From DreadZone To Dread Drone

From DreadZone to Dread Drone

The inspiration for this story came from a piece of artwork I stumbled across on Furaffinity.net. Ratchet and Clank happens to be a favorite game series of mine for its great characters and awesome weapon choices to balance the serious with the zany humor that makes it such a lovable classic. The particular focus of this piece lies with Ratchet from the game Ratchet and Clank: Deadlocked, just after Ratchet defeated Ace Hardlight in the arena. Now his captor is trying to convince him to join DreadZone as a top exterminator to get lots of money for the both of them. Those of you who know Ratchet, know what his response would have been. That’s where this story breaks from the video game. I hope you all enjoy. :D

Inspiration Picture: 

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24311628/

Author’s Note: Regrettably, all the extra effects I placed in the original document can’t carry over into tumblr posts. If you want to see the PDF version with all the text effects, such as changig font size, etc. for a better experience, you can find it here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24484279/

Ratchet glared defiantly up into the shark alien’s face as Gleeman Vox panted to catch his breath. For the last several months, the Lombax had been battered; beaten; shocked; stunned; shot at; sniped; attacked by zombie robots; nearly eviscerated by a homicidal alien bug; bored practically to death by a nuclear robot with image issues and only half a brain; and bombarded by a walking, talking arsenal with a thick accent; along with too many other death traps to name. And that was before he had to face off against that disgrace of a hero, Ace Hardlight. All with the barrel of a gun stuck to his head, or to be more precise, the trigger of a bomb that was currently strapped around his neck. He waved his hand in front of his nose to disperse the disgusting smell that was Gleeman Vox’s breath, before responding.

“No deal, Vox,” he said calmly.

“What did you say?” Vox rose to his full height, and furrowed his brows together in an angry scowl. His chin barely stuck out from the rest of his rubbery muscled neck, and his angular cheek bones and protruding brow cast a menacing shadow over his eyes. His flashy red business suit coat with orange accents strained against his broad, muscular chest. The flash of a gold collar shone underneath, revealing the expensive undershirt. Ratchet wouldn’t have been surprised if that really was actual gold lining.

“I’m not your puppet, Vox,” Ratchet said defiantly as he pointed a made a swatting motion with his hand, as if to smack the idea across the room. “You actually think I’d kill other heroes to get rich? You’re not just corrupt. You’re stupid.”

“Why you little–!” Vox made a series of choking sounds as he struggled between the warring desires to strangle the Lombax or to keep him alive. Finally, he regained his composure. “You just signed your own death warrant,” he threatened.

“So, we’re done, then,” Ratchet said as he continued to glare at the shark-morph. When he was certain he’d made the proper statement, he turned towards the guard bots that had escorted him so forcefully into Vox’s office. They refused to move aside.

“Oh, we’re far from done, Ratchet,” Vox purred. “The old show’s over, but we’re just getting started.”

“I said I’m not helping you, Vox. How many times do I have to repeat myself before you get that through your thick skull?”

Vox just sneered as he pushed a button on his remote. Suddenly, Ratchet’s helmet re-engaged, locking itself in place on his head with a heavy click.

“Hey! What the–?” Ratchet swore as he tried to disengage the mechanism, only to find that his release button wasn’t functioning.

Vox pushed another button, and Ratchet heard the comms system cut off in his helmet. “Restrain him,” Vox ordered.

Before Ratchet could make a move, he felt the mechanical hands Clench onto his shoulders, followed by extreme pressure that forced him to kneel as the robots held his arms behind him with his back arched. His armor took the brunt of the force, but that didn’t mean it could keep him from feeling pain. A little more pressure, and he knew his shoulders would be out of their sockets in no time.

Vox pushed another button, and suddenly Ratchet’s HUD began pulsing alongside his chest piece. The Lombax groaned as a sudden wave of pleasure washed over his body.

“You see, Ratchet, my boy, I’m not really as dumb as I look.” The shark approached, and circled the suited figure. “My people have been around a very, very long time.” He chuckled maliciously. “Some of us turned pirate, some marauders, some crime bosses. The thing about us Chondrichthians[1], though, we’re very good at getting what we want. Sure, a lot of my cousins from Galea are a bit more straightforward. They smash, then take what they want. Me? I’m not like that. I take the smarter approach.

“Wh-what is this?” Ratchet growled. The speakers in his helmet sparked to life as static played in short, dramatic bursts, whirring from ear to ear.

“You’re the smart one, Lombax. Figure it out,” Vox taunted as he circled the back of Ratchet’s suit. “Ease up a little, boys, but not too much. Remember, we don’t want to hurt the merchandise.”

“Screw you, Vox!” Ratchet spat through his speech processor. Though, admittedly, he couldn’t help but allow himself a mental sigh of relief. He could take torture. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Ah, yes. Now there’s that fighting spirit DreadZone fans have come to love so much. Such a ruthless edge. The way you dispatch your enemies is absolutely inspired, Ratchet. Your fans love it. And I’d be a fool not to admit it impressed me, too. If there’s one thing our people respect, it’s strength and ruthlessness. You have both in spades. Why a few more feet in height, a couple hundred pounds of muscle, and you could fit right in.” He leaned in to whisper at the side of the helmet. “I’ve seen how you react, Ratchet. You were born for this life. You loved taking down those enemies. Admit it.”

“Of course I did,” Ratchet grunted as he squirmed uncomfortably in the robots’ grip. “I wasn’t about to let them kill any more heroes.” Even as he said it, still shots of his battles in the arena and against the enforcers flashed across his HUD, almost faster than his eye could track. It wasn’t enough to obscure his vision, but it was a bit of a distraction. His heartrate began to pick up, and his muscles tensed as the rush of adrenaline surged through his system, alongside the endorphins.

“Ah, yes. The old altruistic hero excuse. You know, Ace was the same way when he first came to my office. So certain of himself, so assertive in the righteousness of his cause. You wana know my secret, Lombax?” Vox asked as he drew back from the suit. “You wanna know how I managed to turn the legendary Ace Hardlight into a coldblooded killer?”

Ratchet grunted angrily as the squirming intensified.

“Something the matter, boy?” Vox sneered.

“What … did you do to me?” Ratchet panted as the blood surged through his head. Or was that just the speakers? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. All he knew was the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks, and a second stirring down below that had grown extremely uncomfortable.

“What did I do to you? Nothing, really. I’ve just made you famous is all. I’ve seen the security feeds, you know. I know you always wanted to be a combatant. What were your words again? Ah yes, ‘… the fame, the money, the babes.’ That ring a bell?”

Fame, money, babes.

Want it..

Fame, money, babes.

Need it.

Fame, money, babes.

Obey.

FAME, MONEY, BABES.

Listen to Vox.

It repeated over and over at various speeds and frequencies, overlaying the static as magazine covers with his face on them, rivers of bolts, and various attractive females joined with the combat. But … was it really a recording, or was he just remembering? He shook his head. It didn’t matter right now. He had to focus on Vox. Better to make him prattle on, listen to what he had to say. Yeah, just … just listen. He might let something slip.

“Y-yeah, but … but that doesn’t mean I … not like this!” Ratchet insisted. “Come on, Ratchet. What’s the matter with you? You’re usually sharper than this,” he thought to himself, even as the light continued to flash, and the core unit on his suit pulsed in time. “Definitely sharper in the battlefield,” he thought bitterly. “If I just had my weapons….” Another bout of pleasure shot through him as he thought of his battle wrench, pounding those enemies, showing them what it meant to mess with him. Stupid rookies. Another image of an attractive alien woman with a perfect hourglass figure and beautiful lips strobed across his visor. “Then again, they’re not the only things I’d like to pound.” He gasped as the pleasure shot through his body again, harder and faster than before. He shook his head to clear it once more. That … that wasn’t him. He didn’t really think that way … did he? He growled internally. Why was the combat suit so tight? His tail was begging for release, and the soreness was killing his rear.

“This coming from the Lombax who chastised his robot buddy for cramping his style in the victory lap.” Gleeman clicked another button on the remote, and the feed for Ratchet’s discussion with Clank after taking out his first exterminator played on Ratchet’s HUD, as well as a holo screen.

“Clank, did you see me out there against that Shellshock guy? Yeah! I was all *DOOMSH. Doo. Too Too. Hiya! Who! Hwah! Oohoom!”

Clank let out a synthetic sigh. “You worry me, Ratchet.”

The victory dance cut off, and Ratchet still looked excited as he spoke to his friend, albeit in a more controlled tone. “Come on, Clank. Can’t I just enjoy the moment?”

The feed cut off, but the parting question echoed in Ratchet’s ears with the swirling in his head. He began to roll it somewhat dizzily as he struggled to focus on his captor.

Just enjoy the moment?

Don’t think.

“But that’s not … not ….” The spinning grew faster. He was having trouble piecing the thought together. “Not … everything?”

Just enjoy the moment?

Listen to Vox.

“Of course that’s everything, my boy. That last fight with Ace must’ve knocked a screw loose. Maybe you should just … relax a little bit.”

Just enjoy the moment?

Obey.

All the tension flooded out of Ratchet in an instant. His tongue lolled in his mouth as he looked with heavy lids through his HUD to the grinning Chondrichthian. A pleasurable tingling buzz filled his body as he gazed ahead, and let the room spin. He didn’t really care about the pictures anymore. He just … couldn’t bring himself to care. But … wasn’t there something … important? But … if it was important, he’d remember it, right? Besides, if it was that important, he’d have alarms going on in his head. Yeah. He should just relax.

…

Enjoy the moment.

…

Yeahhhh….

“Admit it, Ratchet. You were made for DreadZone, and DreadZone was made for you. You want it. You want to be the king of the arena, the head honcho, the main contender. And, if you just take your time to think about it a little bit, to just relax and listen, I’m sure you’ll reach the same conclusion. You don’t care who you fight. You just fight. You fight for me. You fight for the thrill. You fight, because you love to show off your strength, your agility, your power. All for the fans. All for me. Because that one fragment, that one moment, that time when you’re in the spotlight, when you’re being admired, when you are being praised, adored, worshiped. You enjoy it. You want it. You crave it.”

Must enjoy the moment.

Don’t question.

“Yes….” Ratchet hissed. Then his eyes widened. “I-I mean n–yes.” His heartrate picked up again after he heard the sudden crack. His voice. Why had it dropped there? And more importantly, why couldn’t he object? Why did he … want to … object? Did he? Well, he had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Wh-why can’t I–?”

“That’s it, Ratchet,” Vox praised. “Just keep on listening, like a good boy. Stay, and listen. Don’t move. Don’t think. Just listen.”

Ratchet felt his muscles locking in place as another thrill of pleasure flooded his system. Vox approached, and patted the Lombax on his helmet.

“Who do you obey?” Vox asked playfully.

“Gleeman Vox.” It was out of his mouth before he could even try to stop it.

“Who owns you?”

Another burst of static. Another surge of arousal. “G-g-Gleeeeeeeman …”

Vox could practically hear Ratchet’s teeth grinding as his conscious wrestled to overcome the urge to answer. “Yes?” Vox nudged.

Now Ratchet was making the choking sounds as he tried to stave off the word. Unfortunately, that was not to be. “VOX!” he finally yelled at the top of his lungs. The color on his helmet’s HUD and the suit’s core unit switched to a flashing red, and Vox’s grin widened even further as the Lombax let loose with a primal bellow of frustration.

“Oh, good boy,” Vox praised. “So nice of you to recognize it.”

Heavy breathing was all the response Vox got.

“Who cares about friends, right? All you need is your team of exterminators and the thrill of the fight.”

“N-nnnnggghhh….”

“You can’t say no to me, you know, stupid Lombax. You might as well make this easier on you by saying yes. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

The doors slid open as Ace Hardlight lumbered through the door with heavy feet. His eyes were glazed over as he stared into his rapidly pulsing visor. “Exterminator Hardlight reporting for duty, Sir,” he droned as he dropped to his knees, and stared up at Vox. Vox ran his cybernetic three-digit hand through Ace’s hair, before connecting one of its tips to the exterminator’s receiver. The effects were nigh-instantaneous as Ace slumped forward, and began to mumble to himself. Ratchet could just catch the barest hints of what was said.

“… Obey. … Must fight … Glory hog … serve DreadZone. … Protect DreadZone … Yes, Master Vox….”

“Ace was one of our first successful candidates for a real personality alteration. We tried fixing things up directly at the brain, but more often than not, that led to exploding heads. So, we tried a few … alternate methods. I meant what I said, Ratchet. I didn’t make him do anything. He accepted this all on his own.” He shrugged. “Of course, giving him the right body, that was a bit of a challenge. He fought well, but he needed to fit the part. Kids are so enamored with the idea of a big, muscular hero to look up to. And a strong, virile male almost always draws in the ladies. So, naturally, we had to give Ace the body to match.” He walked over to Ace’s back, and pulled back the suit near his jaw to expose the thicker, rougher skin. A tinge of green showed itself beneath significantly thicker hair. “It took some doing, a little genetic splicing, but Hardlight didn’t mind. He was all for it, weren’t you, Ace?”

“Yes, Master Vox,” Ace droned.

“Why, he even signed the paperwork of his own volition. We used Blargian Snagglebeast for the base. I believe you’re familiar with the species. As you can see, the Blargian DNA does the body good.” He chuckled wickedly. “Of course, it did leave a few … side effects. A skin condition, a predatory desire to kill, the drive to be the alpha, the need to show off and be fawned over by the fairer sex. It made his hair grow out a little funny, but that was workable. Added to the roguish charm for the ladies. We managed to build his IQ back up a bit, but it took us time to get him back to proper functionality. And, of course, you can see the more protrusive canines. Personally, I think he looks better that way, but maybe that’s just the predator in me.”

“H-how?” Ratchet managed to rasp.

“How is he alive? Well, obviously, the snagglebeast DNA. Makes him tough to kill. Oh, sure, you knocked him out right enough, but beasts like him are built to survive. You will be, too, soon enough. My program already has you in the red. A little longer, and you won’t even want to think about the past, about anything, but serving me and fighting to keep DreadZone alive and well.”

Ratchet’s eyes widened behind his helmet. “No–THINKING. But … but I – MUST OBEY. Get out of my head!” his mind shrieked at the invasive thoughts.

“C-clank,” Ratchet groaned as he felt a sharp prick in his armpit, followed by the familiar cool sensation of nanites at work. The same procedure was repeated in his other armpit, and near his crotch. His heat rate quickened, and his breathing became labored.

“Of course, since then, I’ve learned how to refine the process. I’ve even gotten a few … added benefits put in. You should be feeling some of the base effects soon enough. As for this Clank, well, you must be mistaken. There is no Clank.” Vox laughed as he watched the Lombax tremble in his place. The armor creaked as the flashing light continued its work. “You must be thinking of your mission engineer, ya stupid lug. His name’s Crankshaft. He’s a ruthless tactician, and one hell of a battle droid. You two hit it off right from the get-go.”

Ratchet fought this new information as hard as he could. He remembered Clank. He was a funny little bot. They’d been through so much together. Bouncy red antenna, cute little green transmitters on the sides of his head, and the ability to morph into all sorts of assisting gear, including glide and hover modes. There was no way he was going to let that little bot get lost in whatever nefarious chemical Vox was using to drug him. Well, at least he … thought it was a drug. “Thinking. Ha! Good one, Ratchet.” The thought caught him off guard. “Excuse me, I’m a Lombax. I invent machines all the time. It’s in my f***ing blood,” he thought back, only for a throbbing ache to stab at his skull. He groaned in pain as he felt the helmet’s metal starting to press against the sides of his head. But that was impossible. Did Vox do something to the suit and its parameters?

The image of the little bot in question popped up on his visor suddenly, breaking off any train of thought he might have started. “Clank!” he shouted. “Buddy, can you hear me?” A similar display had sprouted next to Vox as he watched the Lombax’s desperation with sadistic glee.

The bot was messing with a holo display in its hand. It didn’t seem to hear Ratchet, but then it turned to face the camera. Another burst of static caused Ratchet’s vision to blur as the room spun momentarily. Despite this, he struggled to maintain his focus on the screen. He watched as the image of Clank began to change. His eyes faded from green to a blazing scarlet as his green communication nodes retracted into his head. The sound of shifting servos and cranking machinery echoed as the tiny robot’s body began to expand, first bursting outwards around the central chest piece, then the right arm, then the left as his fingers and hands grew to ten times their original size. His legs and feet shot upwards and outwards respectively, followed by expanding as heavy metal plating slotted into place with bolts at the joints to allow freedom of movement and a proper march. The clatter of a shutter sounded as thick metal armor plating flushed out in layer after layer to complete the sentry unit’s massive feet.

“No, no, no!” Ratchet screamed internally. He recognized that build. He’d seen it so many times before, back when he fought Chairman Drek. The memory of blown robot parts and showering bolts sent yet another thrill of pleasure racing through him, causing him to sway as his armor creaked. Those bolts … so shiny … like his … HUD.

…

No! Can’t get distracted. He had to focus on Clank, try to help him somehow. Since he couldn’t object verbally, he did the next best thing, try to reach his little buddy. “Clank!” He panted as the shoulder pieces pressed against his back, and the lower portions of the armor strained against his waist and legs.

“It took some searching, after we pulled him out of that scrap heap from that robot factory on Quartu, but we managed to reactivate his battle parameters. Chairman Drek didn’t know what he was throwing away, when he disposed of this little guy.” Vox sneered as the swelling robot’s tiny round head began to bow outwards. Soon the mouth became distorted, then squared out into an intimidating rectangular shape as his eyes merged together to a digital display with a single glowing red optic unit, a low-hanging metallic “brow,” and a jutting metal fin on top. As a final part of his changes, his upper body expanded to the point where he stood at an intimidating eight feet tall and four feet wide. Reinforced joints bulged with extra armor plating as his servos clinked and whirred. Holsters clanked out, revealing various weapons his body had been equipped with, including combusters, a shock cannon, blasters, and other materials. “The bot’s the perfect infiltration unit. And that titan mod you installed in him? One of a kind. He must’ve nagged you for months, before you finally agreed to it. Who knew a warbot that efficient would have image issues, eh, big guy?” Vox looked back at the screen as a camera hovered in front of his face. “Crankshaft, this is Vox. Do me a favor, and state your primary objective.”

The warbot stood rigidly as a deep, intent voice replied, “Exterminate DreadZone contestants.”

Vox chuckled. “Good warbot.”

Ratchet let out a painful grunt as he felt a building pressure in his pectorals. He panted heavily through his helmet’s filters as he slammed his hands palm-down onto the floor. Another surge of arousal ran through him, and the suit got tighter as images of over-muscled troops and aliens flickered, superimposed behind the image of the warbot. “C-clank,” Ratchet cracked as his throat tightened. He clenched his teeth, and the suit pressed in further against his shoulders and torso. A vibration started running over his pecs, and he tensed as another rush of pleasure assaulted him. “B-big?” he asked dazedly as he recalled the final portion of Vox’s question.

“That’s right, ya big lug. I said big. You’re gonna be huge! The biggest attraction DreadZone’s ever known. So big, whole galaxies will fall on their knees to worship the mighty titan of the arena, the grim giant, the brilliant brute, Ratchet the Ruinator!”

A chorus of cheering fans suddenly played over Ratchet’s speakers, whistling, hollering. It took the Lombax completely off guard. His muscles tensed, and he heard the metal of his armor creaking as his biceps and triceps were squeezed like sausages. Wait … that wasn’t right … was it? Maybe … maybe the suit wasn’t shrinking. Maybe … was he getting bigger?

The moment he thought the word, a dull roar echoed in his head as his vision clouded over. Everything blacked out for what felt like just a few seconds. When he came to, he was disgusted to find himself scratching his crotch, heedless of the sneering Vox. He hastily pulled his hand away, and wiped the smile off his face, relaxing the muscles he felt pulling at his cheek bones. He was intensely grateful Vox couldn’t see him under the helmet right now.

“Getting hard to think, Lombax? You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Vox chuckled wickedly as he pulled up a holographic display from his cybernetic hand. “Heart rate is increasing, dopamine levels are heightened, testosterone is flooding through you, and the injections are working right on schedule. At this rate, we should be about ready to activate your suit’s secondary features in the next few minutes.”

“V-vox,” Ratchet growled slowly, threateningly. He shuddered at the deeper tone that echoed inside his helmet. Was that really his voice?

“Calm down, hotshot. You’ve still got your little team. I didn’t do a thing to hurt your friends, despite what you may think to the contrary,” Vox said as he rolled his eyes. “See for yourself.” He flicked his hand outwards, and a holo-screen emerged showing the bulky warbot that certainly wasn’t Clank, and … was that…?

“A-Al? But … but they said your body was damaged beyond repair!”

Al circled around in his chair to reveal that a portion of the right side of his head had been replaced by pulsing red machinery. A mechanical eye glowed the same color as binary and other information scrolled along it. He thrust his right arm forward, revealing powerful cybernetic circuitry at the top of its class, including blade attachments, a powerful laser, and connection ports for hacking and mechanical interaction. The metal joints and skeletal frame had been surrounded by a shiny metal shell that had been carved to simulate the appearance of muscle. The barest hints of wiring could be seen at the joints in the wrist, fingers, and elbow. The sleeve of his lab coat had been torn off to make room for the additional mass at the connecting socket. “Master Vox was kind enough to give me a new one.”

“M-Master?” Ratchet balked. “Is this maniac threatening to blow you up now, if you don’t call him that, too? Where’s Clank?”

“Master Vox would never do such a thing to me. I’m a valued employee,” Al scoffed as he bore his neck to reveal that he had indeed been made collarless. “And you know that’s only Crankshaft’s codename, Ratchet. I don’t know how many times we’ve been over this now,” Al said as he rolled his good eye.

“Ratchet, are you certain that you are all right?”

The voice was still menacingly deep, but the choice of words, the difference in inflection, they were dead ringers. But … how was that possible? Did Vox make a replica, like Doctor Nefarious had? Maybe … maybe he had. “How do I know you’re really Clank, and not some bum replica like Clunk?” His head spun after he finished the question, and his nose wrinkled as he picked up the musky scent of his body armor. It had been some time since he’d been able to bathe properly, after all.

“Ratchet, this is no joking matter,” Clank, now Crankshaft countered in the same serious tone he’d always used when Ratchet had gotten out of line or lost sight of the objective, like smashing Doctor Nefarious’ biobliterator to bits. That had been fun. He liked smashing things. So easy, so simple. Cracking that bucket of bolts’ helmet to make him malfunction every time he got worked up had been an accident, but he loved the results. When the chips were down, he and his trusty power wrench always came through in the end. That’s why Vox had contacted him. He saw potential, potential that had been unlocking for quite some time. A loud crack sounded as ratchet felt the edges of his jaw rubbing against his helmet. He flinched at the pain when a rapid-fire series of images showing all manner of buxom females fawning over him flashed over his visor one after the other.

A dim smile pulled at his lips as he recalled the moments associated with those pictures. Saving two galaxies, defeating planet destroyers, neutralizing an intergalactic threat in the form of the protopet, plowing through the gladiator challenges. All these things and more had led to many a night of lovely female companionship for him and for Crankshaft-errrr … Clank. Yeah … Clank. He watched as his body gradually shifted in the images. First he was a little taller, then a little wider. He watched them stroking his ears, his shoulders, his swelling pecs. Mmm, Yeah. All that fighting did the body good. He felt his feet cramming against the boots of his armor, and let out another grunt of pain. Soon enough, the Ratchet in the pictures was holding two women between thick, burly arms. He was taller than Captain Quark, with a body that put Ace Hardlight to shame. He could almost remember those delicate fingers brushing over his fur, and a pleasurable tingling ran over his skin at the thought.

“Feeling a little snug in that armor, big boy?” Vox chuckled as he rubbed his hands together.

“Bigger … better … stronger. Big for Master Vox. Will be big for Master Vox.” Ace panted contentedly as he stared blankly ahead on his knees, the pulsing of his visor drawing him in.

Ratchet groaned as a tsunami of pleasure struck him all at once. His whole body tingled as circulation began to slow, and the sensation of cold began to stretch inwards from his outer extremities. His armor creaked in protest, groaning and popping occasionally as the light continued to pulse.

“Engage phase two,” Vox said calmly. A single chirp sounded in Ratchet’s ears from the armor’s machinery, and the pressure was suddenly gone. Blood surged through his limbs, causing the Lombax to feel every quiver, every pinprick, every curve as his muscles twitched back to life.

“My … body,” Ratchet moaned. He panted heavily as the flashing lights and static continued to pulse through his brain.

“Bigger and bigger,” Vox’s voice whispered across his coms. “And the bigger you become, the more obedient you are. The more obedient, the bigger you get. Such a big, strong, powerful gladiator.

Ratchet’s brows twitched as the words seeped into his head without his consent. “S-stop it,” he slurred. He looked down in horror as he finally got to see his arms properly. The armor’s rigid metal had shifted to some form of mesh that clung to his muscles, accenting every dip and bend. He gasped, seeing how they had swollen up to at least ten times their original size. Another loud crunch, and he felt his jaw pushing forward. Two somethings brushed against his upper lip. “My teef,” he stumbled over the now much larger canines. “My mouf!”

“You’ll get used to it, big boy, don’t worry. Besides, with the money we’ll make together, it won’t matter what your face looks like. Everyone’s going to love you.”

Ratchet growled, and was shocked just how feral he sounded as his upper torso expanded with a loud crunch, heralding the sudden and painful growth of his bones to support the rapidly swelling musculature. “No!” he snarled. He tried to move, but the material on his suit suddenly constricted over his joints, locking him in place. Despite his struggles, the mesh wouldn’t give an inch, save for the growth in his muscles as the room began to shrink.

“Say it with me now, Ratchet. Big–ger.”

Ace’s body spasmed as he panted in ecstasy. He quickly responded, “Bigger,” in a vapid tone, then chuckled.

Ratchet closed his eyes, tried to look away, but the ghostly images followed him, racing through his head over and over. People growing, people changing, bigger bodies, bigger armor, bigger plating, bigger muscles, “Bigger….” Wait, did he just say that out–? He gasped as another surge of pleasure struck, overwhelming his senses. He felt a building pressure in his crotch as the hot sensation in his cheeks flowed down, and his body began to tremble as his chest heaved. Everything was tinged with red as the lights pulsed in time to his rapidly beating heart.

“That’s right, Ratchet. Big lugs like you listen. The bigger you get, the easier it is to just stop questioning what I have to say.” Vox approached, and stroked over Ratchet’s pectorals. “Hmm. Growing in nicely, aren’t they? So big.”

Ratchet gasped, both from the pleasure and in disgust at Vox’s contact. The Chondrichthian grinned up at him.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Vox laughed as he stared into Ratchet’s pulsing visor. “You were mine the moment that suit became operational.” He snapped his robotic fingers, and the bomb collar disengaged, clattering uselessly to the ground. “You never thought it was strange, how naturally the arena came to you, how exciting the combat was, how exhilarating to wipe the floor with your opponents before you slaughter them? You were so focused on your combat, you didn’t even notice the messages we had pulsing through your ears 24/7, the nocturnal injections to prepare your body for its change. And with every assault, your confidence swelled bigger and bigger, didn’t it? If it weren’t for some … interference, we could’ve bagged you ages ago.”

Ratchet grunted as he struggled to move, struggled to think. The room swam around him as the whirring in his brain escalated to a climax.

“A curious thing, hypnosis, isn’t it? You just have to find that one chink in the armor, the thing that makes something abominable pleasurable, and then twist it, so you don’t even know the difference anymore. Then you just need a trigger, the one word that makes everything screech to a halt for the one who’s keyed it for a little programming. Why else do you think I had those twits in the announcer’s box use the word so many times?” Vox chuckled. “You’re so big now, you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

Vox snapped his fingers, and suddenly Ratchet found he could move. Nearly everything had been consumed by the red, except for Vox. He felt the rage, the anger, the hatred boiling. This scumbag needed to pay. He lunged forward, tried to punch the shark in the face. He saw the fist going, felt his muscles ripple, felt the familiar roaring in his ears. It would connect. It would hurt. It would feel so good.

…

But why hadn’t he felt anything by now?

Vox stepped aside, perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. The fist hung there, as though it had been frozen in place. “Care to try again, big boy?”

Ratchet roared as he raced forward, intent to slam the shark into a fish cake as he raised his massive arms, and locked his hands together to smash. He leapt into the air. Then a sudden sense of giddiness flooded through him. The room spun. He heard the crash of double impact, felt his knees and fists make contact. He smirked. He had to have gotten him. Vox had to be dead. He looked through his tunnel vision to see the cracks stretching from where he’d slammed the floor. Then he noticed the expensive leather shoes and gold stripes on the shiny red suit pants.

“No,” he gasped hoarsely.

“Why, Ratchet, swearing your loyalty to me already? Good boy.” Vox sneered as he stared into Ratchet’s HUD, and Ratchet stared back, stupefied. “Like I said, Ratchet, you can’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what you can do, though, big boy. You can obey me. In fact, you love to obey me. Isn’t that right?” Vox seized hold of the chin on Ratchet’s helmet, and stroked it gently. “Ya big lug.”

Ratchet tensed his muscles, struggled to move, to strike, to do anything that might manage to hurt Vox. Nothing responded. He wanted to get angry. He wanted to howl, to swipe, to smash, do something. Even a few choice swears would’ve been fine. Instead, he felt … nothing. The anger was gone. The rage had disappeared. He was just … docile.

…

Relaxed.

…

So … calm….

“That’s right, Ratchet. Just stare into your HUD. Don’t think. Don’t fight. Just listen to my voice, kid. Listen, and obey. Got it, big guy?”

Ratchet could hardly focus. His chest heaved up and down in a steady rhythm. His shoulders slumped at his sides. His expanding trapezius muscles gave him less of a neck as they merged with his back and chest, making it all seem as though it were one solid muscle. One muscle … all muscle … big … muscle ….

…

Feel’s good.

…

“Big…gerrrrr….”

Why was the recording so slow?

…

Doesn’t matter. So much pleasure. Rebounding. Like getting shocked by a tesla claw, but good instead of pain.

Vox sneered. He knew he had him. “That’s it, boy. Just listen nice and close now. Listen, sleep, and obey. Just let go. Little Lombax is gone now. Big Ratchet is smashing into the arena.”

“Big … Ratchet….” The cheering crowd played over the speakers in the helmet again, calling his name. A smile pulled at his mouth as the memory of his victories returned. He flexed his muscles, bouncing his pecs, striking poses in time to the imaginary cheers as the images of the crowd appeared. The image would glitch occasionally, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. The glitches made him feel good. He scratched absently at his crotch, this time without shame as he reveled in his growing size. After all, Big Ratchet loved being big, and that included below. The ladies loved it, too.

“Big Ratchet listens to Vox.”

Ratchet’s head twitched as Vox spoke, and the glitch flashed over the screen, followed by the pleasure.

“Big Ratchet obeys Gleeman Vox.”

Again, Ratchet twitched, this time followed by a deep-throated rumble as the metallic plating on the suit rearranged itself to forge over a rock-hard six-pack. The pulsing of the lights in Ratchet’s HUD and chest piece had slowed significantly as Ratchet’s breathing became deep and steady.

“Big Ratchet must serve and obey Gleeman Vox always.”

“Must obey,” Ace droned.

“OBEY….” Came the deep, slow bassoon.

Vox grinned as the barest flicker of blue flashed across the HUD’s visor for a matter of nanoseconds, before switching back to the pulsing red. “Now you must listen to me, Ratchet. Listen very carefully. What I’m about to say is very important, understand? You have to listen to what I am about to say, and it will become the truth for you,” Vox said as he laid both hands on either side of Ratchet’s helmet and stared into the visor. Ratchet had to lean down now, to meet Vox’s gaze, despite already kneeling. He did so without question or complaint.

Crowds cheering. Cheering him on. Cheering to listen. Cheering to obey. Ratchet could hardly see anything. All was a sea of adrenaline, testosterone, and who knew what else. It was huge, all-consuming. Lost. For the briefest of moments, he saw a face, a slim girl with dark skin and feline features. She seemed familiar somehow. She was … trying to say something. He strained to hear, but the crowd was too loud. It overwhelmed her. Then she was gone, consumed by the storm. Was she ever even there in the first place? Suddenly the storm clears, just a tiny patch. He sees a familiar face. Sharp teeth flash, a slick voice echoing across the gap. The fans drive him on. Drive him to listen. He focuses on the voice, focuses on the eyes, the sharp suit. He must speak, must answer, must acknowledge. The fans demand it. “Must … listen…. Big Ratchet … listen. Big Ratchet … obey.”

The cheering intensified, washing over him. He grinned vapidly behind his visor. He could hear them calling. The louder they cheered, the bigger he felt.

“Big m̴̵̀u҉̡̕ş̀c̕҉̕͢͠l̸҉̨e̸͘ḩ̶͡e̵a̶͏̛ḑ̕̕͡ Ratchet! Big b̀͘͏̕҉r̵̶̸á͜w̶̸͠ǹ̨̕͢y̡͟ Ratchet! Big d̶̴̡̨u̷̢ḿ̵̶͞b̴̀́͞ Ratchet! Big s̴̨̢̡҉t̡͟͝u̴̢p̶͜͝͝í͏̧d́͡͏҉́ Ratchet, o̫̖̖̪̼̱̣͑̄͒̉͞ͅb̗̻͎͉̙̩̜͂̈̽̆͜ě̵̻ͧy̶̡̮̪̏s hooray! Big v̴̕͢͞͝i̷̷̕o̵̵͘͘͞ļ̶̧e͡ń̸͝҉̨t̡̡͢҉̵ Ratchet! You’re a m҉̢͜͡͠i҉n҉̨͘ḑ͡l̶̴̨e̷̕s̸͟͝҉s̶̕ ̷̛͟͠͏ m̴̛̀͟u̷͏̸͡s̴̶͜ć̵̡̛͟l̶̴̷̷͜ę̡̀́ b̷̶̡̡e͏̛à̕͝s̡͘͡͞t̸̷̡͝ hero!”

With each glitch, the euphoria jumped, and Ratchet chuckled dimwittedly to himself as he twitched his muscles, testing how they felt. With each miniature flex, another surge of pleasure followed, and his worries diminished as he stared ahead at the pulsing light.

Then Vox’s voice cut through. “This is the truth, big guy. I, Gleeman Vox, am your beloved master. Understand? You obey me without question, serve me without question, protect me, love me unconditionally. You’re my big star player, my Big Ratchet.”

The Lombax breathed heavily. The words were so hard to understand with the cheering and the pleasure, but they slowly drifted through. He shuddered as he finally understood the command. Something didn’t sit right. His stomach tightened. He groaned as a pain began to spike in his head. It hurt to think, hurt to fight the pleasure. Why did he want to fight it? Why was it so wrong to just repeat … just listen … just … let … go….

He felt something shake his head. “Listen to me, Ratchet. Obey my order. Tell me. Who am I?”

Through the haze of the pulsing red light, he could barely make out the figure of the man who had started all this. The man who he was meant to obey. The man who had given him an order.

…

Big Ratchet must obey.

…

“Mmmmmmaasssterrrrr….” It grated out so slowly. It felt almost like pulling teeth. Ratchet shuddered as he said the word aloud.

“Again.”

“Master….” This one was slightly faster.

“Once more, with feeling.”

Ratchet shuddered. Great strangled sounds gurgled out from his speakers as all his muscles tensed, and the suit constricted. Suddenly, his head drooped forward. The tension left his body. A deep sigh carried into the room as the light on the suit and HUD stopped pulsing, burning a solid red. A single chime sounded, followed by the glowing red visor looking up to stare directly at Gleeman Vox. “Master Vox,” he droned. “Big Ratchet must listen to Master Vox. Big Ratchet must obey.”

Vox sneered as the red slowly faded to a gentle orange glow. “That’s right, big guy. You’re my head exterminator now. And once we’ve got you all trained up with Hardlight here, you’re gonna send our ratings through the roof!”

Big Ratchet grinned behind his helmet as he gazed out at the arena. The sound of his adoring fans roared through his ears from the stadiums as his combat bots, Merc and Green, hovered beside him. Towering at a full ten feet tall, Ratchet dwarfed the poor things. They barely came up to his knees, if that, so he took pity on them, and pulled them up to pose for the big screen. Gotta show he’s a team player. Boss said so, and Master Vox always knew best.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as the bots’ heads pushed against his pecs, sending waves of pleasure through him, and causing a familiar swelling below. He couldn’t wait to work that pump up in the gym. Then he had the ladies after. He always liked the ladies. They made him feel good, Master’s rewards.

F̸̕͞l̵̛ȩ҉x̢͢͟͝.̶̷̨̛̕ ̵̛̀Ś̴h̡͘̕͘͢ó̧̡w͏̵̴͝ ̷̛́͝o̵̡͘f̨́́҉̨f̨̀̕͏.͡͏̶͡ ́͏̸̧̀O̵͏b̛̕͠e҉̀ỳ͢.̛̀͢

He hardly even noticed the glitch anymore, just a bug in his screen. Master Vox said not to worry about it, so he didn’t. Instead, Big Ratchet tossed the bots into the air, and instantly fell into his flex routine. He let loose a primal roar, and the cheering intensified.

“Well, Juanita, it seems Big Ratchet here has made a big splash in his premier season as DreadZone’s top exterminator.” The annoying green man made Ratchet feel angry for some reason, but he couldn’t recall why.

…

He’d think about it later. Besides, he had fans to show off to. Had to show off.

“Yes, indeed, Dallas. In a revolutionary breakthrough with reformative technology, Gleeman Vox has singlehandedly turned this former criminal into a true hero, not to mention a real hit with the ladies. I mean, just look at those muscles….”

“Um … Juanita? Juanita? … Guys, I think her processors just froze. Can … can we get maintenance in here, please?”

Ratchet chuckled. Even the robo chick fainted when she looked at him.

“Crankshaft, ya copy?” Ratchet growled as he tapped his comms piece on his helmet, subconsciously flexing his bicep as he did so.

“I hear you, Ratchet. Well done on today’s fight.”

“Got you to thank for the strategies,” he returned. “We make a pretty good team, pal.” Ratchet’s sharp ears could just pick up the sound of Clank’s servos twitching his mouth into a hint of a smile.

“That we do, Ratchet. It is time for you to report to Director Vox. I will begin broadcasting your pre-workout track, as per Director Vox’s instructions.

Ratchet shuddered in anticipation as the sounds began to filter through his HUD, and the lights began to pulse. “You’re the best, Crankshaft.” The communication cut off, and Ratchet turned, then strode out the arena to the waiting transport ship with Green and Merc floating on either side. “Boys,” he said in a dazed voice, “activate Bigger Protocol.”

The two combat bots’ displays flashed red for the briefest moment, before they zoomed up to massage his pecs and other parts of his body. As Big Ratchet dropped into his plush reinforced seat, the autopilot engaged, and he smiled as he let the pleasure take him away into that perfect empty space in his head that he and Ace loved so much.

“DreadZone Exterminator, please identify yourself,” the feminine voice of the navigation computer asked primly.

Ratchet leaned back and stretched his tree trunk legs, patting his heavy bulge, before responding as he always had, as he always would, as he always must. “I am Big Ratchet. I obey….”

[1] Since the game never specified a species for Gleeman Vox, I decided to base the name for his race on the scientific name for shark, chondrichthyes.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 4

You start awake suddenly, your whole body jolting in its place on the seat. “Easy now. Easy,” a familiar voice says reassuringly. Your eyes dart to the side to lock on Miss Schroder as your hands clench down on the arms of your chair. Your cheeks feel flushed, and your heart is thumping in your chest. Your foot nudges against something, and you look down to discover a tiny metal five-pound dumbbell. Your eyes widen further as you become aware of the sense of fatigue in your right arm. “Wh-what did--?” “The first session is always the hardest. I just need you to breathe, okay? Take deep breaths. I just helped you to get into character is all.” “Helped...?” You rub absently at the back of your head. Your whole body feels strange, tingly, almost tight. “I ran you through some vocal exercises. You tranced about halfway through. Usually it takes me a few sessions to lead a person into full submersion, but you just dove right in.” You smack your mouth, trying to moisten the chapped surface as you grapple with this new information. Schroder offers you a bottle of water, and you quickly pop the cap, before guzzling the contents. “Hypnosis often leaves a subject feeling somewhat dehydrated afterwards, depending on the length of the session,” she explained. “I really am sorry about this. I was planning to try trancing later. Usually, that track just helps people get familiar with how I work and feel more comfortable as I coach them.” “H-how long...?” you ask as you continue to breathe deeply, struggling to get your heart rate back under control. “Forty-five minutes. Would you like to hear your progress?” She reached over to a stereo system sitting at her side. “No!” You half rise from your seat, then realize just what you were doing, and clear your throat awkwardly. “That’s ... all right,” you say in a slightly calmer tone, while you settle back down. “You don’t have to worry about falling back under, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she pointed out. “They’re just snippets.” “I ... really don’t feel too comfortable with this right now.” Miss Schroder sighed and shrugged. “Suit yourself. Your time is up for now, but I’ll be expecting you back again for the next session on time, you understand?” You gulp as a clammy chill runs down your back and you shudder. “Next time, we’ll experiment about methods to help you enter trance unassisted. I’ve been requested to compile sound files to assist you as you work towards your part. For now, here’s a list of affirmations and lines to go over to help you focus on your role. You’re not contractually obligated to use them, but I highly recommend you do so in your free time back home. They’ll offer motivation as well as context to your endeavors.” She handed you an envelope. “You’ll find signs and cue cards in there that you can post inside your home or not as you see fit. As for other motivational material, you’re on your own.” She rose to her feet and strode to the waiting room door. “I’ll see you in two days.” “Two days ... right.” The world feels like a fog as you stride out of the office. Your feet fall heavily on the hardwood floors as you lean into your stride. “Um ... goodbye,” you mumble as you pass her. It was time to go home. You had a lot to think about, and for some reason, you had a sneaking suspicion it was going to take you a while.

You look dubiously down at the thick gray slop in the mixing cup Hank had shoved into your hand. “What is this stuff?” you ask, suddenly grateful for your exceedingly strong stomach and overall constitution. “Workout shake. Special blend,” Hank said gruffly as he stared implaccably down at you. “Now drink it up. We’ve got a hard day of work ahead of us. That body isn’t going to build itself.” “But it’s so....” Hank’s gaze hardened as his stare turned into a glower. “Be grateful I gave you the small, kid,” he said, pointing over to where a titan of a man in a sleeveless muscle tee and tight compression shorts that hugged to pillar-like calves took a seat at one of the weight benches. A tall, broad bullet cup lay clenched in a meaty hand. He grinned once, exposing perfect white teeth, before he attacked the container, drinking lustily. The drink was gone in a matter of seconds, and the lifter let out a titanic belch afterwards, then shuddered and grinned as he put the now empty cup down, leaned back, and got to work. “That’s a 32-ounce. Yours is smaller. Now drink up. We’re late enough as is, thanks to your stalling.” You gulp once, then raise the plastic cup to your lips. “Drink,” Hank ordered. The texture of the swill was somewhat reminiscent of tapioca and wet cement. It weighed heavily in your mouth, and the flavor was an overpowering vanilla that was so sweet, it almost tasted bitter. Your face contorts in a mask of disgust, but before you can so much as pull the cup away, Hank is there, pressing it against your lips. “Better to do it all in one go,” he said. “You get used to it, after a while, but the first one’s always the worst.” You manage one sound of disgust, before the cup is tilted back, and you’re forced to either swallow or cough it all up. “What the hell?” you splutter as you pull away. Hank remained perfectly neutral. “I told you. I don’t have patience for you slow and steady types. We’re on a schedule and a tight deadline. I’ve been hired to push you to your limits. That includes pushing you to take your medicine, even if you don’t want to.” He turned to walk towards the gym. “If it helps, that drink’s specially designed to reduce the aching.” “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” you fumed. Hank grunted, then shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Come on.” He walked you over to a dumbbell rack, where a familiar redhead was busy grunting as he pumped away using sixty-pound weights. He grinned as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, and watched his biceps and triceps building up a pump from the exercise.

Hank patted the kid on the shoulder. “Doin’ great, Duff. Keep it up.” Duff’s smile widened. A hint of shiny gray substance on the edge of his lips hinted at what he’d drank just before his workout began. “Duff is tough. Duff is buff,” he muttered to himself in time to each curl. “What’s up with him?” you ask. Hank chuckled. “Motivation. Kid says the same thing over and over again to keep time with his reps. It’s a beginner’s trick, but it works, till the moves come more naturally.” “And the earbuds?” “Music. Or files. Who knows?” Hank shrugged. “Kid can listen to what he wants, just as long as it doesn’t bother the rest of the gym. Now come on. It’s time to pump.”

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.”

Finding Common Ground

Forgive me, if this sounds preachy. It’s my first time trying to tackle this concept in a written format, whether prose, letter, or something else. I’ve just had cause to reflect recently on our current situation in the nation (United States), and on differences as a whole that often lead to conflict. Different ideals. Different cultures. Different religions. And, yes, in some cases (though I do hate that these cases exist) different skin color. There’s opposition and conflict in just about every situation in the world. Even when we’re doing something as simple as moving one object to another place, opposition is in effect as we enact a force on that object to make it move against the laws of gravity. It seems in all this disparity that often, the only similarity between extremes that I can find is an intense dislike, if not outright hatred on both far sides of these conflicts. I hear conversations where men and women defame Donald Trump as a liar, a con man, and someone who is out to only better the wealthy and the rich. And yet, I don’t hear anything about his accomplishments that he’s made in his time as president from many of them. Likewise, I hear those who have praised Trump for his good works without acknowledging the past mistakes, sins, misdeeds, or misconducts that he has committed, before taking office. (I wasn’t sure which word would best apply. Hence, why I used multiples that could be deemed as synonyms.) Please note, this is not a political commentary, or at least it’s not intended as one. I’m simply stating this as an example. Another would be the whole debate that rages between homosexuality and heterosexuality (forgive me, if these terms seem outdated. I don’t keep up with all these new terms scientists and culture has come up with. Heck, I didn’t know they’d changed LGBT to LGBTQ, until I had to do research on it for an article I was writing.) It seems that people are forgetting what it is to be willing to respect that others have different beliefs on both sides, whether it be over religion, sexuality, politics, culture, or any number of other topics. As a Christian, I found myself under attack for saying that I couldn’t support someone’s decision to go through a transgender operation, but that I could and did respect their decision to go through with it, because it’s their choice. The funny thing of it, the person I was addressing didn’t blow up at all. It was a boatload of other people from all across the spectrum. Other Christians, atheists, and who knows what else. I don’t know what classifications or identifications these people take. It was online, after all. I understand the importance of free speech, of letting one’s opinion be known. I just miss the time when we could be willing to look at one another, and while we saw differences, could still see a common ground of humanity, of the fact that we each have our own choices to make, and that while we may not agree with each other, we can still have civil conversation and even develop great friendships, despite our differences. What happened to the age of compromise? What happened to the time of understanding between one another? I don’t know. All I know is that I wake up and look at the news, and all I see is more disparity, more anger, more violence, and not much dialogue. Maybe it’s happening behind the scenes. I don’t know. I just wish people would be willing to look more at one another and say, “Hey, I don’t agree with your choices, but I like you as a person. Wanna hang out?” I know there’s no cookie cutter solution to differences. Every situation is different, and I most certainly will never claim to have an answer to the conflict in the first place. But I do think it would help, if people stopped pointing fingers or making mobs or yelling or screaming against other points of view. Compromise and change require peaceful discussion. It’s like Doctor Who said in his famous speech during the Zygon war. You can get up, fight the battles, lose thousands of lives on both sides, or you can do what you always have to do in the end, what inevitably happens, no matter what the end result may be. You sit down, and you talk. I wish people would do that again. It’s so much easier to find that common ground, when you’re actually willing to look for it.

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.”

This sequence is an old favorite of mine. I’m a sucker for muscle growth and mental changes. It also formed the basis for a transformation I wrote for my Omnistore universe.  As such, I thought it only fitting to post that story here under the very sequence that inspired me in the first place. Please, Enjoy.

The Ring is the Thing: An Omni Store Tale

Benjamin Taurus panted painfully as he leaned on a corner street pole, gasping for air in the late summer heat. The angry cries of his pursuers bellowed behind him as his arms and legs shook from exertion. His carefully combed hair had become a matted sopping mess on his head, though the part he’d put into it that morning was making a valiant effort to hold on, even as the pomade he’d used to sculpt his hair for school pictures ran down his face and back in rivulets. The sweat burned his eyes as it flowed down the length of his short light brown square muzzle to his rubbery pink snout, and his ears dropped low behind his head, while various passersby looked on with disdain at his shirtless torso and frayed blue jeans.

Unlike the majority of his species, poor Benjamin was rather diminutive. His frame was slight, with barely enough mass to hide his ribs, and his arms were thin and wiry. While the young bull had no real fat to speak of, his lack of muscle mass made him an instant target for his fellows in Boulez Penne’s School for Gifted Bovines, or as most outsiders rightly called it, the Bull Pen. His eyes darted nervously from one street to the other as he struggled to get enough oxygen to his brain to think of his next move. Fortunately for him, being smaller gave him the advantage of maneuverability and blending in with a crowd. Unfortunately, his pursuers had bulk and endurance to make up for the difference. He glanced back nervously to see the flash of yellow horns and a bright red mane, and he knew his rest was over. His tail swished anxiously behind as he raced off again, even as he heard the sounds of men and women alike voicing their stern disapproval as they were shouldered aside by the bulk of his pursuers.

“Taurus! We’re not finished yet, you little runt! Get back here,” the bellow sounded. Ben shuddered as he remembered how easily Stephen Minot had torn his shirt to shreds, while his two best lackeys watched. With every day, more members of the class seemed to fall under his thrall, and he reveled in it. First rule of the Bull Pen, first rule of the herd: The strong rule, and the rest follow. Ben wasn’t willing to follow that template, and now he was paying the price.

Even as he ran, Ben couldn’t help but shudder at the sound of Stephen’s deep baritone. Part of him wanted to obey, to sit back and take his punishment. Instinct demanded it. His tail twitched in anticipation at the thought. And to think, all this because he wasn’t willing to go shirtless, like Stephen had ordered. Was there something wrong with choosing to have a little decency? It was bad enough getting made fun of for his figure with his clothes on. He didn’t need to show it off for the whole school to mock.

Ben tore through a street fair and turned down a side alley as the rowdy bulls charged from behind. He cursed to himself as he leaned against the cool, rough brick wall. This was definitely not the place for him to stay in a situation like this. A quick glance down to the other end of the alley revealed the dead end that awaited him. A single door with a worn wooden sign over the top stared back at him. He could barely make out the warped image of the OPEN sign behind the thick panes of glass. He snuck as far back into the shadows as he could manage, and took a moment to breathe as he rubbed his forehead in consternation, brushing against the tiny nubs of horns poking out the sides of his head. Why did it have to be him? Why did they have to make such a big deal out of choosing to be more modest? He just wasn’t that into the whole bovine alpha urge. Wasn’t the whole point of modern society supposed to be getting away from living by instinct? Things would be different, if he were in charge, that’s for sure.

“Taurus!”

Ben turned slowly to see the hulking Red Angus and his two Belgian Blue flunkies cracking their knuckles as they tossed their unruly heads and snorted angrily. Their fur coats glistened as their well-built chests heaved from their exertions. Even from the other end of the alleyway, Ben could smell the pheromones pouring off the three goons. His nostrils flared against his will, drawing more of the scent in as Stephen approached, while he fixed Ben with a venomous glare. His red fur glinted like copper as he drew closer, and the cream fur of the two Belgian Blues blocking all sights of the fair behind them only emphasized the fact that there was no escape.

Stephen stopped a couple of yards from the young bull. “Come here, Taurus, and maybe I’ll go easy on you,” he growled as he extended a hand, and motioned the approach.

Ben trembled as he gripped the handle of a trashcan nearby. His tail twitched agitatedly, his muscles wanted to move. He felt the urge, the power, the desire to obey, to fall in, to be one with the herd under a powerful leader, a true leader. The blood surged through his ears, muffling the scuff of his foot as he took his first step forward.

“That’s right, Taurus,” Stephen sneered. “Step over here, like a good little short horn.” His flunkies chuckled to themselves at the insult as they waited for the inevitable.

Ben’s body wanted so badly to move, to listen, so he let it. He clenched his hand around the trash can’s handle, and threw it as hard as he could manage. Fire arced across his right arm, shoulder, and pec as he released, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have time to care. The can made contact, and Stephen let out a bellow of surprise as the impact knocked him back a couple of paces into the waiting arms of his guards. Trash burst out of bags to litter the floor, and embed itself in Stephen’s fur and hair.

Ben knew he’d done it now. Stephen would beat his sorry hide to a pulp, if he got a hold of him. Knowing this, Ben nursed his still-burning arm, gritting his teeth as it hung limp at his side, before running for the door. At the very least, he could call for help, ask the owner for sanctuary, something along those lines. It was worth a shot. Maybe there was another door somewhere he’d be able to run through to buy some more time. Anything was better than waiting for the doom he knew was coming, if he delayed much longer. The angry bellows soon confirmed that as he hastily shoved the door open and slammed it shut behind him, then threw the bolt and handle locks with a timid click.

“Not that they’d do much good,” he thought to himself.

“May I help you?”

“No, I’m pretty sure you–whaaat the crap?”

 Ben swore as he turned around to see a literal impossibility. The humble entryway opened into what had to be one of the most impossibly large warehouse mockups he had ever seen. Everything ranging from groceries to non-perishables, toys, and so much more stretched on into the shadows beyond sight.

“Wow. So that’s how it feels. Not quite sure what The Doctor sees in it,” a fox in a simple business vest and slacks said. His red fur and white underbelly shone in the sunlight that poured in from the open skylights above that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. His black-furred hands reached out as he smiled. “Welcome to Omni-store, the market stall that has it all. I’m Omni Kitsune, the sole owner and proprietor of this establishment.”

“This place. It’s–.”

“Impossible? Huge? Bigger on the inside? Weird? I could go on and on,” the fox said. His black-rimmed red ears twitched, and his face scrunched irritably at the pounding slamming against the door. “Honestly, I just finished opening up for the day. If you want to come in that badly, use the door like a proper person,” he chided as he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t let them in here!” Ben practically shrieked. He quickly cleared his throat. “I … I mean, they’re … not nice people?”

The proprietor took one look down at the young bull, then sighed. “Well, since you’re my first customer today, I might as well give you a freebie. Come on.” He motioned towards a teller’s cabinet, where a segment with a red cross had been set aside for medical treatment. “I know an injury when I see one.”

“But the door!”

“What door?” Omni asked with a playful smile.

Ben turned back, and his eyes widened when all he saw was a wall that had been covered in advertisements for what looked like exotic vacation packages in the strangest places: under the ocean, up on Mount Everest, and he couldn’t even tell what that last one was. It looked like some sort of cartoon with cat people, robot bears, and a whole lot of other weird stuff.

“My store, my rules,” Omni said simply. “Now then, I believe it’s time we had that arm of yours looked at, hmm?” He raised an eyebrow and smiled at Ben’s bewildered expression. “I’ve been in my fair share of fights, young man. I know the signs. Come, take a seat. We’ll get you fixed up in no time, I guarantee.”

“But … the door. How did–?”

“Magic, obviously. Or didn’t you notice my tails?” Omni asked as not one, not two, but three bushy fox tails greeted Ben’s gaze.

“I–.”

“Need to sit down. Yes, yes. Like I said, over here. And please don’t go into the whole freak-out scenario. Seeing it once already was more than enough for my tastes, thank you very much.”

“Seeing?” Ben felt dizzy as the fox … no, the kitsune led him by the hand to the table. For such a lean creature, he was surprisingly strong.

“Part of my magic.” He shrugged. “It’s a bit of a gift and a curse. I can see things, visions of the past, present, even the future. The first two aren’t so bad, but the last one is absolute murder,” he said as he rolled his eyes and took a seat in the bench opposite Ben’s. “The future is an infinite list of possibilities. One tiny decision can alter a major course in history’s progress. I literally have to sort through each and every possible future to find the one that I want, and then I have to try to make that future happen. Well, if I want that future to happen, anyways. Most of the time, I respect peoples’ free will, and just warn them where their choices will lead.”

“Won’t that just create a whole new list of possible futures?”

“Depends on how the actions are guided. Fortunately, I know how to suppress it most of the time with minimal interference from future sight.” He shrugged. “Now then, let’s see that arm of yours. Can you move it?”

Ben hissed in pain as he shifted his arm onto the table to rest.

“Hmm. I see,” Omni said as he examined the arm closely. “It appears you’ve pulled and strained several muscles. Just a moment.” He lowered his hands over the forearm and closed his eyes briefly as he took a deep breath. Then he released, and a series of golden specks began to fall from his hands onto Ben’s arm. “It’s a basic healing spell, in case you’re wondering,” he explained. “Not harmful, and very useful for minor injuries.” His brow furrowed as he ran his hands up the arm towards the shoulders and pectorals, and he frowned. “I see. So this Stephen is trying to prove his dominance over the rest of you, and your biological makeup makes you susceptible to such shows of dominance to the point where you become a willing servant, if not outright slave.” He shook his head and tutted sadly. “I would’ve thought such a crude system of patriarchy would have been done away with by now.”

“… I don’t know whether to be relieved someone else finally gets it, or scared at just how accurate you are.”

“Don’t worry, that’s a normal reaction,” Omni promised. His blue eyes hardened as he continued to heal the injury. “Now that’s not very nice at all. That shirt was a gift from your mother, wasn’t it?”

“I can get another,” Ben said timidly.

“But not another life,” Omni pressed.

Ben suddenly found the floor’s design very interesting.

“It must be tough living under a family name like that,” Omni continued as he massaged the injured pec. The golden glow sent a calming warmth through Ben’s chest, but he couldn’t help but blush at the contact. “Even harder without your mother around to soothe things over.”

“Could you please stop doing that?” Ben flinched at the mention of the cow. Sure, it had been a couple of years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss her anymore.

“Sorry,” Omni sighed. “Believe me, I know what it’s like losing a parent. I actually lost both of mine in a war. I was pretty young myself, just a few years older than you are, come to think of it.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story, but the gist of it is the bad guys wanted to remove my family from a position of influence. My family fought back to protect ourselves and the people we served. Ultimately, they had to invoke a power that cost them their lives to protect the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Ben said sincerely.

Omni shrugged. “I’ve made my peace with it. It happened millennia ago, so much so that most people forgot it. I did, too, after I reincarnated.” He chuckled. “Let’s just say some special events brought those memories back for me and some rather close friends from that time.”

“You all remembered?” Ben asked skeptically.

“I had a little extra help from an item designed to unlock those memories for us.”

“Magic?”

“Magic.”

“So that stuff is actually real?”

“How else do you think your ancestors took on the name Taurus in the first place? He and I are on very good terms, you know. He appreciated the strength and leadership your ancestor showed in a trying time, and granted him power accordingly.”

“Get out of town!”

“No, seriously. I know most of the constellations’ embodiments fairly well. Comes with the territory of that position of power my family held.”

“Yeah, right,” Ben said as he rolled his eyes.

Omni removed his hands from Ben’s arm and sighed. “I kid you not, but that’s up to you to decide whether to believe for yourself. Let me give you a rundown of my store’s rules. It’s pretty simple, truth be told. You have something you want desperately. My store will guide you to something that can grant your desires. However, as it always is with all things magical, there will have to be a price to pay. So, the question is, are you willing to pay that price, should you find what you’re looking for?” He shrugged as he laid back on the bench. “No pressure, of course. I could easily let you off wherever you want me to, and you can go on with your life like this never happened.”

“And … should I agree to this, what’s the catch? What is this price?” Ben asked cautiously.

“That depends entirely on the effect the magic has, and how much magic it takes.” Omni shrugged again. “I can see a variety of possibilities ranging from errand running to store service. I’m not some cruel trickster trying to twist people into my pets or servants. I’m just a magician who wants to help. However, you should be warned that magic also has a life of its own from time to time. I won’t try to change and twist you, barring personal request, of course, but it might. It’s ultimately up to you to make your choice. I can’t and won’t make it for you.”

The kitsune snapped his fingers, and two glasses of water appeared in front of them. He took a swig, then let out a sigh of contentment. “So, I’ll ask you again,” he said as he watched Ben experiment with his arm, “will you try your luck with my store or will you choose to leave some place far away from those bullies? … No pun intended.”

Ben sighed. “There’s a reason that word was invented,” he pointed out as he took a grateful sip from his own glass. The water was crisp, cool, and soothing as it passed down his throat. After all that running, it felt good to hydrate again. “So, if we do go with service, what would that entail?”

“Basically, you work for me, until the debt is deemed paid. As to what capacity, that depends entirely on the end result of the spell or trinket you use. You’ll still be able to live a normal life. You could just consider this like a part time job.”

“And how would I find this place again?”

“It would likely find you. Of course, I could always give you a key or some sort of punch card to call up the entrance, when you’re ready to work. In case you haven’t noticed, my store isn’t your average run-of-the-mill pavilion. My services span multiple dimensions, universes, etc. across space and time, and we cater to a variety of clientele. I prefer to serve the good ones, but, unfortunately, one cannot always get what one wants in life.” He sighed. “Fate and destiny are funny that way. Sometimes, the only option is to help the bad guys, in order for the better future to come to pass.”

“Seriously?”

“Like I said, future sight can be a curse just as much as it is a gift.” Omni sighed heavily. “But enough about that. You have a decision to make, and my time is precious. Will you peruse my wares or cast this opportunity aside? The choice is yours, and you must make it quickly.”

Ben looked around the strange store. This place could be filled with wonders. The potential was limitless. He might even get the chance to learn a little bit about this so-called magic himself, should he agree. On the other hand, the kitsune had clearly outlined that taking the offer could prove dangerous. Was it really worth the risk? Was he really willing to give anything to get the chance at what he wanted most? And what did he want most of all? He knew he wanted people to stop looking down on him. He wanted his dad to be proud, to stop feeling like he couldn’t measure up. And he definitely wanted to teach Stephen and his gang a lesson.

“Seek, and ye shall find,” Omni’s voice echoed as laughter carried through the room. “But I wonder what you will find. Better get started, young Benjamin.”

Ben jerked out of his musings to the other side of the table, but the kitsune was gone. He sighed, and shook his head. “Guess I’d better get moving.” He rose to his feet, and began to walk through the store. Paths and segments wavered like a mirage as he passed through, causing the grocery sections to disappear. He wondered idly if the same might happen to him, if he didn’t move quickly enough. It was not a pleasant thought. It also didn’t help that the kitsune’s voice didn’t speak out to console him on the matter, which meant it could very well be a real possibility.

He gulped as he continued the search. T-shirts, loincloths, guns, bows, arrows, axes, costumes, crowns, accessories. The racks, shelves, and hangers seemed endless. Sizes ranged from triple extra small to practically giant size. “A little something for everyone,” he murmured. “Guess that’s why it’s called Omnistore. Or was that Omni’s Store?” he mused as he passed through the shelves and a thick glass stand filled to the brim with spray bottles of cologne. At least, he hoped it was cologne. If those were potions of some kind, he really didn’t want to think about what they might do.

As he continued to pass through the maze that the store had become, he eventually happened upon an open clearing of sorts, where various styles of clothing clung to moving mannequins that flexed and posed as he passed. He shuddered as he could almost hear a groaning whisper, “Come join us.”

“So beautiful …”

“So perfect….”

“Flawless.”

As Ben looked on one of the figures, he could just make out the barest hints of smiling feline facial features slowly smoothing into seamless, shiny fiberglass. “I am beautiful. I am perfect. I am shiny. I am flawless. . ..” As the voice continued to repeat the sayings of its fellows, its arms and body gained further mass, emphasizing the fashionable clothing it wore in all the right places. Then the new mannequin began to flex and pose in jerky motions as the surfaces along the crooks of its arms and legs, and the area around the pelvis shifted and parted to reveal hinges and joints for bending and moving in accordance to various set patterns, just like its fellows as its voice took on that same disembodied whisper.

Ben gulped, and quickly moved past with a hastily mumbled, “No, thank you.”

The next area he encountered reeked of cologne, shoe polish, and cigar smoke. Suits, ties, tuxedos, tie clips, pins, rings, pagers, wallets, cell phones, and other business paraphernalia lay stacked before him in carefully organized piles. A large convex business table lay in a central display with many empty chairs. Two figures sat near the head of the table with laptops wide open and phones at their sides as a projection played on a nearby screen. The first was a paunchy human in a shabby hand-me-down suit. The light from his computer screen reflected off what appeared to be some form of plexiglass headpiece that scrolled code, images, and notifications in front of his face as he typed away at his keyboard. Occasionally, a heavy sniffle would sound, followed by a sneeze as he stared at the information with bloodshot eyes. The other figure was a fairly diminutive sheep. His glossy wool coat had been carefully groomed, and his head fur had been coiffed into a stylish pompadour that shone almost as brightly as his carefully polished horns as he hemmed and hawed over the phone with a customer. A heavyset grizzly posed with a cigar in his mouth and his back turned towards the table and the curious Ben. A block of a cell phone clung in his hands as he growled.

“Listen, Zsiash, I frankly don’t care about your excuses. You promised us a steady supply of dragon scales from your master in exchange for your transformation into a proper Kobold. It literally brings you pleasure to help him shed each time he’s ready to molt. Don’t go trying to readjust the deal. If your master is off his molting schedule, just tell it to me straight. We’ll put you off the shipping list for a while, but we expect interest with this extension, understood?” He paused a moment. “What will we do if you don’t have the goods?” A deep rolling chuckle rumbled through the air, and Ben shuddered at the sound as a cloud of smoke circled the predator. “You’ll face the consequences, of course. You’d make a lovely addition to the pet store.”

Ben could almost hear the sneer as the bear listened to the response.

“That’s what I thought. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Zsiash.” He turned to face the suited figures on the computers.

“Um … Sir, wasn’t that a little harsh?” the sheep asked as he placed a nervous hoofed hand over the receiver.

The bear glared down at him. “Tell the customer you’re going to have to call him back, Darius. I think it’s about time you and I had a little chat.”

Darius gulped as he gave a trembling apology, and informed the need to call back in a few minutes. All the while, the bear toked on his cigar, and glared as he folded his arms, and tapped his foot impatiently. Finally, Darius finished the conversation, and hung up.

“First rule of business, newbie,” the bear growled as he forced the chair to spin around and face him, then leaned down to puff a stream of smoke in the sheep’s face, “is eat or be eaten. If we don’t get our clients to pay up on their debts, then our store would default, and everything the boss works so hard to do for these people will go up in smoke, along with our living. Tell me, newbie, do you want that?”

The sheep pulled at the neck of his shirt, and gulped, even as his eyes watered, and he struggled not to cough. “Um, n-no, Sir. I d-ON’-t,” his voice cracked as he pulled farther at his tie, and began to pant.

“Then enough with being the sheep.” The bear narrowed his eyes. “Show me the wolf.”

The sheep’s breathing grew heavier as his hands began to shake, and his hooftips trembled. The smoke hovered around his head as the thick, curly wool began to recede, and his muzzle stretched out further, becoming more angular and pointed as his teeth began to sharpen. He groaned as he leaned over in his chair, and his shoulders heaved as his tail lengthened, and the cute little puffball developed into a long, sleek, black bushy tail. The bear tapped his cigar, and dropped the ashes onto the floor as he pulled out a tiny glass spray bottle, and depressed the release trigger, spraying a fine mist into the sheep’s face. He coughed a few times, then shuddered as his groans soon turned into a low growl that rumbled through the air. Rather than fall off, his horns thickened, and darkened as they curled, growing longer and more prominent, while his nose turned black, rubbery, and wet.

“That’s it, kid. Let it out,” the bear encouraged as he pulled out a flask from his pocket, and removed the stopper.

The growl grew louder, more threatening as the hooftips scraped against the table, digging up the varnish as the solid masses softened and shifted into thick, meaty fingers with powerful claws. His breathing grew heavy and labored as he gained in height, and the beginnings of a golden mist began to waft out from his mouth. The more he panted and growled, the more the mist poured out. Rather than dissipate, it flew into the waiting flask, and swirled within as the bear looked on with a sneer.

The phone next to the former sheep’s computer rang, and he quickly grabbed the receiver to answer. “Omnistore, customer management speaking,” he rasped, even as his eyes began to glow red. A hint of a smirk began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Remmy, baby, good to hear from you.” His tail twitched back and forth as his new longer tongue licked his now-rubbery lips. “How’s our little … acquisition coming along?” He paused for a time, and then the growl returned with a vengeance. “Now listen here, you little weasel. We had a deal, a magically binding contract. You break it, and you’re gonna be in for a hell of a bad time, and I do mean hell,” he snarled as smoke began to rise from the edges of his suit. The mist poured out from his mouth like smoke from a stack as his form began to expand with muscle. His carefully combed pompadour developed crimson streaks. “Now I don’t care if you’re afraid of getting on this sorcerer’s bad side. You signed up for the life of a master thief, and now you’re going to pay us back. Figure out a plan with your little gang, and get to work. You have forty-eight hours, capiche?” He slammed the phone back down, and sneered as he looked to his boss. The two were much closer in height now, and while the new hellhound had a more toned appearance, both gave off that same menacing aura that warned against messing around.

“Now that’s what I call one hell of a performance, kid. Told ya you were a natural,” the bear congratulated, even as he stuck a stopper into the now-golden flask, and returned it to his pocket. “You just have to remember the first rule.”

“Ya know, I can’t even remember why I was so worried in the first place. Those mortals are pushovers,” he growled. “Apply a little pressure, and they cough up the due. And if they don’t. . ..” The chuckle that followed was truly vicious.

“Damn, son. Even I got chills from that one. You’re good.”

The new hell hound laughed as his smirk broadened into a predatory grin. “I learned from the best.”

“Damn straight. Now why don’t you call that last customer back, and show him who’s boss, hmm?”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” the hound rasped as he picked up the receiver, and began to dial. As he did so, red smoke hissed up across his face, hands, and body as a final golden sputter popped out from his mouth. A complex series of patterns and symbols began to etch themselves into his fur as the black dyed to red, finishing with two demonic seals on the backs of either hand and a black aura that surrounded his horns as his eyes glowed red with naught but blackness surrounding them.

“That’s my boy,” the bear praised. “Keep this up, and you’ll make employee of the month in no time.”

“Screw your employee of the month. I just want to hear them squirm.”

“Intimidating, sadistic, and enthusiastic. I’m surprised I don’t let out a few more contracts to you demon types. This work seems right up your alley.”

“Be careful what you wish for, boss,” the new hell hound chuckled darkly. “You might just get it.”

“Status alert: Employee information upgraded. Employee name: Judas Scarymutt. Species: Hellhound. Equivalent exchange complete. Debt payment has reached sixty percent.” The tone the human used was dead, and tired-sounding as he gazed into his screen. His eyes were glassy as he sneezed violently. His fingers twitched with precision as he entered the data from whatever research he may have been conducting.

“My my, Johnson. You don’t sound so good. Perhaps you should take a break. Go home for a little bit, hmm? You sound like you have a cold.”

“Negative,” the man now identified as Johnson said as his eyes jumped from screen to screen on his HUD. His slick blond hair shone in the overhead lights as his suit clung to his body, emphasizing the pudge and extra mass. “Not until I finish this processing.”

“What’s the holdup? You’ve been at it for hours, you know. That’s not like you, Johnson. You’re supposed to be the world’s greatest computer expert, are you not?” the bear growled.

“The system appears to be lagging.”

“It doesn’t seem to be the only thing,” Judas snarked.

“Watch it, mutt. My brain could run circles around yours any day of the week,” Johnson hissed angrily.

“Mutt?” Judas snarled as smoke began to rise and the light around him seemed almost to be consumed in shadow.

“Perhaps you and the system have a little something in common, then,” the bear said as he laid a staying hand on the hellhound’s shoulder. “I would assume some sort of virus. A cold for you, and perhaps something a little more … unpleasant for the system. I’d like for you to run a scan.”

“But sir, that could take hours to run over the whole network.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll take all that long. The system is very quick to adapt. You could almost say its protection is like an immune system. Go on, Johnson. I insist.”

“But, Sir, I–.”

“I said I insist, Johnson.” The bear’s tone was level, but the intensity behind it made his point quite evident.

Johnson sighed. “Yes, Sir.”

“And make sure to include your viewer. We don’t want to risk any tampering with our technology.”

Johnson rolled his eyes as he altered the parameters. “Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent. Begin when ready.”

“Engaging scan now, Sir.” A large progress bar sprouted up on his HUD, obscuring the rest of his windows as the scan progressed. A dim chime and a furrowed brow drew the bear’s attention as he approached the human.

“What’s the matter, Johnson?”

“It says it’s picked up a foreign program, Sir, but it’s not a name I’ve ever heard of for a virus before.”

“Well, what are you waiting for, then? Do your job. Quarantine it, and delete it.”

“Or is that beyond the brain of the great Johnson?” Judas sneered.

“Shut up, mutt, or would you prefer our systems to suffer a critical meltdown with the autumnal equinox drawing closer?” Johnson pressed a few keys, and the machine let out another chirp as the progress bar progressed. “There. Quarantine and file elimination has begun. Executing database analysis and viral update now.” A spark jumped from the computer board into his fingertips. “Ow!” he shouted as he shook them, before resuming his work. He sniffled a few more times, before his breathing became clear, and he sighed in relief as he continued to work. The tempo of his typing became faster and faster as he sat there, and stared at the screen through his HUD. “So much data,” he gasped as he continued to type. It’s … beautiful.”

“A face only a motherboard could love,” Judas said as he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand. The coding is so complex, yet elegant. It’s moving so fast, I can hardly keep track of it. It’s almost as though the system were replicating itself, expanding,” he noted, even as cascades of 1s and 0s ran down his eyes. “Yes … expanding.” His breathing became steadily slower

“Seeking out viruses, and eradicating them,” the bear whispered.

“Seek out … and eradicate … yes.”

After all, a machine must run at absolute peak condition. Isn’t that right?”

“Maximum efficiency,” Johnson corrected as the edges on the plexiglass of his HUD unit began to glow, and the surface to darken as it drew closer to his face, curving around his head and chin like a fish bowl. “Must ensure maximum efficiency,” he repeated. “Rogue program: E-Mot-10-N detected. Placing in quarantine now.”

“Delete it,” the bear ordered.

“Initiating deletion.” The keystrokes sounded like the rattle of a machine gun. “Rogue program terminated. Upgrading firewall now. Countermeasures have been integrated for future threats. System purged.” His face relaxed as he continued to stare into his screen, while his fingers flew across the keyboard.

“So when do we purge him?” Judas jabbed.

“I cannot be purged,” Johnson said matter-of-factly, “I am of too much value to the organization.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” Judas grumbled.

“Irrelevant,” Johnson said in the same dead monotone. “I am here to maximize efficiency. Until proper authority is invoked, I will continue to fulfill my duty.”

“That’s right. Now let’s see you really kick it in gear. Process those files, double time,” the bear ordered. “I don’t care if you’re still scanning. If a computer can multitask, you can multitask. You say you’re efficient. Now prove it.”

Golden light spread from the seams of the display helmet as it clung tighter and tighter. The glass had tinted itself to a complete black as it reshaped to form a perfectly rounded sphere. A sharp click sounded, and Johnson reached over to the console, where a USB cable had been plugged into the computer. He then proceeded to run out the other end of the cord, and connect it to the headset. “Connecting to server,” he droned out. His voice was muted by the glass, and Ben couldn’t help but wonder how the man could breathe properly. It didn’t look like there was room for ventilation. The progress bar continued to move along the screen as the man typed madly on his keys.

“Good. Now process program 0-B3-Y.”

“Accessing.” The dim whirr of a fan sounded from the headset, and Ben sighed in relief. So there was some ventilation. “Processing.” Johnson paused for a time as his head twitched, while various symbols appeared on the surface of the HUD, before coalescing into a loading spiral. As it did so, his body became ramrod straight, and his elbows rose to be perfectly level with his hands. The tempo increased yet again, and Ben winced as he thought how uncomfortable that position must feel.

“How are you feeling, Johnson?”

The loading spiral grew a little larger on the headset.

“Johnson? I asked you a question.”

Johnson didn’t say a word.

“Johnson, answer me,” the bear growled.

“I feel … nothing, Sir. It is … a curious sensation,” the voice crackled through as holes opened up on the sides of the new helmet. “I am connected to the server. I feel the data flowing across my visual output, but I am experiencing no sense of excitement, no joy, no disappointment. I am simply … fulfilling a task … fulfilling a task … fulfilling a task …” With each repetition of the words, the spiral on his screen grew, spreading out to cover the entire surface. A burst of static and scratching sounds came out, before the monotone returned again, sounding less human, less organic. “I … must fulfill … must … obey ….”

“Say that again,” the bear ordered.

“I … must obey …”

“Again.”

“I must obey.”

“Again.”

“I must obey.” The man’s fingers twitched and cracked as skin dried and warped. Pulsing lights flowed upwards from his fingertips and beneath his suit as joints snapped and cracked, and a curious hum began to emanate from the chair. Before Ben’s eyes, the man’s skin parted, breaking apart to form interlocking segmented flesh-colored plates that rapidly shifted to a shiny chrome as blue pulses of light thrummed through the cracks.

“Excellent. Activate artificial pleasure sensors and your emotional chip. You deserve a small treat for being so compliant. And besides,” the bear sneered, “you did ask for this.”

A rush of white nearly drowned out the blue as the rapidly changing human jerked in his chair. The suit began to strain as blocky geometric patterns bulged against the shoulders and torso of the suit. A loud tear clearly indicated the destruction of the leggings below. “Oh my -REDACTED-!”

“Ah, good, the language protocols are activating. You know how the boss feels about that sort of thing,” the bear said.

The image of a thermometer appeared on the former human’s display. The liquid inside rose rapidly, then burst out the top in an explosive release as the energy continued to thrum through the man’s rapidly changing body.

“And since this is part of the process you asked for, I am contractually obligated to order this next portion, though it will not remain a permanent feature. Boss won’t destroy free will, and I don’t blame him. Without a human element in there, you’ll just be another dumb bucket of bolts. Gotta have at least some of the old you left over.” He shook his head. “Honestly, sometimes I just don’t get these humans”

“Oh, trust me, this is just the tip of the iceberg for some of their kinks,” Judas assured him. “Compared to what I’ve seen in the pits, this is nothing.”

“Well, let’s get this over with,” the bear said as he adjusted his waistband. “Johnson, activate your individuality suppressor. You wanted to be a machine, so be the machine.”

“Wait, what? No! I– ERROR! I’m–ERROR! I–ERROR!”

“Remember, you’re a machine, kid. There is no I, no she, no he. You are an it.”

“Acknowledged. Processing new data input,” he droned. Then the voice crackled back again. “Wait! I–ERROR! Does not compute.” A pair of digital eyes widened on the display as they began to fill up with streams of binary. Meanwhile, the chair began to creak under his increasing weight as skin and bone were replaced with metal alloy, and muscle and tissue were replaced with wires and synthetic parts. Buttons popped off, and flew in all directions as his torso continued to expand, shredding through the fabric to reveal a pulsing blue energy core beneath, surrounded by a protective layer of bulletproof glass and metal. New servos and joints hummed and whined as he turned desperately to either side, while his waist and legs remained rooted to the spot. Shoulder pads tore apart to reveal thick armor plating and compartments that rose up to expose a positive horde of loaded darts. “Running systems diagnostic. Sedation delivery system at full capacity.” Energy crackled along the former human’s hands, and sharp needles extended from each fingertip. “Secondary system fully functional,” it reported. “I–ERROR. Unit Function: Systems Maintenance and Security. This unit is a machine. This unit must obey. There is no ‘I,’ no ‘she,’ no ‘he.’ Updating vocal pattern parameters.”

“That’s right, just a bunch of circuits and metal. Machines follow their programming, and you will follow yours by obeying us, and tracking all the data for computation and collection, ranging from employee profiles to customer files.”

“Confirmed. Disconnecting backup port from system. Activating primary uplink.” The machine that had once been Johnson pulled the USB cable out of its head and rose to its synthetic legs with a loud clank. A tiny icon portraying a radio tower appeared in the upper right portion of its digital face display. “Primary uplink established.”

“Good. Now report to the server room and be the good machine you’ve always been, J-04N.”

“Orders received. Unit designation J-04N will report to the server room for its cycle of rounds. Thank you for choosing Johnson security.” The new bot walked off without another word, silent and obedient as the pair of executives chuckled wickedly.

“How long are you planning on keeping him artificial?” Judas inquired.

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see how much his performance increases without all that scatterbrained daydreaming for a while first.”

Judas sneered. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Ben stumbled away from the scene as he struggled not to be sick. He had just witnessed a man stripped of all that had made him organic and human, and the employees just sat back and enjoyed it. Not only that, it was clear the magic of this store exacted more than just your average price, if Judas’ transformation was anything to go by. This place changed more than just form. It changed personality, erased memories, wrote new ones in their place. This just felt … wrong.

“I’ve gotta get out of here,” he muttered.

He turned, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Unfortunately, despite his searching, there was no sign of any form of entry or exit. No matter how far he traveled in the store, the walls never drew closer. The few doors he found led to changing rooms, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the change was more literal than metaphorical. Had he passed that clothing rack before? He couldn’t remember. Everything was so mixed up. It was almost as if the store jumped up and shifted itself every few minutes, just to keep him guessing.

Unfortunately for Ben, this ultimately led to his not watching where he was going as he raced blindly through the aisles, and tried to avoid any and all patrons, especially the ones that tried to offer him advice. He’s just finished escaping what looked to be a whole fraternity of satyrs drinking themselves senseless, when he slammed into a mountain of gold, silver, brass, jewels, bottles, clothes, armor, and who knew what else in all that mess. In a matter of moments both he and the materials were strewn all over the hard marble flooring with a tremendous clatter. He rubbed his rump near his tail, and hissed as he worked out the flare up from the impact.

“O-oh my. I’m so terribly sorry,” a timid, yet chipper voice chirped in a British accent. “You’re not hurt, are you, good Sir?”

Ben wasn’t sure if he had a concussion or what, but when he looked up, rather than the stuff he’d smashed into, what looked to be a tiny statue carved from clay extended a hand to him. Its hair had been carved to appear combed back with spikes at the ends, and its thick cheeks had been chiseled for a squared off jaw with just a hint of a round on its edges. “Wha-?”

“I’m one of the staff. I help return used goods to the shelves, when customers decide they don’t suit their purposes. They call me Restituere.” When he noticed Ben’s flinching, he frowned. “Ah. You’re one of those types of customers. Let me guess. You stumbled across some of our more … enthusiastic patrons?”

Ben gulped.

The creature sighed as it shook its head, and the goods began to pull towards his body once again. “Honestly, you haven’t anything to fear from me. I’m a naturally born, fully sapient golem. My whole purpose is to literally help maintain this store, and direct customers. I’m not here to sell anything or steal your soul, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he added with a prim sniff as the gathered items swirled around his waist, and lifted him in the air, before coalescing into a pair of longer, thicker legs. They then proceeded to do the same for his arms, torso, and upper body. “Ah. There we go,” he said with a smile as he stretched his new additions like they were his originals. “Hmm? What’s this?” He leaned in closer, and stared at Ben. “Oh dear. Master’s not going to like this.”

“L-like what?” Ben finally managed to stutter out.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re still in shock. Allow me. I think I have a mirror somewhere in all this merchandise.” Restituere reached into himself with a gigantic hand, and fumbled around in his torso. It took a few seconds, but he finally let loose a cry of triumph as he withdrew an ornate hand mirror with a gold-rimmed ivory handle and jewels mounted in a latticework design around the ovular surface. “There we are. Go ahead. Take a look. The only magic this mirror’s good for is scrying, so it won’t do anything to you by looking, unless you want to spy on someone or review the past.”

Ben looked hesitantly at first, then much more intently as his eyes fell across the glint of thick metal. The polished white gold was positively radiant as he gaped at his reflection. “How–?”

“–Didn’t you feel anything?” Restituere finished for him. “One word: magic. That there is a very powerful magical artifact known as the Ring of Desire. It remains inert, so long as it stays in its case. Unfortunately, once it’s been exposed to a host, it bonds with them, before fulfilling its purpose.”

“Which is?” Ben asked in a tremulous voice.

Restituere shrugged. “To give its owner what he or she wants most, truly wants most. It’s strong magic. Very difficult to come by. Even harder to craft yourself.”

“No wonder your master would be upset,” Ben noted as he reached up and touched the ring gingerly. It felt surprisingly warm, and while the sensation of the metal against his nose was unusual, it wasn’t all that unpleasant. In fact, the contact left him feeling sort of giddy. Then again, it’s possible that was just his mind breaking after all the trauma he’d been through today.

“So what do you want most, little bull?” Restituere asked.

“Want?” Ben asked somewhat dazedly as he pulled his hand back. The ring had begun to pulse gently, and a strange tingling passed through his nose and up into his head. He snorted a few times, and shook his head as it became harder to breathe through his nostrils, almost as though the ring were growing. The tingling grew more insistent, and he opened his mouth to breathe. His nostrils flared, and the warm metal just felt so good pulsing against his snout. He chuckled as he looked in the mirror. His nose looked bigger, and he looked so funny with his mouth gaping open like that.

“Indeed. What is it you long for the most?” Restituere asked curiously. “Whatever that thing is, whether you tell me it or not, is going to be what happens.”

“So much. . ..” he uttered with a drunken chuckle. He felt so lightheaded, and the blocked nasal passage forced him to speak more from his mouth and throat, making his voice stronger and deeper as he projected from the diaphragm. Weird … he wasn’t one for opening up to strangers about stuff like this before, why did he…?

A bolt of mind-numbing pleasure shot through him, cutting off the thought, before it had time to finish forming. The tingling seemed to have concentrated at the base of his horns, and he continued to gape at his reflection as the ring glowed a light purple. As it did so, a piece of that light jumped into the mirror’s surface, and the glass grew cloudy, before its surface began to spin in a spiral of purple and white smoke.

“Tell me all about it,” Restituere instructed gently.

The longer Ben stared into the swirl, the more difficult it was for him to think of anything else. His shoulders slumped forward as his eyes began to reflect the swirls from the mirror. “Make my father proud.”

The smoke parted to reveal a thick, imposing black angus standing a good nine feet tall with large polished white horns. A tight muscle tee clung to his torso with PRIME BEEF imposed over his pecs and abs. A pair of massive dumbbells clung in each hand as he performed curl after curl. His red eyes burned with testosterone and aggression as he continued to pump.

“You want to make a difference in the world, Son, then you have to be strong,” the gruff voice grunted. “Bulls don’t care how smart you are. They never have, they never will. Strength is what matters. Strength is always what matters, and it always will.”

“But Dad, just think about it. We’re always being stereotyped for the muscle. People don’t respect us. If we don’t learn to adapt, we’ll be stuck in lower class jobs for the rest of our lives.”

“You calling me a failure, boy?” The angus turned and leveled an accusing gaze at the mirror’s display, even as Ben’s voice continued to echo from the memory the mirror had conjured.

“N-no.”

“No what?”

“No, Sir,” Ben’s voice said quietly.

“I own an entire chain of successful gyms, and a line of popular fitness products. Your Uncle Pietro is one of the most successful contractors around, earning hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. Your cousin just got drafted into the NAFL[1] for a whopping fifteen million for just this season alone. Strength talks, Ben, a lot more than talking or grades ever will.”

“But–.”

“But nothing, Son. For gods’ sakes, you’re a Taurus! Start acting like one!” That final snarl echoed over and over as the image receded into the aether of the spiral cloud.

“Start acting like one. . ..” Ben repeated numbly as his bushy hair began to retract and darken. The part in his hair disappeared, obscured by a sudden surge of growth in his horns as the bases broadened, and they shot outwards by a good couple of inches. He panted as a warm sensation filled his body, and his skinny arms and torso began to broaden and expand. His flat chest took on definition as two solid outcrops began to form just above his abdomen. His cheek bones began to expand, adding the beginnings of a familiar masculine jawline as a hint of a brow ridge began to form beneath his horns.

The mirror shifted again, this time to reveal a fitter Ben sitting barechested as he pushed up against a barbell, while his father spotted. A proud smirk on the angus’ face widened into a grin as the Ben in the image let out a primal shout, finishing the last push of a set, before the bar rested safely down in its rack.

“That’s my boy!” Ben’s father reached down and seized Ben’s hand to pull him up off the bench into a rough embrace. The Ben in the mirror and in the store both seemed to flinch momentarily, before their nostrils flared, and then they grunted. The Ben in the mirror returned the hug with a manly whack on his father’s back, which the angus returned in kind, before resting a meaty hand on Ben’s shoulder, and pushing him back to take in the young bull’s body. “A Taurus never settles for less. He always pushes his limits. I’m proud of you, Son.”

The Ben in the mirror grinned as both the image and the Ben in the store responded with a cocky smirk. “And you said I couldn’t study and get big.”

The angus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I still think it’s just a phase. If you want to be a real leader, you’re gonna have to be bigger than that. Come on. Let’s get you a protein shake.”

“Strawberry?”

“You know what? I’m feeling adventurous today. Let’s go neapolitan.”

The mirror fogged over, and opened to a wide black quartz sports bar, where the two were busy drinking out of tall glasses with extra wide straws. The same white shirt clung to Ben’s father as he spread his legs on the stool, emphasizing his bright red shorts and the bulge that lay at its crotch. Ben mimicked the posture in his shiny blue shorts as the two cooled off together.

“You know, Dad, I don’t think we’ve been able to talk like this since … well, you know.”

Ben’s dad nodded as he frowned slightly. “It’s just not so easy to talk about it, you know? She meant everything to me, and now she’s gone.” He rubbed over a gold band on his ring finger. “Now we’re all we’ve got left of her. I just … I want to give you the best life you can have, Son, for her. That’s why I push you so hard. Out there, your peers will trample you under their feet faster than you can throw a punch, if they can. I know. I’ve been there. Every Taurus has.” He sighed. “I guess that’s why I’m so gruff all the time. The way things are right now, I can’t afford not to. My strength’s all I have left, but, in the end, it wasn’t enough to save her. The least I can do is give you some for what’s to come. I don’t want some wannabe alpha walking all over you.”

Silent tears flowed down Ben’s cheeks as he watched the scene unfold, even as he continued to gape, and the spirals turned.

“Thanks, Dad.” The mirror Ben took a long draw from his straw as he looked pensively at the other end of the bar. Then he let up, gulped down what he’d taken, and turned to the angus once more. “I’m just glad we’re together. I don’t want to think what it’d be like, if we couldn’t talk like this.”

“Me, too, Son. Me, too.”

“Dad … I love you.”

Ben’s dad snorted, and broke out in a sad smile. “I love you, too, Son. Always, and forever,” he promised as he leaned in, and pulled Ben’s head gently to his own. The two sets of horns rapped lightly against one another, and Ben reached up to rub his swelling horns as the image came to a close, consumed by the spiraling smoke once again.

“Dad, I … I didn’t know,” Ben whispered as the spirals in his eyes began to waver amid the tears. Then the ring pulsed, and his pupils flashed purple for a moment. “But … I do know? Wh-what…? Why can I remember like … like …? Uhhhhh….” The ring flashed again as his eyes grew distant, and the mirror’s surface glowed with renewed magic.

“It would seem the ring senses something more in your desire,” Restituere said. “How curious. I’m certain Master will be wanting an in-depth report when this is complete. Tell me, what else did you desire to make the ring react this way? I always thought it only granted one wish.”

“Be free … of control,” Ben droned. “No more … giving in.”

“Giving in?” the golem asked confusedly.

“Big bulls command. Small bulls … obey.” He snorted again as the purple energy from the ring rose to form a circle around his head. The cloudy spiral in the mirror parted to reveal Stephen and the other bullies from earlier throwing their weight around some of the smaller freshmen. In a matter of seconds, they had them kneeling on the floor, lowing. Ben was among them. The mirror clouded again, and cleared to reveal a gym, where each of the young bulls was hard at work at the weights under careful supervision from their superiors, lifting and pushing in time with the bigger bulls’ commands. With each thrust, each acknowledgement of obedience, their smiles widened, their eyes dimmed. Ben stood with them, but unlike the rest, he wasn’t smiling as he watched a pair of the impressionable Belgian blues obeying a command to fight one another for dominance. A towering Stephen sneered down at them as he watched, and laughed as the two wiry boys struck at one another.

The mirror clouded over again, then opened up to reveal a much taller and broader version of the two bulls as they sneered down at Ben with folded vascular arms. One raised an arm suddenly, holding a notebook high above Ben’s head, while the other played defense, blocking Ben’s every attempt to retrieve the item in question. Eventually, Ben got shoved to the floor, and his head slammed against a set of silver lockers. He stared dizzily up at the pair of bulls as they approached, and each planted a massive foot on his diminutive chest.

“Moo for us, bitch,” the first said as he hung the journal above Ben’s head.

“S … screw….” Ben gasped as the pressure increased on his rib cage.

“Wrong answer,” the second growled as he kicked Ben in the side. Ben cried out in pain, but grit his teeth. Yet even as his did so, his nostrils flared, and the two bulls sneered as they watched it.

“Yeah. Smell that, Taurus? You know what that is, don’t you?” the first one gloated.

“Now do as you’re told, little horn.”

“Obey!” they barked together.

The Ben in the mirror stiffened. His eyes suddenly became unfocused as he snorted, then lowed submissively, while the two bullies stared domineeringly at him.

“That’s my boys,” Stephen’s gruff voice cheered them along as he smacked a hand on either of the boys’ shoulders. They shuddered in pleasure, and joined the lowing as Stephen whispered in their ears. Then the image faded into the spiral again.

“They were brothers,” Ben said sadly as he shook his head. “I remember. I couldn’t do anything. Now … now they can’t stop trying to outdo each other and everyone else they meet. They love to make everyone feel like they’re less, all because of Stephen.” He bunched his hands into fists as his knuckles cracked, and his muscle mass increased. “They were my friends, and he turned them against each other, against me, made them into his personal thugs. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t … can’t … can’t….” He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the energies wouldn’t abate.

“Can’t what?” Restituere pressed.

“Can’t–.” Ben shuddered, and let out a deep moan of pleasure as a bulge began to press against the crotch of his pants, while his waist expanded. His horns surged outwards again, and began to curve as his brow ridge became more developed, causing the bone of his horns to push back slightly. His mouth went slack as the spirals in his eyes returned with a vengeance, spinning faster as the energies grew in their intensity.

His eyebrows grew in thicker and bushier as his hair darkened by another shade, and retreated further up the sides of his head to leave him without any sides to speak of. In the stead of the flat short texture ear taper with a part that his hair had become when he first entered the store, a spikier fauxhawk now sat comfortably between his horns. The extra hair had shifted to roll down the back of his neck, emphasizing the burgeoning trapezius and deltoid muscles with his broadening shoulders and swelling biceps. He shuddered again as his pecs suddenly popped outwards, gaining greater mass and firmness, while his nipples became more prominent. He bounced the muscles a couple of times as a tiny patch of slightly thicker fur grew in at the point where the two pectorals intersected.

A faint layer of stubble began to sprout over the lower parts of his jaw, giving him a rugged five o’clock shadow that merged with the short cropping on the sides of his head. A dusting of extra-long hairs began to appear along his shoulders and the outer parts of his biceps. “Can’t … think … straight,” he uttered slowly as his calves and thighs swelled and strained with his buttocks to emphasize every rapidly developing curve, while two smaller lumps began to carve themselves below his pectorals. His shoulders and chest heaved as he took breath after breath, while the ring continued to do its work.

Another spurt of growth rocked Ben’s frame as he shot up a whole foot in height. His pant legs burst apart as his muscles spasmed, and he widened his stance to make up for all the added mass, thrusting his chest outwards subconsciously as the ring expanded further, forcing his nostrils to widen with his muzzle.

“Stupid.”

“Worthless.”

“Runt!”

“Wimp!”

“Pansy!”

The insults echoed over and over from the mirror, and a low growl rumbled from Ben’s throat as his teeth began to clench together. His skull cracked as his horns practically exploded outwards, shifting to either side of his head as the brow ridge jutted forward, looking as though it were wrapping around where the horns would join together in a solid bar inside his skull, had that been scientifically possible. The brush that his eyebrows had now become expanded even further, growing to quadruple their original size, even as they and the rest of his hair darkened by another shade. The meat continued to pile on as the magic from the ring swirled around his head between his horns, seeping into his hair and fur. The hair along his back and head shortened even further in reaction, drawing closer to the center of his head, and leaving more short stubble in its place. He lowed softly as another shudder ran through his body, and the bulge in his pants doubled in size. The increased testosterone, combined with the effects of the ring’s magic, caused his chest, shoulder, and arm hair to thicken as ridges cut like streams down a valley to form a perfect eight pack in his abdominals.

“Is it over?” Restituere queried. The glow of the ring had significantly reduced, but it had yet to fully dissipate, and wisps of energies still clung to the young bull, molding him as his body grew another few inches.

A last spark dove into the depths of the mirror, and the smoke parted to reveal the gaping Ben from the most recent past. “Big bulls command. Big Bulls command. Big bulls command,” his projection repeated.

“Wanna lead. Grow to lead. Yes … Big bulls command. Must grow … must command,” Ben said gently as the spirals filled his eyes again. His pectorals swelled to relatively the same circumference as two soccer balls. His horns thickened at their bases, and extended outwards, curving skyward as tiny bolts of energy struck at his hair once more from the sharp tips. This time, there was no room for debate. A short cropped macho mohawk stretched back from just above the part between his prominent eyebrows. He furrowed his confused brow into a frustrated scowl as his cheek bones bulged outwards to emphasize the incredibly masculine features he had developed. His biceps had swollen larger than footballs, and his body hair thickened again, this time along his chin and between his chest as the two merged together. His heartrate surged, his muscles pulsed with power, and his mind filled with the instinctual haze that was common to all his species as the testosterone and pheromones he produced ran over all rational thought. A final glow from the ring restored his pants, changing them to that of a security guard, though his upper body remained bare. After all, what herd leader in his right mind would ever want to hide something so wonderful? No, he would leave it as an example to all the other calves.

“Um … Sir?” Restituere asked as he tapped Ben on the shoulder. The two were much closer in height now, though Restituere still had the advantage, thanks to the sheer volume of items he had to return.

Ben folded his arms, and rolled his eyes as he came back to reality, then snorted. “Restie, I already told you. I may be head of security, but that doesn’t mean I go for Sir. I only save that for my herd and disrespectful punks,” he stated gruffly. A golden star in a security badge appeared on a clip at his hip, along with a leather belt covered in dull stones. The one at the front glowed a mixture of red and gold within the image of a fox’s head.

“I see you found what you were looking for, Benjamin,” Omni’s voice echoed from the stone.

Benjamin stretched and grinned. “I never understood what everyone meant, until now, Sir.” He snorted again as the ring shrunk within his nasal passages, allowing him to breathe through his nose normally. Or was it his nasal passages that went through one last phase of growth? He wasn’t sure, but at this point, he didn’t care. His deeper voice rumbled smoothly as he spoke. “All this strength. It … it really does make a difference, doesn’t it?”

“In your culture? Yes, yes it does. I hope you don’t mind the extra memories that have been overlaid. I didn’t make the particular artifact you used, so I couldn’t exactly control the results.”

“Any of them false?” Ben pressed.

“Not a one. Every new memory you have is completely you, based on the new you that you desired to become. And the best part is you’ll be able to take that knowhow out into the world and take it by surprise. Who remembers and who doesn’t is unknown. It could be you’ll be able to control it, but I don’t know. You’ll have to experiment to find out, once you’re done with your shift. Now then, are you ready to fulfill your duty in service to me and my store?”

Instead of a usual affirmation, Ben struck a pose and let out a massive bellow.

Omni’s voice chuckled. “Yes, I do believe you’ll fit right in. If you encounter anyone you think would serve better as a fellow guard for their, shall we say, ‘community service,’ just bond them to a gemstone and think of the form that would best serve you at the time. The magic will take care of the rest. Otherwise, I think you have some unruly bullies to put back in their place, don’t you?”

Benjamin grinned. “Indeed, I do. Where are they now?”

“Still trying to break down my door. That Stephen really is obsessed with you, isn’t he?”

“I’ll give him something to obsess over,” Benjamin growled angrily as his fur darkened one last time to a rich mahogany. His nose ring pulsed as he was filled with the need to administer immediate chastisement. Of course, it helped that he still wanted to get back at Stephen, too. And with this new body, he’d definitely get that, and much more besides. “I’m on my way, Sir. Taurus out.”

His thicker, tufted tail twitched in anticipation as he waved a hasty farewell to the golem. New information about the store’s layout and the magical paths employees could use ran easily through his mind, and he took the fastest path he could find to that particular entrance to the store.

“Try again,” the red angus growled as he pointed to the stubborn door. Despite the many blows the trio had dealt to the wood, it still hadn’t so much as splintered.

“Uh, boss, shouldn’t we just … Idunno, let it go? It’s almost been an hour, and our shoulders’re getting sore,” Rob, the first of the two Belgian blues said in a vapid tone.

“We’re not done, until I say we’re done. Get it, peabrain?” Stephen flicked the bull between his brows. “You’re not here to think. You’re here to do what I say. You, and your brother,” he said as he rounded on Bert. The twin’s smug smirk quickly washed away under Stephen’s glower.

Bert averted his gaze as he looked to the ground, and muttered a, “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now smash that door in,” he commanded brusquely. The red angus took a step back, and folded his arms in anticipation. No matter what that door may have been made out of, everything had to give at some point. If they could warp metal, then they could certainly splinter a shabby old door.

The two Belgian blues looked to each other, nodded, then pawed the earth, before charging as fast as they could. They made contact, but this time, it didn’t feel like the hard wood from before. The two rubbed their shoulders briefly, before looking up, and up, and up.

“And just what do you two think you’re doing?”

Two thick, meaty hands seized on the twins’ shoulders, thrusting them back. The two brothers winced from the force of the grip as a giant of a bull stepped out into the daylight. His eyes narrowed as he took in the pair’s expressions, then looked at the red angus.

“Normally, I would try reason first,” the bull said as he approached Stephen, still dragging the pair behind him. He had to be standing at a good nine feet, at least. His broad frame and even more well-built muscles left little doubt as to the feats of strength he could accomplish, especially considering how easily he had just dealt with the two Belgian blues. “However, I know you three won’t listen to that.” He crashed the twins’ skulls together, knocking them out cold. Then he raced up, and grabbed Stephen by his mane, yanking the bull’s head back as he leveled one of his horns at Stephen’s neck. “So you listen to this, you little piece of shit,” he growled. “That shirt happened to be a parting gift from my mother, before she died. Those two flunkies of yours happened to be my friends. You took both of them from me, so now I’m going to take everything you hold dear from you.”

Stephen’s eyes widened in shock. “T-taurus,” he strained as his throat suddenly became dry. “How?”

Ben sneered as he shoved the bull down on the ground, and sat on top of him. “Let’s just say I came into my own, little horn. I’m the head of the herd now. And you? From now on, you’re going to do exactly as I say.” He punched the bull in the face, and a thrill of pleasure ran through him as he watched Stephen’s left eye start to swell. “Not so much fun when someone can fight back, is it, wimp?” This time, he gave a strong left hook to Stephen’s jaw. The loud crack indicated just how soundly the bone had been broken as tears began to flow down the sides of Stephen’s head.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Ben continued relentlessly. “I’m going to take you to the hospital, where we’re going to get your wounds treated. Afterwards, I’m going to go back to school, and let the others know I’m in charge now. Then I’m going to undo the little torture rewards program you set up at school, and give each of those bulls the chance to develop real strength, none of your BS shortcuts.”

A thrill of satisfaction ran through Ben as he watched Stephen’s eyes widen, and his breath began to catch. “Oh yes, I know about those steroids. And you can bet I’ll be letting the principle know, too. You’re either going to be expelled or severely demoted. And unlike the others, we’re going to make sure to keep you that way for a long time to come. What’s the old saying? Karma’s a bitch, if memory serves. You’re about to find out just how true that sentence is. Stay down, if you know what’s good for you, Stephen. You lost.”

Ben reached down to his belt, and pressed the stone on the front buckle. “You there, Sir?” he asked.

“Reading you loud and clear, Ben. You calm those troublemakers?”

“With ease, Sir. One of them’s been, hurt, though. Would you mind calling an ambulance?”

“I believe that can be arranged.” Omni’s voice chuckled over the line. “Nicely handled. A little rough, in my opinion, but you have the right to pull your own style of enforcement. Just a warning, though, Benjamin. I let you do what you will, but you will have to face whatever consequences arise from your actions. If a legal suit comes from this, I can’t guarantee protection.”

Ben laughed. “Please. Stephen’s too proud. If he takes me to court, every bull in the county will know the fact I beat him and his two flunkies without breaking a sweat. His reputation will be ruined.” He casually thrust an elbow backwards to smash into the red angus’ nose, causing a gush of blood to follow as Stephen fell back onto his rear, and snapped his tail on the ground. Ben shook his head, and clicked his tongue chidingly. “Some of them just won’t learn.”

“I can’t say I don’t feel a little pleasure at seeing a bully get his just deserts, but next time, do try to keep it less physical, won’t you?”

“I can’t exactly make any promises there, Sir.” Ben laughed, and he could imagine the smile pulling back on the kitsune’s face as he listened in.

“No, I suppose you can’t, can you? Just make sure to remember where you came from. I’d rather not see you become the very thing you just defeated.”

“Understood, Sir. Would you mind getting Rob and Bert back home? I can deal with them when school starts tomorrow.”

“My pleasure, Ben. Welcome to Omnistore, a branch of Real Change Incorporated. Consider this a sign-on bonus.”

Ben snorted as a surge of pleasure ran through his body, and he felt a swelling in his crotch as a tsunami of hormones washed over him. So distracted was he by the sensation that he hardly noticed or cared as he straightened his back, and struck a smart salute. “It’s a pleasure to serve, Sir.”

Omni chuckled. “Oh, believe me, I know. Keep up the good work, and I might give you a few extra bonuses from time to time.”

Ben let out a dominant grunt, followed by a heavy snort, a flex, and a dazed smile. “Looking forward to it, Sir. Taurus out.”

[1] National Anthropomorphic Football League - Since humans are often at a distinct disadvantage when facing off against anthros, a separate league was created specifically for the anthropomorphic community to participate in the sport. While the NFL is still popular, the NAFL draws the greater fan base, thanks to the enhanced abilities the animal traits of the players grant. This league allows new ways to play within the traditional rules of the game that both surprise and excite the fanbase. Likewise, competitive leagues for anthros were established in other sports as well.

Boy, looks like nose rings are risky business!  @rubberskunkadditionally made this little bull guy into a big grump, and I came in with the colors.