GETTING BIGGER. DOT IS SHRINKING. NO BIGGER THAN A QUARTER NOW. HE SEES … MORE OUTLINE. WHITE FABRIC. CLINGING. WATCH THE BLACK. OBEY.

“I OBEY.”

“I OBEY.” OTHER HIM. HE OBEYS, TOO. FUNNY.

You are meatheads.

“YES, SIR.”

“YES, SIR.” YEAH. HE’S A MEATHEAD, TOO. SAME. OBEDIENT. HE LIKES THAT.

You are brutes.

“YES, SIR.”

“YES, SIR.”

You are one.

“WE ARE ONE.” MEATHEAD. ONE. ONE VOICE. ONE MIND. HE IS OTHER HIM. OTHER HIM IS HE. HE IS A DUMB BRUTE. WATCH DOT. OBEY. SO TINY. ALMOST GONE. WATCH. OBEY. REMEMBER. OBEY. GROW. OBEY. MASSIVE MEAT. OBEY. MEAT … MEAT … HIS MEAT … THAT’S WHAT IT IS! SOMETHING ABOUT … Turning … into … MEATHEAD. HE … DIDN’T … want … WANT … WANT MUSCLES. YES. MUSCLES ARE MEAT. WANT MEAT.

No fear. You love being a meathead. Obey. Serve. Remember. Love it. Let go. Surrender.

“YES. I … OBEY.” HE CAN SPEAK. HE’S … BEEN SPEAKING, BRO. NO TIME TO CELEBRATE. HE IS A GOOD MEATHEAD. HE OBEYS. HE MUST LISTEN TO SIR. MUST OBEY SIR. LET GO FOR SIR. SURRENDER TO SIR.

TEN.

BLACK SPOT GONE. HUNTER GONE. WHO IS HUNTER? DON’T QUESTION. DON’T THINK. EMPTY. BLANK. STARE. OBEY.

Can you hear me?

“YES, SIR.” SIGH. OBEY. LISTEN. GOOD.

You are mine.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR. BELONG TO SIR.

You obey me.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR.

You serve me.

“YES, SIR.” SERVE SIR.

Remember my voice.

“YES … SIR …” REMEMBER. OBEY. BELONG TO SIR.

I control you.

“YES. YOU CONTROL ME, SIR. I OBEY.”

I am your coach.

“YOU ARE MY COACH, SIR.”

You obey me.

“YES, SIR, COACH.”

What is your name?

NAME? DID HE … HAVE A NAME? He felt his massive shoulders shrug, his giant chest expand and contract. NOTHING. EMPTY. DUMB. DON’T THINK. “I DON’T KNOW, SIR.”

Good boy. You have no name.

COACH IS HAPPY. THAT MAKES HIM HAPPY. REPEAT. OBEY. “I HAVE NO NAME, SIR.” NO NAME. EMPTY. BRUTE. DUMB. NO NAME.

I will give you a name. You will remember it when you are called. Remember my control. Remember me. Remember who you are. Remember to obey your coach.

“YES, SIR …”

Your name is Brute.

“MY NAME IS BRUTE.”

You are Brute.

“I AM BRUTE.”

You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE.”

OBEY.

“I OBEY.” OBEY. OBEY. OBEY. BRUTE OBEYS COACH. BECAUSE BRUTE IS A MEATHEAD. A BIG, DUMB MEATHEAD.

When you are ordered to wake up, you will return to Brute. You will be only brute. You are brute.

“BRUTE WILL WAKE WHEN ORDERED. I AM BRUTE.”

You will wake when your controller tells you to remember.

“YES, SIR. BRUTE OBEYS.”

If I have need of you beforehand, I will call you. When you hear me call you by your new name, you will return to Brute. You will OBEY my orders and carry them out.

“YES, SIR.

Always OBEY.

“ALWAYS OBEY.”

Always SERVE.

“ALWAYS SERVE.”

REMEMBER. You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE, COACH.”

Watch the screen.

The screen flickered, then showed some weird video. Some twinky walking in with two MEATHEADS. He is thin. Nervous. NEEDS MUSCLE. NEEDS TO BE A MEATHEAD. MAKE MORE MEATHEADS. Twinky sits in a chair. IV gets stuck in his arm.

Remember, Brute.

The twinky is bulking up. He’s grinning. His eyes are alive. Then restraints slide out. He is held in the chair. A helmet lowers. He starts to struggle. He is scared. He screams. MEATHEADS just stare ahead. Helmet drops. It whirrs up. Helmet reads SLEEPER DRONE in big red letters. Screams stop. Body twitches. Body grows. Twinky isn’t a twinky anymore. Helmet lifts. Newbie is asleep. But … he’s not a MEATHEAD. Looks familiar.

Remember, Brute. Remember. Your trigger word is remember.

“… REMEMBER.”

It’s time to wake up.

“…WAKE … UP?”

Wake up … Wake up …