Of Spies And Muscleheads Part 5

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 5

“Work out. Grow. I grow with the team. Obey. Must obey. Yes, Coach….”

Hunter looked pityingly at Trav, even as he did his best not to take in the hissing speakers around the halls. “Hopefully, we can help these kids get back to their old selves, when this is over.

“And you, too.”

“… Yeah. Me, too.”

The pair finally arrived at the door Control had indicated, and Hunter swiped the card.

“Acknowledged: Meathead. Access granted. Report to Sector M-BDJ.”

Hunter grunted. “Meathead obeys. Meathead will report.”

“Good meathead.”

“I am a good meathead. I obey.” He grunted again as another tear sounded. This time, he could feel the air against part of his back. As the door opened, he gaped at the sheer size of the facility that greeted him. Weights, machines, terminals, screens. All as far as the eye could see. The steady white light flickered and pulsed gently as a familiar drum beat played across the air. He slowly pressed forward, his strides matching the rhythm of the drums.

“Keep growing, Hunter.”

“What was that?” Hunter snapped.

“I said keep going, Hunter. You’ll reach a large elevator at the other end of the gym. Get in, then select M. That’ll take you to the floor you need to go to,” Control said.

“… Got it.” Hunter shook his head. This place was getting to him. “Come on, kid. This way,” he said, waving toward the other side of the gym. Trav followed closely behind, his pace easily matching his guide’s as they passed along the wide walkway. As they reached the doors, a loud metallic ping sounded, followed by the dim impact of something landing and skittering across the floor before meeting its demise with a solid crunch under Trav’s tough heel. Looking into the dull metal, Hunter barely made out the collar of his uniform. It had torn, bursting open to fit his expanding neck and pectorals. A large Adam’s apple now pressed prominently. “Control? Uh … we’ve got a problem,” he rumbled.

There was a stunned silence. “Hunter, just how big are you right now?”

“Let’s just say if I move too much, it’s going to be my birthday a little early this year.”

“Then you’d better take out Stone as fast as you can. If you’re already that blown up, your mind can’t be that far behind.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “Thanks so much for that cheerful thought.” With that, the elevator doors opened, and the pair walked in. Hunter jabbed the M button, then turned to face Trav. His brow furrowed. “Kid, have you gotten … bigger?”

Trav chuckled. “Bigger is better, bro.” He flexed, and kissed a bicep as he posed in front of one of the mirror walls. The kid had to be over seven feet now. “Bigger, dumber jock. Just a big, dumb jock for Coach.”

“I know, kid. I know. Just go on back to what you were doing. We’ll see your coach soon.”

“Report to Coach. Obey Coach. Grow for Coach. Be a good dumb jock. I am a good dumb jock. Obey … I obey. I flex. I obey. Flex. Obey. Yes, Sir. Flex deeper. I flex for Coach. Flex and forget. Flex and obey….”

Hunter did his best to keep focused on the elevator’s display, but he couldn’t keep Trav’s deep teen voice completely out of his head. He blushed violently as he looked down to his crotch. His suit had grown so tight there was little left to the imagination. He bit off the rising, “Fuck yeah,” that was building in his throat. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t some dumb meathead who thought with his dick. His huge dick. His massive meat. His–

Hunter shuddered, and did his best to cut off that train of thought.

The door opened, and Hunter gave a silent word of thanks to whatever gods got him out of that space. “Come on, kid,” he said with a curt motion. “Follow. Obey.”

Trav did so, still grinning as he continued to flex. Unlike the other gym, this level was filled with men. Some were sitting on benches staring blankly ahead as their security helmet visors flickered. Others grunted and groaned as they worked to shove some of the heaviest barbells Hunter had ever seen up and down over and over as they followed the rhythm of the drums. “’Sup, bros?” Trav said as they walked past. Most of the meatheads grunted in reply, before getting back to work. Others simply ignored him, too lost in their own sets and workouts to notice or care. With no one to interact with, Trav returned to simply flexing and staring blankly at his visor.

The pair suddenly found themselves blocked off by a virtual Goliath. The giant of a man stared down out of his flickering visor, his vascular arms folded over two meaty pecs that strained against his tight black lycra spandex uniform. “Halt, meathead,” he ordered in the same dull tone Hunter had come to accept as normal amongst these muscle men.

The pair had no choice but to obey. Trav stared blankly ahead as his program continued to run, feeding the stream of information that would make him a permanent member of Stone’s menagerie. Hunter gritted his teeth at the delay.

“Meathead will explain why he is out of uniform with prospective meathead.”

Hunter shuddered and did his best to make his voice sound as vapid as possible. “Meathead obeys,” he began. “This meathead has been recently inducted.” He flexed a bicep, tearing through the sleeve, and leaving it to hang limply at his side. He struggled against the dopy smile that was trying to push itself onto his face, even as the material of his suit grew tighter still. “This meathead is a happy meathead. While reporting for orientation and assignment, this meathead received orders from Coach Stone. This meathead is to take prospective meathead to sector M-BDJ for training. I am a meathead. I obey.”

“I obey,” Trav echoed as he stared blankly ahead.

The man looked at each of them, carefully scrutinizing them with his empty eyes. After about five minutes of staring, he finally spoke. “This meathead will escort you. Meathead will follow. Meathead will listen. Meathead will obey.”

Hunter repeated the mantra as the man twisted and began leading them through the facility.

“Curious. They appear to have a type of command structure after all. The bigger they are, the higher up on the chain. This must be some type of overseer class, like a captain or colonel, or perhaps a trainer,” Control said.

Hunter grunted his acknowledgement as they passed on. Both knew it was too dangerous to speak while the overseer was leading.

About a minute later, they had passed through another door, and made their way through a widened hallway. “Obey,” came the sudden order. “Flex.”

Trav’s visor flashed in his eyes, and he chuckled dimly as he began to pose while he walked. Hunter was a little taken aback, but not seeing any way around it, he flexed soon after. He felt the material give way as the upper part of his suit tore apart and fell to hang from his waist. Cool air flowed over his upper torso as he continued to march along.

The giant stopped, and spun rapidly, shoving Hunter back with his massive arms. “Meathead did not obey.” A security feed played over the visor, paired with the green flashes that every one of them seemed to hold. There was Hunter, hesitating as Trav posed without so much as breaking his stride. The overseer grabbed Hunter by both shoulders, and shoved him down to his knees. “Prospective meathead will wait against the wall and run his programming. Prospective meathead will obey,” he ordered.

Trav had continued walking like nothing was wrong, until the order was given. His visor flashed, and he suddenly jerked to a halt just a few feet down the hall. He performed a perfect right angle turn, and marched to the side of the wall, before turning smartly and standing perfectly straight. “Yes, sir. Coach tells me to obey. I obey,” he droned, then stood still as the flickers continued to run across his blank eyes.

The overseer smirked, then turned back to Hunter with a grim expression. “Meathead is not complete. Meathead hesitated. Meathead has not completed his induction. Meathead lied. Meathead needs more training.”

Hunter groaned. “Shit,” he cursed as he looked up at the man. The giant’s grip burned his muscles as the pressure increased.

“This meathead will incapacitate you, and report to–.” A loud snap filled the air, followed by the crashing sound of the overseer’s corpse landing on the floor. His head was turned at an unhealthy angle.

Hunter sighed. “Sorry, friend, but you left me no choice.” A light prickling sensation ran across his chin. As he reached up, he felt the stubble that had grown in. “Great. Just great,” he muttered. He walked up to Trav. “Unit Trav will walk with this meathead. Unit Trav will access compound layout and walk to subunit BDJ to join his team. You are a big, dumb jock. You will obey.”

“I obey,” he droned as the lights flashed across his eyes. “Must obey. Must report. Report to Coach Stone.”

“Report to Coach Stone,” Hunter repeated as he fell into stride next to Trav.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the room. Trav turned to the door, and the lights flickered off on his visor as he raised it. He shoved his eyes into a scanner. A musical chime sounded from a speaker above the door.

“What are you?” a familiar feminine voice clipped.

“Big, fucking dumb jock,” Trav droned.

“Who is your coach?”

“Coach Stone.”

“Who do you serve?”

“Coach Stone.”

“Who do you obey?”

“Coach Stone.”

“State your position.”

“Defensive tackle, beta test group Gamma: identification number fifty-four. Must report. Must obey. Must join the team.”

“Acknowledged: BDJ Beta Test Subject Number Gamma Fifty-Four. Designation, Trav. Voice analysis confirmed. Retinal scan positive. Access granted.”

The door opened with a hiss, and the pair passed through without incident. The room was pristine, covered from wall to wall with floor-length mirrors. The drums continued to beat here as they had back in the test subject room. Trav immediately made for the machines as he lowered his visor, and the lights flickered on once again. An empty weight bench awaited him with a towering guard standing by. Without so much as a grunt to acknowledge the giant man’s presence, the boy went to work, lifting in time to the music. The guard spotted the kid briefly before nodding, satisfied that Trav would continue his workout without breaking out of the cycle. Then he turned to face Hunter. Surprisingly, he did nothing. His bulky helmet flashed, just like the other overseer’s had. The former agent must have been relegated to observe the boys and keep them in line. Good. That was one less guard to worry about.

“I’d wondered when you’d get here,” a familiar voice rumbled. Hunter turned to face the source of all his anger. Stone stood a good foot and a half above him. He still wore the same tailor-made business suit he’d worn to the dinner. His five guards stood in thrall behind him as he casually adjusted his wrist watch, and pressed a button. He examined the screen. “It took you about an hour to get to me, agent. Very sloppy,” he chided absently. “Grunt only took about ten minutes. Of course, he was trying to hack my files, not kill me. It was so cute watching him stare all blank-faced at the monitor as his training took over.” He laughed. “The whole time he was working at my office, and he never even knew he was being converted.” He walked to the far end of the line of his guard and patted Grunt on the cheek. “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Grunt? You like being a meathead.”

“Yes, sir,” Grunt droned. “Love being a meathead. Love to obey.”

“Good boy.”

Grunt shuddered in pleasure as he continued to stare ahead.

“All of them enjoyed it, actually. They realized what I was doing was actually a good thing. After all, I’m ending war. I’m bringing peace. And better yet, I’m bringing physical perfection to the world.”

“You’re turning innocent men and boys into mindless slaves.”

Stone shrugged. “To make a good omelet, you’ve got to break a few eggs, and a few egg heads.” He chuckled. “They still retain their skills. Well, mostly. They simply … think differently than they did before. Surely, you’ve noticed, Agent Hunter, how easy it is to just stand there, and do nothing, like a good boy, and obey.”

Suddenly Hunter couldn’t move. He strained, flexing his muscles, grunting and struggling to shift to no avail.

Stone chuckled. “I’m afraid that won’t do you any good, Agent. You’re as good as trapped. Soon enough, you and your fellow agents will be working for my team.”

Hunter snarled. “Never.”

“Never is a very long time, my little meathead. Your little organization has been preparing to join me for a long while now anyways. You just haven’t known it.” He grinned, baring his teeth in a sadistic sneer.

“Red alert. Red alert. Subject Thirteen is loose. I repeat, Subject Thirteen is loose in the compound. All available units converge and neutralize the threat,” Control’s voice said over the earpiece.

“Is something the matter, Hunter?” Stone chuckled as his voice rumbled through the gym. “Why, I wonder, whatever could it be?”

Hunter grit his teeth, straining the muscles in his neck as he struggled to raise his hands. He’d strangle him. But it was to no avail. His body still wouldn’t respond. “What did you do?” he spat as his vision began to tinge with red. His breathing grew labored, and he could feel his body expanding again.

Stone laughed. “That’s right, Hunter, get mad. Let that rage fill your body. More strength, more muscle, more meat to fill that thickening head of yours.”

“Stone!” Hunter roared.

“It was a simple enough matter. I just planted a few agents of my own in your little organization. You didn’t really think Meathead could be captured so easily, did you? I designed him to be a tank. I programmed that fight into him using his helmet. After you reclaimed the tech, well, it was only a matter of activating its preset signal to trigger my meathead agents to carry out their orders. You see, Hunter, my meatheads can function in society. It’s just that they prefer being their dumb selves. They like thinking simply. They like not worrying or questioning. They like clearing their heads as they lift and work out. Hell, I had to program a subroutine in their brains just to keep them from falling back in too soon when they went to a gym or did something else their old selves associated with.”

“Why?”

“Because this world is messed up, with no opportunities for the little guy. It’s always been survival of the fittest, dog eat dog, and whatever other metaphors you want to come up with. The strong take what they want, and leave the weaker parts to die. It’s a flawed system, Hunter. Society is broken, because jerkwads like Meathead used to be only let people grow so far, before cutting them down, chewing them up, and spitting them back out.” His face began to turn red. “Well, it’s time for a new predator to take command, and this time, he’s bringing everyone along for the ride!”

A loud tear sounded as the sleeves on Stone’s suit tore open. “Great. Now look what you made me do.” He rolled his eyes as he pulled off the sleeves, and shredded through the rest of the suit to reveal his full torso. “These suits are expensive, you know,” he said as he strode to the other guards. They followed their master’s example, and began to flex where they stood, which made Stone laugh all the more.

“It’s just a matter of time now, Hunter. I know your body is itching to join them. Maybe just one little flex, hmm? After all, a hunter needs his meat.” He laughed again.

“You sick bastard!” Hunter groaned as he felt his feet strain against his shoes.

“I’m the sick one? When I give all these people what they’ve secretly wanted, and I’ve singlehandedly dealt with an organization your corrupt government has been trying to take down for over twenty years now? Wake up, Hunter. You and your organization have been nothing but hired muscle from the beginning. You’re just like them. You take your orders, you carry them out, and you do your very best to remain in peak physical condition, so you can carry out your next mission to please your superiors and get a reward. You and your fellow agents were made for the meathead life, even your precious Control. Yes, I know you’re listening, Jason.” He smirked. Tell me, Hunter, what would you do, if you were to lose him, hmm?”

Hunter’s eyes widened. “Control, get out of there.”

“I’m not leaving you behind, Hunter.”

“You’ve been designated as a target. Get out of there right now!”

“I told you. I’m not leaving!”

“Damn it, Jason, this isn’t a time for playing the hero. Get the hell out of ops, and get some help!”

“They have weapons! And … oh my god, Greyson.”

“Is he dead?”

All Hunter heard was silence.

“Control. Jason! Is Greyson dead?”

“… Worse, Hunter. He … he’s one of them now. Hunter, they’re targeting the agents one by one. It’s … it’s some sort of rifle or something. Just one hit, then … they’re gone. I’m initiating lockdown procedure.”

Hunter glowered at Stone. “What did you do to them?”

Stone chuckled. “Nothing, really. I’ve had sleeper agents in your organization for ages. It was just time for them to wake up, and carry out their final orders. And the best part is they didn’t even remember carrying them out. Soon, Agent Hunter, your little organization will be working for me. Your friend, Jason; your precious Director Skinner; even you will gladly obey me in time.”

“Never!”

Stone smirked knowingly. “You’ll see.”

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 7

Hey, guys. Just one more part to go after this, and Of Spies and Muscleheads will be complete. It’s been awesome sharing this story with you, and I look forward to sharing more in times to come, but after this, Coach Stone may end up disappearing for a time as I work on the next arc involving him. My apologies for having to make you wait, but rest assured, there will be more transformations to come across a variety of paths, including muscle growth and mental changes, so don’t worry. You’ll see more of the themes you love. I promise. ~Omni

The newly dubbed Controller chuckled. “Time to wake up, bros.” His fingers whisked over the keys faster than they had, even when he had been his old self. “Meatheads will wake. Meatheads will respond. Meatheads will obey.”

The smaller men behind suddenly stiffened, as if a bolt of electricity had run through them. They doubled in size and muscle mass, grinning like the idiots they now were. A metal storage closet door buckled and shrieked in protest, before bursting open to reveal the torn lab coat of a technical assistant beneath a tower of muscle. A headpiece that was far too small for this man’s new form barely clung to his ear as he strode out of the tiny and much deformed space to join the others. And still all Hunter could do was stare.

“How far along are we, Controller?”

“Conversion at fifty percent, Sir,” he droned.

“Good. Meatheads, go round up any stragglers in the building who haven’t been hooked to the communications network. Controller, keep up the work here. Meathead, Skinner, guard Controller.”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, Coach. We are meatheads. We obey,” echoed in stereo over the screen, before the column of men filed out in search of stragglers.

“I do so love my meatheads. Don’t you, Agent Hunter?” Stone asked.

“Go to hell,” Hunter growled.

“That would make an interesting vacation spot, but I think I much prefer Florida,” Stone quipped.

“Let me go, damnit!”

“In due time, Agent Hunter. In due time.”

“All field agents accounted for, coach,” Controller said. “They have begun the process, and will soon convert to muscle.”

Various screens began popping up over the main one on the tablet.

“Agent Butcher reporting. Butcher is a good meathead.”

“Agent Iron Skull reporting. I am a good meathead.”

“Agent Quicksilver reporting. I am a good meathead.”

And so it continued one after another. Each new agent reporting in was another blow to Hunter’s heart as he watched his comrades in arms fall to little more than thugs for hire swearing their loyalty to a maniac.

“Meatheads, continue your assignments as normal, then contact Controller for your next instructions when they’re complete.”

A collective, “Yes, Sir,” followed, and the communications cut off, leaving just Controller and the meatheads there, and Stone with his meatheads and captive.

“Meathead conversion ninety-nine percent complete, Sir,” Controller said. “Meathead Gym Titan waits for its coaches.”

“And your gym will have them. But first, we should take care of that last percent, wouldn’t you say, Controller?”

“Whatever you say, Coach. This meathead does not think. This meathead obeys.”

“Good meathead. Now put on your helmet, and trigger our last sleeper agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys.”

The giant known as Meathead approached with a helmet similar to the ones Hunter had seen on the drones as he snuck through the castle, and placed it solidly on Controller’s head. The green plexiglass covering flickered and glowed, and soon enough, he looked just like the rest of the drones.

“Connection restored. Reinforcement protocols initiated.” He flexed, and made his way to the console, his pupils dilating and contracting in time to the pulses from his helmet.

Hunter groaned as he watched those pulses. Jason’s … no, he’s not Jason anymore. It’s Controller’s jockstrap. Controller’s body. He watched the jockstrap straining to hold up. He saw those curved muscles, watched those pectorals as they twitched and bounced. Bouncing. Huge. Swollen. His thickened brow furrowed. Why was he so upset again? Something … wrong?  But bouncing. Pecs. Muscles. They’re nice, aren’t they?

“Not yet, Hunter,” Stone said. Hunter felt a sudden pain burning through his arm. One of the former agents was clinging to it, twisting the skin. “You need to watch and listen.” Stone sneered then, and pointed to the other brain that had been left off at the side. Hunter’s eyes widened as he saw the number had dropped down to 90.

“That’s–.”

“Your IQ, yes. Strange how susceptible you are to my little tricks, wouldn’t you say? Already, you’ve lost so much,” Stone mocked. “Then again, you’ve been exposed for quite a while now, haven’t you?” He turned back to the screen. “You’ll initiate contact on my mark, Controller. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, Coach,” Controller replied.

“If you’re going to turn me into one of your–” Hunter grunted, swearing in his mind. Why did his clothes have to be so tight? “–Mindless meathead drones, then the least you can do is show me the agent responsible.” His number had dropped to 85, and it was getting harder to stay himself. Harder not to want to flex, to sit and stare, to watch it all go away, far away. Wrapped up deep inside. Deep in his massive meat. But no. He couldn’t … not yet. Not … not yet. Have to focus. Have to stay strong. Stay strong. Strong.… “Who … who helped you? Who betrayed us?” So hard to focus. So hard. Hard muscles. Stronger. 82. Pulsing deeper. 81. Deeper is dumber. Dumbing down. 80. Like a good meathead shoul–NO! He was not a meathead. Want to be a meathead. He would resist. Convert. Obey.

“Wait and see. It won’t take all that long, before Controller makes contact, once I give the order. Just relax, enjoy the ride. I see you’re already starting to, anyways. It’s a real rush, isn’t it, all that power? I felt much the same way when I first changed. The swelling muscles; the surge of the testosterone; the heft of my penis and testicles as they hung, swelled, expanded. I nearly lost myself to my body then, became little more than another one of the brutes you’ve seen. For a short while, I was.

“All I wanted, all I cared about was gym, eat, sleep, and the occasional sexual intercourse. I found employment at a local gym, and for almost a year, I worked and lived as nothing more than a musclebound, weight-obsessed, protein-chugging meathead. Made a nice mint as a model, too, from time to time.” Stone smirked. “To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what it was that snapped me out of it, and back to my old self. Possibly a delayed reaction in the compound, or maybe it was sheer dumb luck. Whatever the case, when I finally came to myself, and returned to my little lab, the compound had degraded too far for recreation, and, unfortunately, during my little stint in the land of the meatheads, I’d carelessly used my research notes as towels and placeholders for my protein shakes and beer. I had to start from scratch.

“As you can see, I’ve managed to recreate the growth in muscle and body mass, but I have yet to figure out how to preserve my targets’ intelligence. Of course, that’s not an entirely bad thing. And since I was the first, in an ironic twist of fate, everyone automatically perceives me as the alpha, or coach, if you will. Even without proper mental conditioning, I just have to approach them, bark an order at them, and they obey. For example, I could say something like ON YOUR FEET, MEATHEAD, AND GIVE ME TWENTY PUSHUPS NOW!”

Hunter felt a sudden surge of vertigo, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, pushing silently with brutal efficiency. Half a minute later, he was back on his feet again. This was his chance. He could–

“BACK TO YOUR STATION, MEATHEAD. NOW!” Stone barked.

Again, the spinning sensation, the loss of balance or connection with the world. Then the world righted itself. Hunter was staring back at the screen again. He shook his head in disbelief. Stone had to be bluffing. It was the conditioning. Something that traitor Skinner did. He had to be the agent, he had to be. Stone was just trying to keep him distracted, so he couldn’t break free and finish the job. He had to fight this somehow, had to beat it. Smash. Crush. Dumb down. Obey.

“Good boy.” Stone smirked as he watched Hunter’s number drop to 78. “I’d say you’re ready. Controller, contact our agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a good meathead. Controller obeys.”

A high-pitched whine, and the sound of harsh, grating static assaulted Hunter’s ears. He winced.

“’Sup, bro?” Controller’s voice said over the earpiece. “Time to wake up.”

“No … hell no!” Hunter growled. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Stone smirked. “Controller, override sleeper programming. Authorization key: Full Restore.”

“I obey,” Hunter heard in stereo as the meathead that was once Jason pressed into the console. A familiar workout tune beat into his eardrums. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys his coach.”

“Jason, if there’s even so much as a scrap of you left in there, now would be the time to fight back,” Hunter said. “Please.”

Controller paused for a moment, as if considering what Hunter had just said. The music pulsed in Hunter’s brain, making it harder to focus. The heavy clank of weights echoed down the corridors of his mind. He remembered the men so mindlessly at work on those benches, pushing, swelling, growing. He recalled that giant among the meatheads, his helmet, his face, those blank glassy eyes. He remembered the one drone that had offered his helmet, and the intense regret that had run through his mind when he rejected it. Then Controller reached for a particular button, and pressed it. The volume turned up. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys. Time to remember, meathead. Time to obey.”

Pain arced through Hunter’s skull. He screamed, and the last thing he heard was the endless laughter of Stone and his army of mindless drones.

Totally worth the reblog. Hands off to the artist and whoever invented the concept for this series. *Applauds loudly*

Created by Dragonart

Of Spies and Muscleheads Epilogue

Brute grinned as he walked up and down the aisles, carefully examining each of the men as they worked out. They stared blankly at the ceiling as they lifted in time to the music blaring over the speakers. Towering at Nine and a half feet tall, he watched as each man stared up with vacant eyes into pulsing green screens. His eyes were drawn to a blinking cursor at the edge of his helmet’s visor as a message began to scroll across.

Meathead Brute

Designation: Trainer 010

Controller Order: Initiate Final Lift Program. Full Conversion.

Future Subject Designation: Meathead Patrolmen 500-520.

Prepare meatheads for deployment in conversion project FAT Camp. Send to armory and wait for new potential meatheads.

Meathead Brute will obey.

Brute walked up to the control console and placed his palm on the biometric scanner. In a matter of moments, he had changed the settings to match his orders. A shudder of pleasure ran through him as he watched the new meatheads. It always felt so good to make more meatheads, to be more meathead. He watched as they pushed, watched as they swelled, watched as they repeated their mantra of meat, muscle, and obedience. He watched as the men rose as one, blank-eyed, focused, obedient. He watched as the helmets slowly descended from the dispenser unit and mounted on their heads. He watched as the green screens flashed to life. He watched twenty true muscle men slam their legs together ram-rod straight and salute in perfect unison as the green lights pulsed behind their visors. He watched as twenty new interfaces downloaded into his own helmet.

“We are meatheads. We obey,” came the crisp confirmation as twenty new meatheads gave themselves over completely to their new lives.

Brute sent the order.

The men turned immediately and followed the automated instructions in their helmets, droning all the while. Brute would have smirked, amused at the expressions of fear the potential meatheads had on their faces when they saw the new meatheads leaving. They were escorted into the gym by Patrolmen 210-215. Brute had trained them himself, and could not help but feel a little pride at their focus and attention to duty, while their interfaces connected to his network of control.

“Good meatheads,” he thought. The interface immediately communicated the message.

The men saluted. “We are good meatheads. We obey.”

A new set of orders flickered across his visor.

Meathead Brute

Designation: Trainer 010

Controller Order: Initiate Conversion Program M-BDJ. Process Subjects: Juvenile Delinquents. Potential meatheads will be converted to muscle and return reformed to society.

Future Subject Designations: Numbers 00-56, Team Sparta.

Beta Tester Team Gamma Number 54, Public Designation: Trav, will join you.

A brief flicker of something sparked at the designation, for some reason. Brute immediately crushed it. It was not his place to think. He would train. He would obey. And Gamma 54 would help him convert these potential meatheads to muscle, just as he had once been helped by Brute.

The loud swish of the heavy metal doors sliding open indicated the arrival of the new assistant. Brute immediately interfaced with the young meathead’s helmet, then turned to see the giant of a jock. His grin proved unsettling to the gathered crowd of future meatheads, and his form towered over them at seven foot five. Gamma 54 was well on his way to becoming a true and proper meathead. Perhaps he could even be a trainer someday, with the proper coaching. Stone looked with disdain on the little runts. Every meathead towered over potential meatheads at first, and it disgusted him.

Gamma 54’s football pads clung to his frame, the lycra-spandex fabric straining and holding against his perfectly sculpted muscles. Again, the same green glow in all helmets shone beneath the visor’s cover as the green-eyed jock stared out at the gathered youth. For the most part, they appeared to be gangsters and runaways, their clothing shabby and disheveled. They were not organized. They were not disciplined. They were not a team. Yet.

“’Sup, bros?” Gamma 54 greeted, grinning still. A few in the group swayed on their feet. Brute immediately took note of them. They would convert first. Then he would use them to force the others.

“This is Trav from team unit Gamma. His team number, as you can see, is 54.” Brute hated talking like this, but the potential meatheads were not ready to hear proper speech yet. They would need to be trained and conditioned, and increasing their fear would only serve to delay the conversion. “He will be assisting me as we take you on a journey to better yourselves.”

“Yeah, right,” came a snarky comment from farther back. A nervous chuckle ran through the gathered miscreants.

Brute continued as the script played out over his visor. He bored into the teens. “We’re here to work you to the bone. This isn’t high school; this isn’t a penitentiary. Do what you’re told, and you won’t have any problems. Don’t do what you’re told, and you will be punished. We’re not afraid to hit here, and we hit hard,” he said, tensing his muscles as he glared. The show proved more than effective as more than half the group recoiled. Good. They would acknowledge his authority. “You will follow a set schedule and report on time. If you choose to disobey, a guard will make you obey. If you rebel, the guards will retaliate in kind. Submit to our authority, and by the time you leave this facility, you will be as strong, fast, and disciplined as Trav.

“Fuck you!” one of the delinquents shouted, shoving his middle finger up in the air.

The reaction was swift and painful as Gamma 54 lunged into the crowd and immediately punched the offending young man in the stomach. The kid was on the floor, coughing and struggling to get his breath as Gamma 54 glared, then smashed his foot down on the kid’s back, and ground with the spikes of his cleats. “Nobody disrespects Coach Brute.” The rest of the group recoiled as Gamma 54 picked up the currently sorry excuse for a human being and held him in the air by the scruff of his shirt.

Brute beamed with pride.

“What do I do with him, Sir?” Gamma 54 asked.

“Hand him off to 211. He’ll take the boy to solitary. You didn’t break anything?”

Gamma 54 sneered. “Just his pride. He’ll bruise, and it’ll hurt like hell, but he’s fine.”

“Good. 211, take this kid to solitary. I’ll designate a trainer for him later.”

211 nodded, and curtly grabbed the kid by both arms, lifting him above the ground as he marched out from the room.

Brute’s comms link suddenly sparked to life as static filtered through his helmet and into his ears.

“Brute, report to my office immediately.”

Brute’s body went rigid. “Yes, Sir.” The signal cut off, and he immediately turned on the party. “Trav, I have to go see Coach Stone. I’m leaving you in charge in the meantime. You know what to do. Get them geared up and start their training.”

“Convert the swayers as soon as possible. 54 will initiate BDJ orientation file Sleep and Obey. 54 will then follow up with BDJ files Weight Trance paired with Pleasure Daze as they work. 54 will reinforce training, and follow prompts while Brute is away. 54 will take command, until Brute returns. 54 will obey,” the hidden orders flashed over Gamma 54’s display.

“54 is a good, dumb jock. 54 obeys,” the response read.

Brute smiled, patted Gamma 54 firmly on the shoulder pad, then marched out of the room with a purpose. The youths parted for him, keeping a wide berth, until he was gone. Good. They were learning. They would obey soon enough.

Stone’s office was a strange place. It sounded too quiet, and the music Coach played was too fancy. Just a bunch of low, slow strings with a few high-pitched squeaks. Brute didn’t like it too much. The wall-to-wall bookshelves also left him feeling uneasy. Where were the mirrors? Where was the metal? Where was all the workout equipment? Where were the pads? All he could see was a single bench with a few piles of hundred-pound weights to lift. Still, he was a meathead, and meatheads always obey Coach Stone. And so, he stood at attention, and awaited his new orders.

“Sit down, Brute,” Stone said from his place behind his desk. He lowered a book by some guy named Dickens. Maybe he was a meathead, too? Bigger balls, bigger dick. Makes sense.

Brute obeyed, even as he stared and observed.

“I’m going to show you something, Brute, and I want you to look over it very carefully, before you answer my question.” Coach Stone pulled open a locked drawer and clenched his fist. There was the sound of metal sliding across wood, before the glint of tiny chain links became visible, just barely poking out from between Stone’s fingers. He smacked his hand down on the desk, causing the floor to tremble beneath their feet. Then he slid the object over and revealed what had been hidden. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”

Brute reached down to touch the strange metal plates. They were small, no more than maybe an inch or two in length. The thin metal had been carefully pressed by a machine with a series of numbers and a name the meathead didn’t recognize. By the time he’d gotten half way through the name, he’d already lost interest. The shorter name on the other tag caught his attention, though. “… Hunter,” he read aloud.

“Yes. Do you recognize the name?”

Brute stared at the tags. He furrowed his blocky brow. “Chains’re broken.”

“Do you recognize the name?” Coach Stone pressed.

Brute slowly lowered the dog tags back down to the table and stared with his hollow eyes. “No, sir, Coach. Should I?”

Coach Stone smiled. “No, Brute, you shouldn’t.” He slid the tags back over to his side. “Just an old relic ready to be forgotten. That name’s served its purpose for now. I might recycle it later for a new meathead. How are the new recruits?”

“Dumb Jock Unit Gamma 54 activating initiation and reinforcement protocols.” Brute paused as he accessed the interface, using his clearance to put up a security feed and statistical report on his visor. Some few of the boys had tents already standing out in their jeans as they stared at the video. Blushing, they struggled to cover them. Some blinked owlishly, and swayed in their chairs, erections forgotten. A few more had slumped forward in their chairs, and were slowly mouthing under their breaths. One of the guards casually approached such a youth, and pulled him up and aside, pointing to a bench. The boy walked over, glassy-eyed as he sat, continued to stare ahead, and mumbled along. The other mumblers soon followed. “Three units ready for instruction. Ten aroused. Five entering trance. The rest are still watching. Some youth are closing their ears. Others are frightened. Potential units will take time to process.”

“No need to worry, Brute. Time is something we have plenty of. That’s what these tests are for. We need to find more efficient ways to hasten the process. Hit them with the new experimental subliminals as soon as they go to sleep tonight. As for today,” Stone sneered, “work them till they drop.”

Brute straightened and saluted to his coach. “I am a meathead. I obey.”

“Good. Now go,” Stone said, dismissing him with the wave of a hand. “I want at least five new jocks by the end of the week.”

Brute left the office with one last affirmation of his obedience and smiled as he marched down the halls. It was good to be a meathead. It was good to obey.

Stone grinned as he looked over the old tags, then laughed. “Who’d have thought taking over a spy agency would have been so easy?” He reached down and pressed his thumb to a fingerprint scanner. With a chirp and a ka-chunk, the drawer came free and slowly emerged to reveal an ever-growing pile of dog tags. “Last one,” he murmured as he slowly tipped his hand. The name fell with a metallic clink and the slither of metal chain on metal chain as the pile writhed, before settling once more. The drawer slowly drew shut, and Hunter was swallowed forever, never to emerge.

Without a second glance, Stone rose and turned to an old set of binoculars resting on one of the higher bookshelves. He placed his head against them and waited as a familiar red light ran over his eyes. The book case to his left drew open with a steely hiss and he entered into his personal weight room, filled to the brim with every workout machine on the market.

Stone shuddered as he hastily removed his suit, tearing a few of the buttons off, before tossing it onto a side bin and sliding on the familiar black sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts. The word Coach had been embossed on the back, and the front read JUST LIFT in big white letters. He allowed himself a flex in the mirrors, before smirking and turning to the squat rack. His hands twitched in anticipation. His legs ached to flex, to move, to fill with blood pumping through his veins. “It’s been too long,” he moaned. Then he set to work.

As the haze of the workout slowly descended over him, he grinned. “Gotta work out. Gotta get swole.” A deep bass drum played in the background, beating in time to his heart as music filled the room, and his silvery grey eyes slowly shifted to an emerald green. He took two hundred pounds for each side of the bar, and secured them in place, then picked the bar up, and began to squat. “Meatheads will spread with their coach in control.” He shuddered, then sneered. “Yes. Maybe I should be more of a coach.”

Didn’t Mean It

Of course, you didn’t mean for it to happen. Oh, yes, I understand you. Are you surprised? Well, you needn’t be so excited over it. Yes, yes, I know, I know. Calm down now, won’t you? You’re not doing yourself any favors by getting so excited. It’ll be harder to communicate, if you don’t relax.

There, now. That wasn’t so hard, was it? And now I can understand you again. Put yourself in quite a pickle, didn’t you? Just look at this mess. What are you, an animal? Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Don’t you snort at me, mister! This is your own fault. It always happens this way. *Sigh*

You were looking for a quick fix, right? Maybe a way to get back at a bully, get even with a coworker, show some egotistic jerk what it feels like from the other perspective? Or maybe you just wanted strength for the sake of strength. People always have their reasons, and they always think they’re good enough to let them do as they please without paying the price.

So, you found the ring, right? Probably some random place. Maybe it was sitting on the kitchen table, or maybe you found it when you were skinny-dipping with your friends. Or perhaps you found it in the pasture? Judging by how you’re looking away, I’m guessing I got it right on one of those. There’s no need to be shy about it. After all, it gave you what you wanted, right? You got your strength, and then some. You must have been so excited when you figured it out.

So what happened? Did you wear it to bed, and wish for the strength, or was it merely that you chose to wear it to work one day, just to make your coworkers jealous, maybe to get them to stop teasing you about a lack of a girlfriend? Well, I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that now. You have your pick of them, after all, don’t you?

Let me guess what happened. You woke up the next morning feeling amazing, am I right? You were positive, happy, productive. Probably managed to get a fair share of your work load done, instead of lagging so far behind. You were by no means a titan, of course, but it got you what you needed, and you started to enjoy your work, despite the jibes from your coworkers.

That night, you probably had a dream of some kind. This type of magic usually uses those types of things, you know, gets you accustomed to the changes that will be coming later. So what was it, then? Dreamt about pulling some sort of load? Maybe carrying a heavy beam on your shoulders? Perhaps you stacked your bales and boxes effortlessly into place, balancing hundreds of pounds on either shoulder. Whatever the case may have been, you certainly must have dreamt about your strength that night. You wanted more. Considering where you are now, that’s fairly obvious.

Over the next week or so, your strength increased steadily, and your body began to put on mass. It was small at first, naturally. It must have been. Didn’t want it to be too obvious. The magic knows how to be subtle when it wants to be, especially if the enchanter deliberately wants the changes to be slow. I’m sure the changes came faster over the next few weeks. You grew taller, broader, heartier. Your strength and stature grew to such an extent as to rival your fellows, and that unnerved them. What had once been an idle game to pass the time and lord their superiority over you had now become an earnest bid to hold back the budding competition. Isn’t it curious how much like animals humans can be sometimes?

Perhaps it was a girl you managed to snag. Maybe it was your former tormentors trying to belittle you mentally, rather than physically. Whatever the case may be, the boon granted by the magic was not enough to content you. You had the strength to rival your fellows; surpass them, even. Your biceps and triceps had swollen with power. Your legs had become thick and stocky to support the heavy loads you laid on your back or your shoulders. You could cart water barrels with ease, and heave hay bales with the best of them. You had become so strong that you could even endure longer than your fellows in the heat of the day with just a few sips of water, and a light meal. But you still felt smaller on the inside when they insulted your manhood, didn’t you?

I can see by your reaction that I am right. What did they do, pull down your pants, and mock you in public, or was it merely that the woman with whom you sought to lie fled after seeing the goods, so to speak? Now don’t look at me like that. They really are the goods now, you know. Or have you forgotten your current situation in the heat of the moment? Okay, okay, I’ll try to stop with the puns, but I make no promises. Once I get started, I tend to fall into a rut. Now, now, no need to get testy. Like I said before, I can’t understand you when you get riled up. Control yourself.

So, you made another wish, this time desiring to become … what’s the phrase you people use? Well endowed? The ring granted that desire, too, didn’t it? You dreamt of conquests, of escapades, night after night. With the end of every dream session, your manhood expanded. Your voice began to drop. Your trousers grew tighter in all the right places, and the women began to notice. You didn’t even care as you began to grow a beard, or when the hair began to grow on your arms and legs. The women called you handsome, rugged. You wrapped each and every one of them around your little finger, and you began to take pleasure in watching those men’s faces fall at the talk from the women. The girls didn’t even seem to care how you were jumping between them. After all, you were quick to tell them you weren’t looking for a relationship. And, for some reason, they didn’t seem to mind.

Ah, but you’d gotten a taste of what it felt like to dominate now, hadn’t you? You felt the thrill of being the best of the best, pure stock in every sense of the words. The confrontation that followed was inevitable. They jumped you on the way out from the tavern, tried to hurt you, maybe even kill you. I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there, and I haven’t read their memories. However, I can guess how it went. Your senses alerted you. You heard them, smelled them, maybe even felt them. The reek of alcohol on their breath must have been horrible, indeed. You took some heavy blows, but, ultimately, you stood victorious. The rush of that victory must have been great indeed. You must have been on such a high. What happened next, I can only guess, but I would assume that was your tipping point. You warned the men off, told them this was your job, and these were your girls. You told them that you were the boss now, the head of the herd, and you told them– no, you commanded them to fall in line. And they did, didn’t they? They didn’t have any choice. You were given the run of the ranch. And, if the boys were especially good, you’d give them the chance to vent some of their pent up frustration on some female companionship. You must have thought yourself such a great benefactor.

I wonder, how long did it take you, in that power-hungry daze of yours, to realize something might be wrong? Was it the enhanced libido? Hmm. No, not that. I can tell just by looking at you that you reveled in that part of your changes. You’d come to think of your conquests as trophies, your property, to be taken whenever and wherever you desired. The more you exercised your . . . privilege, the more you came to crave the sensations that came with it, and the more your women came to crave you, isn’t that right?

You became more crass, primal. You set the example, and, inevitably, the men you had culled soon followed behind. Those who pleased you began to share in the bounties of your gifts to a lesser degree, until you had set up a proper line of command. They grew heartier, stronger, more virile, while the women became fatter, more buxom. You drank yourselves till your vision blurred, and the world spun around you. When you woke the next days, you didn’t care about the headaches, so long as you had a warm body to take. Why, I bet you hardly even noticed as your tastes shifted from meats to grains and other vegetables. It simply added to your strength and charm. Besides, grains and vegetables are cheap, so why should the owner complain?

I wonder, when did you start deciding who to sleep with by smell? Was it a conscious decision, or did it just creep up on you as your nostrils began to flare out of habit? Oh, I’m certain you must have breathed in the scent of every woman you took for yourself, memorized it. And every time they were near, the moment that scent hit your nose, you felt your need rising again, felt your manhood expand, and you took who you wanted for all she was worth. There was little relationship involved. You wanted something, and the women gave it to you. And, of course, with no real interest in anything other than what you’d gotten so used to receiving, there was no need for words.

Your dreams began to blur with reality next. One moment bled into the other in a never-ending cycle of eating, work, sleeping, dreaming, and taking your women whenever the mood struck you. Come rain or shine, you kept working, and your skin grew thicker. You hardly felt the drops as they fell, or the bites from the flies and other insects that tried to pierce you. From time to time, you and your men would defend your women from outsiders, keep them safe as you tested those prospective men. Some made the cut, and joined your little gang, quickly filing into your rather close-knit little group. Others were driven off through intimidation. It must have felt so good to you.

You did your work, you pressed on, even as your hair grew into a short, thick coat along the rest of your body, and your nose began to press outwards. Your brow thickened as your ears began to point and shift. A weight began to weigh down on your head as your neck and shoulder muscles expanded accordingly, causing you to look down naturally as you interacted with others, not that that bothered you. After all, you were the biggest male there, and you reveled in that fact.

And the women. Ah, those poor girls. They changed, too, didn’t they, because you wanted them to stay with you, to remain yours. They clung to you and your band of men, though I suppose you could hardly be called men by that point, could you? You ate, you drank, you worked, you laid around, and you let yourselves go.

I wonder, when was it that you stopped bathing? Was it when your tail started to grow in? Perhaps when your face began to warp and change to match your behavior. Either way, I’m sure your employer must have raised some concerns, until you brought him in line. You had your run of the fields then. You took care of the ranch for a time, ran the cows on their milking schedules, fed the herds, made sure they knew you were the boss. You kept your men shirtless at that point, didn’t you? After all, they’d just tear through the fabric anyway, with the way their musculature was growing. Your interests trailed away from town, away from the things of men. You didn’t want beer anymore. You didn’t need the usual foods. You had milk, you had your vegetables and feed, and, eventually, you had your cud, didn’t you? No need to worry about the changes happening to the men. After all, they were just following your example. They didn’t look any different from you, now, did they? So why worry about it?

I wonder, when did you finally break out of your primitive stupor to try to stop this from happening? Was it mating season? I bet it was, wasn’t it? By that point in time, mating had become as natural to you as breathing. You were probably so big that you needed a loincloth to satisfy what little sense of decency you had left. So, what happened? Did you catch one of your men going feral?

That look in your eyes say it all.

One of your boys was late to feeding time, weren’t they? Hmm. Yes, I can see it in your memories. Since when could I read your memories? How else do you think I’m communicating with you? I’m in your mind, stupid. Well, somewhat, anyways. The connection got deep enough that I could look, but now you’re clouding it over again. Come on, chin up. Clear out that anxiety. I need to see what happened.

Why? Why, so I can judge you, of course. Silly human. Or should I say silly bull now? Ah, but I digress. Let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we?

So, you went in search of the wayward member, and you followed his scent. It didn’t take you long to find him. You heard the feral bellows, saw the tattered remnants of the loincloth you’d made him wear. By the time you got there, it was too late, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if the metamorphosis had already completed itself. He was well and truly feral by that point, wasn’t he? I’m sure the cow didn’t mind. If she was in heat, she would welcome a strong male to mate with her. What did that do to you, I wonder? Did it fill you disgust? Did it fill you with fear? Or was there only lust, and a rapidly growing need to sate it?

Hmm. Not feeling so confident in your so-called innocence now, are you? I wonder. Did the ring really whisper to you, or was that just your own primal id making itself known? I can tell you’re starting to wonder yourself. As I said before, you humans can be so very much like animals. It’s quite funny, really.

I’m not surprised at the sudden sense of fear you felt running through your system. Adrenaline pumping, nostrils flaring. I wonder, did you finally look in a mirror then, after all that time, I mean really look? Yes, I see. You saw a rugged, handsome, virile man each time you looked in that mirror, didn’t you? But now you’d seen something that opened your eyes to the truth. I wonder, what was your reaction when you finally realized? Come now, don’t be shy. Let me see it.

Ah, so that’s what happened. I sense the fear, the pain. Ooh, that rage. Yes, now that is a potent energy. You were quite the vessel, weren’t you, keeping that bottled up for so long? No wonder the ring came to you. So, you smashed the mirror with your bare fists. Much to your horror, though, you didn’t take any damage, did you? Ah, yes, there it is. You saw your hands changing. Your skin darkened, thickened, hardened to the point where a little thing like glass shards couldn’t do a thing. The weight on your head increased then, and you felt your horns, truly felt them, for the first time. I wonder, was it a scream or a bellow you let loose at that point? Ah, I see you don’t even know.

And next . . . ah, yes. Of course, you rushed back to the mess hall. But I’m certain it must have well and truly become a proper mess by that point. Your men were licking and snuffling at their bowls, not even deigning to use their hands as they slowly morphed into thick, sturdy hooves before your eyes. They looked at you, and they hardly beat an eyelash. Some few let out a cursory snort or grunt of greeting as their new tails whipped casually behind them. For the first time, you noticed the piles of manure that had been building in the hall, saw the sad and bedraggled state of the room as your men shoved their faces into giant bowls of warm, fresh milk. You watched the light leave their eyes, saw their horns sprout, their small remnants of clothing shredding as they expanded into proper bovines.

They let loose their calls, then, and the ladies soon joined them. I won’t force you to relive those changes. It seems you torture yourself with them enough as it is. And . . . what’s this? Oh, my. You really did like that heifer, didn’t you? You actually felt some remorse for her. Well, at least until the ring had its way with you. She’s not a heifer anymore now, is she? How many calves has she had? I see. You have been in this field awhile, haven’t you? Four calves, you say? And I assume you were the father for each one? But, of course you were. You wouldn’t let any of the others sully her like that. No, it had to be you, didn’t it?

Ah, you were protecting her, you say. Well, I suppose I can believe that to an extent. After all, it’s not like you had many higher reasoning functions by that point in time. And you were the head honcho, so to speak. If she was ready to mate, and she needed it, you would have made sure to give it to her. It is a rather fine line, isn’t it? Hmm, but it must have felt so strange having the ring shift to your nose. And the moment it did, you found yourself feeling so docile, didn’t you? You just got right down on all fours, and let the magic finish its work.

Hmm? No, of course I don’t mind you being in this field. And no, I’m not going to turn you back. You’re all too far gone for that, I’m afraid. I can promise you all a good life, though. I’ll take care of you, let you live free range, give you the food and shelter you require on the colder nights. You won’t even have to worry about being slaughtered. The only thing I ask in return is a steady supply of your mates’ milk, and perhaps permission to use some of your manure from time to time in my farming enterprises.

Hmm? What for? Why, for my new restaurant, of course. That seems a fair trade, wouldn’t you say? Judging by the glowing on your nose ring, I’d say you agree. Don’t worry, you’ll be well taken care of. Though you may feel a slight burning sensation for a moment. Sorry about that. The magic had to brand you, so we could tell you and your herd apart from the originals. The former humans won’t have to worry about slaughter, but the other members in the herd may still face the chopping block, so to speak, when they’re old enough, and not long for this world. But you don’t really care about that now, do you, Big Ben? There’s a good bull. Now why don’t you go ahead and graze with the others? I have some calls to make.

Oh, and welcome to TF Foods Incorporated. It’s really been such a pleasure doing business with you.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 3

Your first session with Hank may not have been deadly, but it was far from unpleasant. He meant it, when he said he would test your limits. He took you through the whole range of exercises from cardio to calisthenics to strength and endurance training. To establish a base line, he’d said. A part of you wondered if it was just because he took pleasure in seeing you sweat. Then again, that was kind of his job, so he probably did. A purple turtle neck clung to your upper body, helping to keep you warm as you gingerly removed your coat to hang in the closet. The workout may not have been intense, but you still felt the after-effects, and you were not looking forward to day two. It always hurt more on day two. The waiting room was a small one, but incredibly warm. Harry had said he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it yourself. It was a vocal coach, after all, and you only had to say the one line. A few sessions, and you’d have that part ready to go for the cameras. You twiddled your thumbs idly as you waited in the leather chair. Finally, a good five or so minutes later, the door opened and a tall man with dark hair and green eyes walked out with a smile across his face as he put on his glasses. “Thank you so much for the help, Miss Schroder. Your training is an absolute life saver.” “It’s no problem, I assure you,” a woman’s voice carried out from behind the man. A few moments later, you caught your first look at her. Her skin was pale and flawless as marble, and she strode out confidently in high heels. Her hair fell in rich red curling waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back like the fronds of a willow tree, and her pale blue business suit was accented by light pink lipstick. “Just make sure to remember those dialects. Just because it’s one nation doesn’t mean they won’t have different accents.” “Ah, but how could oi be forgettin’ sumpin’ so positively voital ta me craft, yer ladyship?” he asked as a sly smile pulled at his lips. Miss Schroder laughed. “Oh, stop it, you. Save it for the character.” “All right. All right,” the man acquiesced as he raised his hands in defeat. “But it is fun, you know.” “Naturally. Just make sure to be careful, Scott. I find that the roles my customers play tend to take a life all their own.” Scott laughed. “Well, I don’t think that’d hurt all that much, in my case. See you around.” He waved, nodded to you, then retrieved his coat, before making his way out the door. Then Miss Schroder turned her attention to you. She called you by name, then motioned curtly with a finger as she strode back to her office. You followed her her with little prompting. “I’ll have you know that I take my craft very seriously,” she started. “I meant what I said when I warned Scott back there. My lessons can be very much like role playing, and like all role playing, there is a chance that the character can spill over into your everyday life. I would advise you to keep things as separate as possible.” She handed a sheaf of papers to you. “Please make sure to sign these, before we continue. They’re release forms, among a few other necessary documents. By signing them, you agree that I am not to be held responsible for any changes or repercussions that should occur during your time here. You are taking my courses of your own free will, and are willing to accept the consequences of whatever may result from these courses. As a part of the process, some hypnosis may be applied. In signing these papers, you consent to allow me to hypnotize you for the sake of understanding the role you are to take. If you do not wish to be hypnotized, you may so indicate in the necessary boxes; however, it will take longer for you to accomplish your role to satisfaction this way, and the commercial will not move forward, until I give my official seal of approval.” “What?” you balk. “They trust me. I’m good at what I do. If I say someone isn’t ready, they aren’t ready. Each time I’ve warned a client, my predictions came true. After a time, people learn to listen.” She shrugged as she planted herself in a tall stool with a high back to support her lithe frame. “Now, then, assuming you’ve finished the paperwork, let’s get started.” You gulp, then sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s not like she’d be able to do much to you, anyways, even if she did manage to put you under. And you needed this part. You scrawl quickly across the necessary lines, after a swift perusal of each of the segments for any hidden language or gimmicks. “All right. Let’s get started,” you sigh. “Good.” She seized the paperwork and shoved it into a file with your name on it. “Now, then. According to the paperwork, you are to play the role of a stereotypical bodybuilder with just one thing on his mind.” “Lifting weights. Yes,” you say as you roll your eyes. “I take it you’re not too keen on the role.” You shrug. “I take what I can get.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. You’re going to be an interesting one. It’s more difficult working with a client who isn’t enthusiastic about his part. Not impossible, mind you. Just more difficult.” She perused the file once more, then pulled out her phone. “Let’s start off with various accents, shall we? I want to see what kind of range fits you best. There are a few that come more prominently to mind. You have German/Austrian, surfer beach bum, frat boy jock, and a few others. Each of them may sound similar, but there is a certain subtlety that designates each vocalization as its own unique sort of language. The only difference here is, rather than a language of words and letters, you have a language of sounds and inflections. Now then. Let’s begin.” You run through each of the various accents and styles, trying your best to replicate each. She shook her head and tutted at each separate attempt to mimic the recordings. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” she sighed. “Let’s start off with the basics.” She flicked to another track, and white noise started playing gently behind the sound of a metronome. “I want you to listen to the beat and follow it. Emphasize the key words of your line with each stroke. ‘I lift things UP and put them DOWN.’ Got it? Up,” her voice climbed higher, “and down.” Her voice glided down into the lower register.

You sigh, then set your shoulders as you listen to the recording. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say lamely. “With feeling. Emphasize. You have to draw the audience into what you’re saying. Again,” she ordered. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say. “Again. Hit the beat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Again.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Repeat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Good. Keep going.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That’s right. Follow the beat. Up. Down. Up. Down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” Click up. Click down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down. It’s so boring, but you continue to follow the pattern. “Cadence is everything. Flying high, then dropping low.”

Up. Down.

“Lower.”

“I lift things up and put them down.” Did ... your voice sound huskier? “Deeper. Don’t stop now. Repeat. Follow the rhythm.” Follow UP. Follow DOWN. Follow.... “I ... feel funny....” “Relax. You were just starting to get it right. Try again,” she urged gently. “You want to nail this part, don’t you? So you have to try again. Relax. Try again. Listen. Try again. Follow the beat. Try again.” Her tone was so soft, so low. You had to strain to hear. Had to listen. ... Had to try again. “I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down....”

“That’s right.” You feel something in your hand. A ... paperweight, maybe? “You lift things up and put them down. Up. Down. Up. Down.” And suddenly your arm is moving. Up and down. Up and down. You lift things up. You put them down. Lift up. Put down. Up. ... Down. “Good boy.” Then everything went dark.