Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 12

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 12

“... You’re slipping now. Slipping down and down as you listen to my voice. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. And it feels so very good, so very relaxing as you listen. The more you listen, the better you feel. The better you feel, the deeper you go. Letting go now as you descend into that muted darkness, into that peaceful trance. “Ten. Feeling so good.” You find yourself sighing heavily as you hear the familiar thock of the metronome echoing over and over in your head. “Nine. Slipping farther as your legs stop wanting to move. So heavy. So relaxed as you go deeper and deeper, feeling better and better as you listen to my voice.” And you are feeling better. Thock. Relax. Thock. deeper. Thock. Listen. Thock. Deeper. Each stroke is so rhythmic, measured. It reminds you of the weights clacking at the gym. “Eight. Deep breaths. You want to listen to me. Listening as that heaviness spreads to your lower body. It’s getting harder and harder to remain upright. How about you just lay back against the couch? It would be so much easier than sitting up, and then you can listen more, without all that weight, without all that strain to distract you. And it will feel so good when you do, won’t it? Like when you collapse into bed, after a long workout.” You’re not sure when you started letting your body sag against the back of the couch, but you shudder in pleasure as a flood of relief flows through your limbs. “Seven. No distractions. No worries. Just listening to me. Just listening to the sound of my voice as I guide you deeper and deeper. And it feels so good. You don’t want to stop, do you?” “No,” you sigh. “That’s right. You don’t. You want this. You want to listen. You love how good I make you feel. And that means you should keep listening to me, because I make you feel good.” “Yeah....” “Six. Feel the tension flowing out of your body. Feel your thinking slowing, slowing as it’s flowing, flowing out your body. Flowing away with the stress. Flowing, like my voice through your ears as you listen. Flowing louder as you fall deeper. Flowing until it’s all you can hear, all you want to hear. “All I ... want....” you mumble as the world retreats into that strange twilight sort of place. Her voice echoes and babbles in your ears, like water flowing through a cave. “Five. You love the sound of my voice. It’s good to listen, isn’t it? You want to immerse yourself in it, don’t you?” “Yes.” So good. Feels so good. “Four. Flowing over you as you fall deeper and deeper, flowing like a river over you as you descend, washing away all thought, all fear, all hesitation. You are giving in to the current. You are letting it take you where it wants, and it wants to go deeper, so you want to go deeper.” By now, you can hardly hold your head up. “Deep...er....” “Good. Three. No longer resisting the flow. Letting go as I speak to you. Listening to my guiding voice. We are flowing to that perfect place, that place of absolute stillness, where your mind is perfectly open, open to me, open to my voice, open to listen, open to obey. Because when you listen to me, you are obeying me. And listening feels good, so obeying also feels good.” “Good....” Her words are lapping over you like a massage, and it feels heavenly. “You will obey.” “I will ... obey....” Obedience is listening. Listening is obeying. Listening feels good, so obeying feels good. Makes sense. The flow is taking you where you want to go, and where you want to go is where the voice is taking you. “You will obey me. Can you repeat that for me?” “I will obey you....” A new thrill of pleasure washes over you as your body slumps further in the couch. You can’t even feel its fabric anymore. You’re floating, and it feels so good floating, listening, letting go.... “Two. So close now. Letting go of all conscious thought, all will. Surrendering it to me, because you listen to me, because you obey me. You’re nearing a final curve in your downward slope. We’re almost at that perfect spot. Slip deeper. Listen harder. Relax. Obey.” And you do obey. You can hardly muster the effort to bob your head as it slumps forward, lolling over your chest. “One. Turning so gently, so slowly, into that final curve. Slow, like your mind, slow like your breathing. Slow and deep. Deeper and deeper. So deep in my voice that you can’t possibly imagine leaving it without my help. Floating into that sea of my voice, that gentle place that laps against you in waves, caressing you, filling you with pleasure to just listen and accept, listen and obey.” It feels so right. A dull smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Zero.” You’re floating, surrounded by that beautiful, sweet voice lapping at your ears. You are immersed in darkness, that quiet nothingness that feels so good as you just ... exist. No need to think. No need to act. Just relaxing. Just sitting. Just waiting. “Tell me the truth. Can you hear me?” A command. Must listen. Must obey. “Yes,” you say in a low voice. “Have you been listening to your recordings?” “Some. The pre-workout tracks make me feel excited. I enjoy those.” “And the night tracks?” “Tried a little. Haven’t done much with ‘em yet.” “How come?” “Noise makes it hard to sleep. Brain keeps stayin’ up. Used to sleep, but now my body’s adjusted, I’m not that tired anymore.” “Listen closely,” the voice ordered. “You will listen to those tracks every night. They will no longer bother you. In fact, they will help you sleep.” “But ... they don’t.” “Not yet,” the voice corrected. “The more you listen to them, the easier it will be to sleep with them. Every night you will listen to them. Every night, they will help you to sleep. Every night, you will fall asleep sooner with the track, because you are adjusting to it. It is natural. It is a part of your nightly routine.” “Natural ... routine....” “Every night.” “Every night,” you repeat. “Tell me, what must you do with the tracks?” “Play them every night.” “Because you want to.” “I ... want to....” “Every night.” “Every night....” “You want to every night.” “I ... want to ... every night....” “Good boy. Now then, let’s get to work on a little motivation....”

Fetlocked

This here is a story placed in the universe belonging to an artist over on FA by the name of Silao: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/silao/ In this universe, he has a character with four unique incarnations who is completely fixated on “fixing” the “sickness” that is the human condition. He does so by designing a multitude of methods to convert humans into equines. Virus to mutate people? Check. Potions and concoctions to forcibly alter the body’s chemistry and hypnotic inductions to reprogram the mind? Check. This guy will literally use any means necessary to “save” humanity. Oh, and did I forget to mention he’s an anthropomorphic donkey? (At least in this incarnation. ;)) Hope you all enjoy.

“You’ve filled out all the paperwork, and the risks have been explained to you, yes?” the monocle-wearing donkey asked.

Trent gulped as he sat there on the doctor’s table in the cold office. A carefully painted green pasture wallpaper flowed around him, and a set of stables could be seen in the distance, alongside a large red barn. The room smelled of freshly mown grass, a scent that helped sooth his nerves. He widened his nostrils, and took a deep steadying breath. “Yes.”

“Good.” The donkey lowered his muzzle to fix Trent with a smirk. Trent prayed it was just the monocle warping that smile so much. He fought to suppress a shudder. It must have been innocent, but … it seemed so sinister. He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. Equine expressions were more difficult to read than human body language, after all, even if they were anthropomorphic.

“Um … one question, if I may, Mister Silao.”

“Please, call me Doctor, or Silao. I don’t really care which.” He shrugged. “Yes? What is it?”

“Well, Doctor, I was wondering, why is your mane blond on top and black down the back?”

“Perceptive, bold, an inquisitive nature. Interesting,” Silao murmured as he jotted a few extra notes on his tablet. “To answer your question, Mister Schumacher, it is the last vestige of my former humanity. I have to say, of all the parts that could have stayed behind, I rather like it. It adds a certain sense of mystery to my appearance. Is it dyed, is it natural? Why would I consider doing such a thing to myself? So many questions to draw the eye of the wandering human. It makes for an excellent ice breaker, you know.” The equine chuckled as he lowered the pad, and pressed a comms button on the side of the door. “Josephine, we’re ready for the monitors, if you would be so kind as to bring them up.”

Trent blew upwards not for the first time as he tried to adjust his unruly black bangs. No matter how many times he pulled them off to the side, they always found a way to droop back down again.

“Now then, Mister Schumacher, you are aware we are not to be held liable for any accidents that result from your time working for us, correct?”

“Yes,” Trent nodded.

“And it reads here that you wish to work with us for the remainder of your days. What drives a man to such a state that he’s willing to abandon the world for a scientist’s lab?”

Trent blushed. “It’s … a personal matter.”

Silao quirked an eyebrow as he reached over to pick up his cane, and smiled. “Is that so?” he proceeded to twirl the item skillfully as he maintained a careful grip on its silver donkey head. “Well, whether you’re looking for work, fleeing the law, or just looking to face an ‘accident’ in the field, I’m sure we can find a place for you.” The donkey’s smile widened into a smirk as he noticed the way the human’s green eyes trailed after the silver donkey head. “Though more than a few of our employees and test subjects have lost their humanity entirely. Are you prepared in the event such an … unfortunate incident should occur?”

Trent shifted uncomfortably as he folded his legs, and his plump cheeks flushed. “Yes, Sir.”

Silao sneered. “Excellent.” Yes, this human would do very nicely. Plenty of extra mass to work with, and a most obvious passion for the equine species. Perfect. “Of course, Mister Schumacher, we’ll have to see about getting you a better set of work clothes. We’ll be starting you off in the stables, after all. Every new employee does.” His tail twitched idly behind him as he leaned on his cane, while his ears shifted to listen for the familiar sound of … ah, there it was.

The door opened with a beep and a mechanical chunk as the lock came undone, and a slim, well-muscled jenny stepped forward. Her long mane had recently been washed, and curled down her shoulders and back as she carried a metal tray to the support extension next the examination table. She batted her long eyelashes over big, brown orbs as she rose to look at the patient. Her nostrils flared as she stepped back from the table with clasped hands, and fidgeted slightly.

Silao laughed. “No need to be so shy, Josephine. This is our newest employee, Mister Trent Schumacher.”

“P-pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” Josephine had the advantage of a shiny black fur coat to help hide her blush. Trent had no such luck.

The jenny nodded Trent’s way once, then turned back to the doctor. “I’ll return to the nurse’s quarters, unless you needed me for anything else, Doctor Silao,” she said meekly.

Silao smiled. “Go on, then. I know you ladies have your hands full with the physicals today.”

The jenny turned back only once as she opened the door. “It was … nice to meet you, too, Mister Schumacher. She looked down again, averting her gaze. “I’m … looking forward to giving you your next physical.”

Trent smiled back. “It’s a date.”

Josephine’s ears shot straight up, and she quickly left the room. Silao chuckled at the sight as he leaned on his cane. “Quite the lady’s man, aren’t you?”

Trent blushed. “Not really. She’s the first girl to really notice me, you know?”

“Well, let’s see what working here will do for that, hmm?” Silao’s hooves clopped loudly on the tile as he approached, and picked up the first of four metallic bands. “These are vital monitors of my own design. They are water proof, extremely durable (we tested it against the strongest bucks our equines could produce), adjustable for multiple builds, and one of a kind. Your first job will be to wear these at all times as you work in the stables. This will allow us to track you, and ensure your health remains optimal. While there is little chance of you spreading any disease to our work animals, we prefer to ensure our employees’ wellbeing. After all, to allow the effects of a virus to impede one’s judgement and motor skills when tending the animals simply isn’t professional.”

“How long will I have to wear them?” Trent asked nervously.

“All the time, of course. Now hold still. You might feel a slight prick.” Silao slid the first of the cuffs on deftly, and quickly adjusted the band with a squeeze to ensure it fit Trent’s wrist.

Trent hissed. “A prick? That felt like a freaking needle!”

Silao shrugged. “The horses certainly don’t seem to mind.”

“You used these things on horses?”

“Yes. Animal testing, remember? It’s always required before clinical trials. Now stop being a baby, and hold still,” Silao ordered. He had the other bands secure in a matter of seconds. “I call these my fetlocks. A bit of fun wordplay, given the unique nature of my establishment. You’ll find every one of my animals are wearing them quite comfortably.”

“So … what happens now?”

Silao smiled as he planted his cane, and leaned on it. “Now, friend Schumacher, you get to work.”

Trent grunted as he shoveled yet another load of manure into the wheelbarrow. He took a moment to wipe the sweat off his brow, and try to slow his heart rate. He looked about nervously as he fiddled with the overalls and simple white cotton shirt he’d been given at the changing rooms. Considering the nature of the work, he supposed he should feel grateful that they gave him these spares. It didn’t exactly make the exertions any easier, though. His whole body felt wet from his exertions. Fortunately, Silao had been kind enough to offer a steady supply of water from a special dispenser outside.

Trent picked up the two sides of the wheelbarrow, and wheeled it out to the compost heap, where he upended the barrow, and did his best to let all the horse apples roll out. One of the horses let out a whinny, and Trent looked off in the distance to see the animals grazing. Trent sighed longingly as he returned the wheelbarrow to its proper position, and began to cart it back. A familiar tickling itched at the inside of his nose, and not wishing to stop, Trent opted to follow the example of his charges, and snorted. A few extra expulsions for good measure, and he was fit as a fiddle.  He sighed as he strode up, and lowered his head down for the sensor to read. The water shot upwards in a stream into his mouth, and he adjusted his tongue to let it flow upwards and down his throat, until he was satisfied. He sighed in contentment as he rose up, and wiped his mouth for what had to be the twentieth time since starting. Why, he’d wiped so many times, it felt almost as if there were no lip left. He chuckled at that, picturing what it’d be like to have those thick, smooth, rubbery lips horses were known for.

He took another deep breath through his nostrils, and sighed. The stable actually didn’t smell so bad, now that he’d had time to adjust to it. He walked over to the hay bales, and started to spread the clean straw into the feeding troughs. While the horses were able to graze at the field, that didn’t mean they got a full meal. After all, they were only let out so he could clean out their stalls. Trent eyed his handiwork, being careful to note how well the stalls had each dried out. He strode over to the supply shelf, and took down a bottle. He dumped a portion of the contents into a spray container, then filled it with water, before hauling it with him. His muscles screamed in protest at the weight as he worked to spray over the floors and walls of each stall, but the work eventually grew easier, and he sighed in relief as his body sent in the extra surge of adrenaline to save his sorry hide.

Hide. Ha. He chuckled at the thought and continued to work. His boots clacked rhythmically against the cement walkway as he sprayed down the earthy floor of the stall, being careful to avoid the extra dry bedding that was still usable. He took another deep breath, and smiled. “Man, this deodorizer stuff works well.” He reached over to the remains from the last feeding, and pulled out a sprig of hay to stick between his teeth. He swallowed readily as saliva built up in his mouth, and his tongue danced curiously along the edge of fibrous stalk as he continued to work.

He finally reached the last stall, a vacancy Silao had told him needed to be prepared for a large Shire stallion they intended to rent out for breeding purposes. Trent knew how that song and dance went. He quickly grabbed a hold of a hay bale, and hauled it over to the stall, pulling it apart with the assistance of a recently cleaned and disinfected pitchfork to spread into the feeding trough. Next, he turned to the automatic water trough, and mounted it to its wall brackets. Then he took the connecting hose, and wove it through a series of wall connectors to keep it held tight, thus preventing any curious equine teeth from accidentally chewing on it. From there, he used the connector at the hose’s end to hook it up to the garden hose connected to the rear spigot in the stalls, and turned on the pressure. The rushing sound of water thumping against plastic greeted his ears as the sensor triggered, and the trough began to fill.

“There,” he said as he dusted his hands off, “all done.”

“Well done, Trent,” Silao’s voice echoed from a set of speakers in the rafters. “You’ve certainly adapted well to the manual labor, haven’t you?”

Trent chuckled. “I’ll probably be sore in the morning, but anything for you, Mister Silao.” He turned to the security cameras, and grinned as he stuck out a thumbs-up.

“Is that so?” Silao chuckled as the speakers began to blare a loud horse’s whinny, followed by the rhythmic clopping of hooves. “Then get those stalls ready. It’s time for our good little horses to file back in.”

Trent furrowed his sweaty brow. “And this is supposed to do it?”

“My horses are highly trained. They respond to the recording, both because of the fact it’s the head mare’s whinny and the fact that I associated the recording with rubdowns and sugar, two things they have come to enjoy very much.”

“I, uh … see,” Trent said as he walked to each of the stall doors to open them again. “And they’ll just walk right in? No complaints? No trying to break out again?”

“You’ll be just fine, Trent,” Silao assured him. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they treated you like one of their own. Just be gentle. Their training will take care of the rest.”

“Um … okay,” Trent said with wide eyes as he watched the whole herd approaching at a measured cadence. Their hooves struck the ground in perfect unison with the recording as they approached.

“Good horses. That’s right. Such wonderful, obedient beasts. G͓̿̆́̅̄̕e̡͍͔̞͚ͮͅt͆͛ͬ͛͝ ĭ̶͛̊n̯̭̙̲͖̠ͣ̍̂̆ͅt͍̪̤̞̺̋ͪ̌̄̈́ȏ̱̦̖̃̏ͬ̋ t͈̬̜͚̉ͤ̓͊͗̍͞h̳͇̰̮̊͑ͭ̈́ͪe̔͒̾ s̖̜̃̌ͯt̸̎a͓̩l̟̖̦̯̟̻͍͘l͎͖̺͚̓̓ͬͭ̉ͧͮś̬̗̹͑ͧͭͫ. I̩̲͈͇͔ͫ̍̉ͧ͊ͦ͐͘ẗͤ̍̅'̻͚̺̺̤͉̖ͯͤ͑͗̒s͔̠̼̞ͯ̈́ͨ̐̕ g̛͇̭o͊̀ͬ̊͛o̗͇̖̒ͭͫͭ̆̚d̖̱ͥ͐͂̚ t̷͔̏̓ͦo̮̪͙ ̲̱͔̹ͭ͒ͮͧ̃̐ͪb͙͈̼͕͔̱̊͑̈̎͑e̯̱̱̮͋͌ͥͥ̂̀ ͇͍̘̌̽ͫ̏ͥ̚i͍͚͇̲̾̽n͖̗̭̏̊͆ ̗̮̲͎̝̫̻͋ͪͯ̆y͔̫̟̦ͥͣó̥̀̊͆̒̚u͇̹̹̹ͯ̔ͯ͠rͣͯ̈́҉̪̻̩̥̱ͅ ͕͍̥̙̾s̸͕͙͔̩̽́ţ̪̘̼̜̦ͨͩa̸͎̺͖͈̫̎ͪ̃̿l̞̜͍̬͠ḽ͉͒̿ͯs̝̞̝̅.̢̖̞͖͉͎̝̺͗̉̅ ̦̥̥̹͓̒ͤ̍ͥ̂̀T͖̼̼̮̈́͡h͓̄ͪͫe̡̓͂̐̈́̑ ̲̗̲̥̙̜̘̊͗s̱̱̼̪̱͌͢t̤͝a̘̠̱̲̓̐ͭ̉̆ͧͦl̈́̉̀̒̔͋l̻̞̫̰̗̳̩ ̟͙̞͔̈́̚i͖͓̬̳̣̣̓̎ͪ̓ͤͅs̛̰̹͍͋͑̎͂ͨ ̗̣͌ͨ͆w̮̯̗̠͐͛̇̋̎̌h̦̝̗̖̯͚ͧ̃e̯̬͇̱͔̰̥r͎͉͛͆̽ͅe̴͖̞̬̞ ̲̠͍ͣ̏̔̀̈́ͯͣͅy͕̲̥͉̐͒̀͐o̺ũ̙̗̲̰̗͙̭ ̱̪ͭ̐͗̉ͫ̄b̡̓̅̿e̱̬̳ͦ͗͛͛͡l̖͒̿̆̋ͪo̳͚̹̦̰̮͈n͔̺̝̞̊g̣̱͎͊̅͐ͩ̋̑̈͟ͅ.͚ͦ͑̒̀̅͛̕ ̡͉̓̀ͨ͋ͧͨ̇Su̡ͧ͌̍͐ͮ͑c̅̅ͭ̍͋͡h̞̟̞͍͓̒̑͆̕ ̠̜̬̞̼͇̦̉̋g̞͇̰̳͂̎͊o̊̽̂̀̓͑̔͏̟͓̗o̍́̃ͮͪ͘ḍ͕͚̮̜̰̞́̑͛͊͋̾ ̶͙̘̬̮͚͈̯͑ͬ̐͂ḥ͎͚͟o͌ṟ͈̱̥̲̾͂ͥ͋̕s̤̙̣ͨḙ̮͈̘̩̉s͓̲̞.̢̪̱̣̱̓͗̒̄̌͑ ̼̰̘͔͉̃R̥̫̻͖̖͎̹̋̌͐ͯe̮̖̖͖̮̒̍͗ͯ̀̅ͅl̷̹̲̤͚̲̂̆a͉̦̻͙̥̰̘̋͒̇͐ͣx̩̜̼̱,̟͖̹̰́͐ͬ͂ͅ ̦̖̥̩̤͒ͧͅa̪ͧ͆ͪͯ̎̚͜n̡̜̱̩̪̥͚͙͂d̙̜̼͙͖̖͌ͥ̒̀ͅ ̶̍̃̐̇̑ͧͨl̢̜̗̘̮͉͇̊ỉ̺̞͎̩̙̫̼ͦ̇s̨̐ṭ͎͙͚̐ͮ̚e̛̪̖n̛̦̮̙̊,̳͙͍̖̱̱̆͗̓ ̪̖̥̼͓̰̲ͩ͐̇ͫa͈̻̬̩͙͈̺̓̌̆͌nͪ̆̆ͅd̩͖͔͎̭̣̼͊̊͆̌ͥ̈́́ ͔̩̳̩̞̬̌ͮ̅̒͋̄̓͞o̳̼̎͆ͭ̔̀̏͂̀ḅ̤̪̘͚ͫ͂ͤͫe̟̣̺̋͑ͤ̉͗͊y͖̻͕̩̫̏̌̈.̟͇̩͕͙̟ͧͭ̋̋͆̄͑ ̒̎̓ͯ̚͢J͚̩́ṵ͈̬͊ͮs̺̦͍̹̎̑̓̃ͩ̊͡t̷͕̮̀͂̆̉ͩͨ ̦̘̺̗͊̅̓r̰̪̬͓̲̘̹e͛͛ͥ̋ḻ͈͔͙̻̱̙̂̀̓ă̈̎̈͆̈̿͞x̷͕ͣ͋ͤ̐̚,̘̰͎̲͓̅͂̊̋̔ ͉ͪͥ̈́̔͝aͦ̽ṇ͍̺͙͎̮͕͡d͞ ̷͔͇̼͒ͧ̈́͐͂l̙̰͑̊i̩͕ͫs̡ͩ̆̽ṭ̠e͍͇̜͎ͩ͛ͫ̓̐n̹̟̗̘̱͉͚̋̄.̷̒̓̈ͨ̈́͗̊ ̴̞ͫR̄̌͡èl͙̙̆̌ͦ̊̎a̴͍͖̞ͥͅx̙̜̔̽͊͞,̛̹̜̣̱͂̀̽̒̇ ̛͓̗̙̔̀ͦͮ̏a͎̤͋͋ͤnd̪̪̆ͯͯ ͖ͩ̐̅è̛̹͈̼̖̣̓̒ͦ̾n̹ͬ͡tͬe̮̘͡r̯͇̟͈̦̃͋̍̔ ̤̬̼̗̗̏͗̓̔͌ͥyͮ̌͌ͤ͑o̗̼̫ͯ͂ͬ͂ͩ̄͌ú̻̱͖͉̓͆̓ͮͭr̪̭̭͢ ̜̹̦͌͗ͭ̈̌ͭ̌ś̢͉̱̥̻ͭ́̓͂̈̅t͕̻̔͗̈̒̎a͂̇͐̆l̻̖̼̰ͤ͗͌ͤ̆͝l̪̲͇̒̓̉̑̆͌ ̈̄̄̅̅a͉̬̩̝̲̳̾̒s̩̘͙̐̌͂͘ ̸ͩ̊͌̒̅y̥̤̠̐ͣ̂ͯo̸͈͔̞̓u̫̟̫̝͕͎͚ ̘͈̜͖̭͙̑̅l̡̪̣͕͔̖i̷͈̱̼̩ͤͭͥ̍͊s̶̪̠͙ͯt̻͇̹͍̉ͬ̑e̪̙̬ͪ̅̽̏̀n̹̻̜̟͕̱̳ͦ̽̀̈́̊ͥͣ ̻͚̲̥̤͡t̒ͥ̍o͓̖͓̊̎̉ͨ͟ ̻̦̤͖͙̯̯ͪ͛̃̃̇m͉ͭ͌͜y̻̳͍̟͉͍̲̑ͮͬ̍ͥͮ ̟͋v̘͕ͫ̆̑͂ͮͦ͞o̹̺ͥͅi͍͉ͥ͊ͪ͋c̆̅̚̚e̠̟͙͓͎̖̞ͥ,ͪ̈҉̻̝͔̩̜ ͚̤̱͓̫t̲̝̳̙̱o͉̼͉̠̎ͭ́ͣͣͫͅ ͎̿ͪ̋̑̌͌͐m̧̮̩͈̝̲̻̆ͪ͐́ͦͫy̗̪̳̲̬͔̮͡ ͔͖ͧ̍̄ͬ͝r̰͇͙̣̠̀ͨ̐ͅͅe͚̿͐̀̓ͭͪ̀c͈͈͐̋̏ͫ̏o̠̬̬̦͔r͑̅d͏͎̫̪̖̝̺ì͕̜͎̹n̵̪̺̼̉̌g̷̹̙͇̰͗ͭ̈́͋ͮ͋s̔́̆̂͗͏̟̬,̩͉̪̤̼̉ͬ ͈̱̮f̧̳̠̪̩̲͇̂͂͌a̡͙̘̹̯̬̓ͦ̌ḽ̛̈͂̇͌͂ḻ͚̻͕̘̹̫̉ͨ͒ͬ̌ͬ̎͡ĩ̖͖͇͚̠̠̚ͅn̤̥̜̗̾̓́g͋͛҉̖̣̹ ̗͎̦͚́ͬ̚d̹͓̟̣ͥ͛̏̆ͦ̑ȇ̖̔̏e̷̖̣̣̪̝ͪ͂̾̚p̶̫ḛ͓̣̯͔̟̑̊r̪ͥ̿ͮ̌ ͈͉ͦ͐͑ͬͬͭ̀a̓̆̋̑͊n̸͉̜̖͓̫͉ͅd͇̮̯ ̖̰̝̫̬̩̗́ͦd̘͓̦̭e̻̺̫̪e͐̓̾̅̉͌͂̀p͈̠̭͚͓̮̉͑͆̅ͥ̚ẻ̓r͓̠̜̻̖͋ͭ́.̲̉͂̐́.̫̟̩͔̱͙̩̊̐̒̎̂̌.̺͇̲̲ͯ̎̄͢.̸̥̻̟̪̱͌”

Trent watched as the horses, quite miraculously, passed through the stable doors and filed down to each stall. He watched their tails twitch, their rough hide stretched taut against the solid muscle of their … was it croup or rump? He could never remember which was proper. He watched their tails swish and sway back and forth as their docks willed.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Clip clop. Clip clop.

He blinked sleepily as his head began to drop down, where he noticed their hooves and legs. Familiar wraps fit snugly around the equines’ cannons. “Fetlocks. Huh. Silao wasn’t joking about that testing,” he muttered.

As each horse entered its stall, Trent closed up after it, securing the gates in place, before the horses each turned around and snorted. Their lips curled upwards as they sought to take in his scent, and then they chuffed out into his face. Trent decided not to bother cleaning up, after the fifth time in a row. And since Silao wasn’t laughing, he assumed the voice playing right now was likely a recording. Besides, he didn’t have time to be upset. He had to work quickly, and he could only do that if he remained calm. Calm, and relaxed. He rubbed at his wrists as a peculiar warmth pulsed around them, before returning to his task. He’d be sure to tell Silao about it later.

Trent found it easier to avoid so much unpleasantness, if he blew out his nostrils at the same moment the horses did. It was difficult to manage at first, but eventually, he got the timing down, and he was able to divert some of the … excess the animals sent his way. He sneezed as his nostrils flared, trying to clear the alien substance from his nasal passages, no doubt. He grit his teeth, and curled his lip back, doing his best not to let his frustration over the situation prevent him from fulfilling his duties. He had to remain calm. He scratched an itch on his chest beneath the shirt, and sighed as he felt it subside under the rough ministrations of his hands.

“S̘̬͎͈͈̝͠o͗͏̙̯̥̤͍ ̜̼͎̖͖̳̐ͦ̇̔ͪͅr̬͈͓̳͎̱ͤͭ̓͟e̪̘̠̣͎̥̼̊̌ͪͤ̐ļ̣̺̥̝̟̳̻͂a̪̞͕̬̼̹͠x̰̘̟̰e̘̠̊̊̉̾͌d̄̆͌̃́͏̱͎̬ ̷̋̈́̃̏̽.̥̤̜͈̠̏̓͐ͪ̃̔̿ͅ.͕͑͂́̇̀ͅ.̦͕̬ͨ̐ͤͥ͛ ̤̮͓̙̗͙̹̍̅̋͡i̞̐̀n̄̓ͣ̀́͏̖̜̦ ͦ̍ȳ͔̜̗ͣo̭̪̘̒̀u̗͖̺̬̭̟ͦͬ̃ͅṙ̉̒̽͏͎͚͈̫̬ ̯̬͓̰ͮͮ͐̀s͎̭͕͍͋͡ẗ̘̹͙̞̙̮́͒̍ͨā͑̀ͦl͖̠̾̄̿l̜̜̱͒ͥs͖͚.̟͈͉̻̻̩̺ ͍̞̞̲͇͖͂ͫ̃͛̉̾͋͢Ģ̠͐͊͂̾͋o̡̞̘̥͈̪ͯ̌͑o̶͉̫̼̯̜d͍͓̳̰̣͚̆̀̿͗ͬ̌ͅ ̣̽͊̾͋ͩh҉̫̥̖͉õ͔̠̙̱̯̐ͮ͟ȓ̷̻͈̱ͨ̄̑̏s͕͎̤͕̤̆̆́ͨ̎͡e̗̥͔̦͉͓̖ͦ̇ͦ̚s̴̙̫̯̖͚̥̝̐ ̠͕̺͂ͮͤ̽ẁ̘̲̖̘͍͆ͨͥ͗ͅą͉̫̥̹̯̟̭ͯͣī͓̙̱̠̬̩̻t̵͔̍̌̆̂ͩ ̟̖͕̙͇̥͟p̠̙̪̫̤̭̆ͤͩͅä͇̳͝ť͙͚̣͎̰͙̦͑͛̓̓͒i̭͚ͣ̈́̓͞e͇̯͎̥̩̲͌̒́͛̄n̅̊t̩̤̘̜̮̂ͪ͂̈́̐͞ļȳ̶͕͇̫̆̽͗̽ ̬̖̪̭̱̊̍̒͛ͩ͒͑i͔͇̩̜ͩͬ̉̐ͣ̓ͦ́ͅň͐̉̀̚ ̗̯̹͎̯͛͐̎ͥ̕t̤̖̩͙̩̙͖ͫͥ̒͂̓h͚͇̻ͩ̆ͣ̽ͩ͛e̴̯͈̠̻̲͊̒̉̔ͪ̚i̼͋ͩͭͭ̂r̭̥͇̼̉̑̃ͣ̐ͅ ̽̀ͫ͒̈́s̐̉͑̑̏̉̈͏̼̣̺̖t̤͖ͦ͂̈́ͤ͘ä͚̦̼̜̐͒̀ͅḽ͍͚̭͑̈̈ͭͪ̅ͮ͘ͅl̝͔̹͍̱̬̬̄͐̇̏́ͨs̬͙͍̠̦̐.̻̙ͥͮ̄͒ͭ̈̚ ̛̣̮̫̙̳̖͍͌̑L̻ͧͨi̸̠͍̪͈͐s̆̏͛͂͑ͧ̓͏̬̭̝͔t̼̤̩̻̟̓̽̎ͫͨ͂͠e̞̬͔̟͕̗͐n̂i̼͓̫͋ͪn̳̂̍ͣͩ̇͞g̰͎͚̠͕̰͞ ͧ̂̇ͥͨ͡e̞͓̫ͬ̾v̤̩ͭ̔̈ͨ͌ͅe̖̅̒̾̃̈́r̩͈͑̃ ̹̻̻͎̲͓ͪ̀s̵ͯͣ̒̇ơ͕̹̻̠̱ͥ̋͗̊̌̓͆ ̺̞̦̩̯̞c̬͙̖͙͚̔̈̊̉̎͘l̨̬̬̬̥ͮ́̈͛o̼̫̮̕s̝̞̓ͩͬͫ͑̇ͬ͡e͞ĺ̺̭̗̪͎̱̊ͭ̍y̬̫͓͒̉͑͢ ͓̄͑ͧ͛͌͢ͅǎ͇̙͖̥́̓̽̂̚sͩ҉͉͍̱̯̠͍ ͓̓͐ͫ̍̅̓͢y͑ͫͭͭ͞o̢̠̻̙̩̔͋̐ͨͨ͑u̷̖̪̫̼͒̈̂͗ͭ̽̀ ̫̞̘͐ͦ̇ͯͧ̓r̨̘̔̈̈͛̍el͍͖̩̅̊̏ͯ̚͝a̼͉̥̮͛̇ͅx͔̼͚ͣͥ͘ ̷͎̙͑͒i̜͉̲̖̫̦̦̊͐̎̽n͍̗̻̣̑̐ ̬̞͉͓̥̗y͈ͧͩͫͪͧͤ͐͜ȏ̜͙̥͍̗͚̥͝ȗ͙͕̟͉͙̲͈͂ͦ̏̉͐r̻̬̱̘̝̠̎̈ͪ͠ ͔͕̙͓̭̦̦s̸ͭͮ̒̂̃̉̔t̢͈͓̜̃̅́ͅa̦l̜̪̩͉̲̐́ͯ͋ͅͅl͙̦͉̣s̓͊̈͛.̷͌ ͙̔ͤ͐Rͅé̼͚̦̳̎ͣ̌͌l̚ã̮͉͚̝̞̟̣̔̑ͩx͂́ͦ̀ḭ̢̙̻̜̱̻̥̈́ͨ͛ͣn̴ͩ̄̎̃ͪ̾ͣg̤ͮ́ ̠͖̥̼̖̓ͫ͌̈́̇͆ͨ͜ͅa͊̿̈s̳͍̲̺̎ͤ̏͐ ͓͈̗̪͓y͂o̙͈̟u̩ͫͧͯ̂r̊ͪ̏̽͏ ̸̫͉͎̼ͯ͑ͧ͗ͅë́́҉ạ̷̝̺̼̎r̤̯̞̝͉͍̼ͦ͌s̩̰̖̱̺̋ͥ̒ͪ̔ͥ̕ f̢̥̜̲͍̹͂ͮ́ͤ̓̈́ͬͅḷ̮͕̇͑̈́̏͂i͔ͮ̈ͩc͇͛k̯ͥͨ͑ͪͣ̄ t̲̣͚̦͔o̧̠̜͎͕̝ͥ̃̈ͥ l̨̜͍̲̺͍͈̯̋̈́ͧi҉͇̙͕̮̳̺̺s͈̝̊̉ͤtͣͨ͛͏̖͔̜̳̺ͅe͚̰̬ͦ̃ͦ̅̏͊́̚n̼̥͕̓ͯͮ ť̎͋͐̄͑҉̭͕̳̳̰o̎̇ͦ̈ͧ́ myͣͦ̽̃̓͛̚͏͙̟ vͦ̌͌̇͛̇ͯo͕̳̤ͯ̔͗ͭͥ̊i̗͍̭̥̩̣̋̂ͭ̑̇c͉̲̔̎e͓̜͔̩͛̈́ͯͣ̈̐̔.̹͕̤ͧ̓ͤ̓̀͞ R̩̜̬̗̲͎͐̎̋̓̊ͮ̂͝ę͚̭͈̤̫̏̑͐̐l͓̯̲̭̤̼̺ͫ͌ͯ̅̅ͣͭa̳̋̂̏͋͛͡x̠̘͒̉̚i͉̥̪͐ͩ̄ń̴͈̬͗͊g̻̀̉̑̓ͯ a̫̖̰ͥͤ̇ͅs̝̼̙̙ͣ͆͟ y̙͖̞ͥ̓ͦͧͅo͖͒͑͂ͬ͊̊̓͡u̥͉̟̝̥͓̓ͣr̷ͬ͑̒̿̃ ̯͍t̛̀̆a͍̯̮͎i̯̥͟l̺̻̰̭̩͖ͣ̌́s̘̰ͧ ̪̙̝̈̂̐͆ͨ̂s̛͇̳̩͚̏̈́̄̄͐ͤͪw̵̟̒̀i̱̗̣̯ͤ͡s̟̝͎̬h̭͖̹̾ͯ̆̃͒ ̺͐̎̌͋̍̅̂i̪̰n̴̪̞͎̥̩͍ ̬̝͈̬̐ͪ̆͐̊̾ͪt̝̐̒̌̃̐ͯì̸̹̲̥̹͙͓̍ͨ̽̒m̢̦͕ͩ͋̐̎ͦͮë́̽̃ͨͦ̌̔.͉̳̥͓̟̙̇ ̻̜̟̱ͅR̶͋ͧͥ̊é̻͘ḽ͙̟̯a̴̠̯̞͌͆̈́̈́ͯ͑x͔̗̜̼̯̠ͧ͒̄̈́̎́in̶g̸ͦ̅̐̒ ͈̜͋ͩ̑̓a̱̳̭̟̟͚ͮͫ͂̾ͪͅs͎̜̲͉̬ ̫͖͕͇̫̭͇ͨͨ̆y̺ͪ͑͐͋̈ͅͅo̴͇̟̮͙̲̅u͖̟̬ͫ̅͌̿̄̈r̵̬͆ͭ̊ͣ ͕̲̜̬̭͋ͪh̠̩̝̿̇ͥͅǫ̪̑͆͆ŏ̼͓͔̱̬̞͙ͪͪͦ̀͑͝v̞̝̥ͣ̆͑ͬ̔e̴͖̪͙s̪̜̗͡ ̱̄t̾̋̃̓͂̃a̪̮͎̣̣̳͓p̼ ̢̺̜̙ẗ̴̯͔̠̼̼̼̙̃̈́o̦̰̯͉̜̾̅̑ͦ̎ͯ̕ ̀̔ͬ͗ͯ́m͕͖̳̈ͣͫy͔̜̳͈̯ ̠͕̲̭̓̿̈́͐̂r̝̟̍̎̏̎ͥ̽̾h̯ͫ̊̔ͦ̉ͦ͆y͓̯̱̳̭t͍̑̎ͥͩ̌́ḧ̘̘̺͕́ͬ̉͂̅̌m͋̉.͎̹̾ͪͬͬ̐̏͡ ̧̻͕̟̮̣̼ͭͅĈ̳̹͕ͬl̨̻͕͙̼ͮͯͯͧ̐ͨi̷̮p͈̠̃.̲͖̝ͨ̑ ̘̘̰̬͉͉͔̿́C͇ͩ̓̂l͕͚̘̯ͪ̀̽̌̌o͙̺̩̠͋̄̋́̎ͅp̹͍͙ͩ͊̑̅̋̎̉͞.̨̼̽̎̑̃̍ ͓͗ͧͦ̋͛͠C̡̭̍ͮ͐̌́̃ͅl̗̤̙̘̯͂̉i̶̬̣͖ṗ̈̀̏͗̚҉̬̲͍͙̣.̠̬̰͖̙̥̫͛͑̊ͨ̿ ̫̻̼̞͎̹̦̃͋͘C̹̜͈̯͈͙̼̿ͤ̅l̻̹̑̋̈́ͬ̋̕ò͇̤̮ͭͮ͌ͣͅp̛̻̰ͅ.͉͈͚̍ͥ ̮̲̈ͪ͋͗̄̌͜Ÿ͔̬̮̠̠̩̯ͬ̒̾̽́o̵̲̙͚͎͎̺͈u̵̙̠̪̐̈́ͭͭ̇̓̆r̜͈̯͔̖͆̌ͥ̌̽̈́̎ ̛̗̺̰̝̳̲͂̓̄ͭḧ̝͛o͔͔̙͉͕̊ͫͩͮ͆́o͓̟̠͈̟͆̇̊̀ͩ̽ͣ͞v̙̜̒͂̂̿ͨ͐̃ȩ̦̻s̥̪͇̗̙͍̜ ̣̫̪͈̗̩̹̉͐̾̑͐̍̕f̩ͧͧo͉̘̙̗̘̤̮ͧͥ̀ͫl̯̘͎̝̠̘̐ͮ̄̅ͤ͆l̢͎̼ͬͮͪo̡̰͉̱͌͗ẉ̧ͭ̐ͧ̑̎i̲̱̥̮̇͗͊̈͑n͎̞̝̙ͬ̌́ͣͅͅg̵̰͈̥͖ͥ ̯͙̪̹ͅm̹y̯̯̹͕̪̭͡ͅ ̝͇͙̹̞̐͗͆̌̔͌h̦̤̖̹̄o̸͙̰o͏̰͇̙̘̳̤v̛̮̻̦̳̭̯͉̽͌̎e̢͕̬̫̎̓̀ͫͨͫs̗ͭ͒͂ͬ̅͜.͖̏͑͗̈́̎̀̕ ͍ͭĔ̲͕̅c̨̺͚͕̳̥̫͛̒ͅh̪̄͛ͩ̆̒̇͠o̠̭̯̝̓iͬͩͦ̽͏̥̻̗̠̪̘n̳̮̮̜̈́͑̿̏̓̕g̴̉͛ ̧͉̼̮͈̖̣ͦͩͩ̔̄ͤẗ̙̟̮͖͍͇́̆̾̔h̴̙̦̰͓͈̱ͥ̍̓̅̃ͩͅr̖̭̯̩̻̱̖̓̃̉ͯͭo̤̖͓̼̭̜͚ͮ̇ͭ̐̏͠ụ̭͖ͥ͆̚ͅg͆͊̌̅̈́̚͏͉h̨́̑ͪ̚ ͋͐͢y͖͔͉͔̣̲̓̀̚ͅo̧ȕ̩̺̃ͫr̢͖̙̦̂ͯ͂ͯ̎̂ ̠͊̇͋͢c̝͔̖͓̤̜̼̉̄̓ͬô̝̫̱̖̪ň̩͔͔ͥ̑̀͡s̜c͈͐̽͗ĭ̢͓̼̗̮̬͈̘͊́̔̎o͂ͩ́͏̹̺̪̥̗̱̜ű̡̟̘̭͓s̼̼̥ͫ̎̈n̗͎̗̘͎͂ͧ̽̂ͩ͝e̙̖̾ͥ̔̈́ͫ̚sͨs͖̈͆̔ͨ̃́͑͜.̣̱̤͍͐́̌ͪ̉͒̚ ͍̝ͧ̌ͪ̊̂C̫̰̣̱ͤ̽̃ḻ̤̮͋̉̃ͫ͠e̷ͤ̈́a̠̟ͮ͌ͩ͞r̛̗͔̻̙̠̞̳̔̈́i̛̞̱ͯͥn̫̬̘̬ͫ͐̈̈́gͨ͂̐ͮ҉ ̳̭͙̗͋̇̊̓i̺͇̮̦͑t͔̓̒̓̈́ͬ͆̇͡ ̭̤͍̳̻̯ͬͨa͒҉̩s̭̮͍ ͕̺̞ͦy͙̌ͪ̋͘o̡͐̽͑̒͒ͣu̪͍̘̭̠͙͛́̎ͪ ͇͔̜̳͙̼̾ͭͫͦͪͧ̚r̟̐̌ͯ̏ͯe̦̭͔͇͔͉̐̾̊͠l̲̰̦̦͗ͅa̼̼̠̹ͥͬ̎̅x̢̤́͐̌̐̓̌,̧͍ͭͦͮ͐ ̰̙̹͓̹ͨ̅́́ȃ͕͙̑͑̿̒͝ñ̖̭̳͎̤̪̭ͤ̃͆̉d̶̖̤̞̪̼͖̃͂ ̉̃̏͆ͣ̈̓͠l̬̟͕̝͖͍̎͋̀ͩ͌iͬ̾̌͂͏̙̟̮͈̖s͆́ͧ͒ͮ̾҉͍̼̗̖̘̼t͓͓͚͓̤ͪ̑ͦ́̓̽̋ͅͅe͂̍̅͏̦͈̟̩̟̬n̜̪̑ͯ̆͑̾̽̃,̦̬̩̳̓ͣ̒ͮ͐ͮ ̧̮̜̤̰̬ͨ̿ͅl͙̘͕̠ͣ̽ͭ̒ͩ̓͌ĩ̺͕͕͒͢k̏̅̿̅ͯ̽̒͠e̘̱̥͚͔̎͆̀̓ͮ̇̌ͅͅ ̱̥̙̦͎͒͒͘à̶̘͙͍̜̗̆ ̶̗͙̺̼̫͒̋̂̎g̡̙̉ͪo͈̽ͫͬ͒ͮ̌̈́o̻̗̟̻͖͒ͯ̆̈͋d͙̬͎̥̙̭̤ͪ̄̿̈́̋ͯ ̸̱̦̗̮͒̋h̳̜̝̥o̭̟͚͈̳ͤͮ̍̓ͅȓ̯̒ͫ͌̐͂s̿ͭ͂̆͌̾ͬe̔̌ͥ̈́ ͇͂́̽̔ͪ̐́s͚̯͔̝̱̜̃̄̓ͮͅh̤̜̪̞͖̍͆o͍̦͍ͤṳ͇͎͖̖ͨ̒l̻͖͈̜ͫ͋ͩ̑͊d̍͛.ͤ́̔͒̂”

Trent rolled his eyes, and tossed his head irritably as he closed the last gate. His ears tingled from a sudden surge of blood flow, and he sneezed again as he looked out from his stall. Did Silao really have to push the whole hypnosis thing so far? They were good horses, after all. They knew how to listen. He brushed his hair aside with his black-tipped fingers. The hardened keratin glinted in the dim light, freshly polished. After all, a stud had to look his best for the ladies.

“F̦͖̅̒̑̕e̱̤̤̳ͫ́ͨ̎̂̌͜e̫͇̟͍̮͌̓͒ͤ̚ͅl̫̦ ̵̝̬̬̩̯̋͊ͭ̈́̔ͫͫt̡͕͎͈̹̺̠̦̾h͛̇ͪ͝e̶͕̱͔̹̹ͥ͌ͣ͋ ͭ͏̙̩a̵͚̚i̹̞̼̾̊r̟͔ͩ̀̏̔ ̗͉̠͇͔̔ͨ͂ä͓́ͩ̋̊ş̫̮͙̳͑ ̡̾̈ͩ̅ͧi̘̠̖̬̭̼̠͑̌ͮ̅t̨̠͉͚̩͖ͅ ͙̽̾͛̆͡c̯͚̼͍͕̗̙ͬ̎̒̍͐̏ȧ͍͙̣̣̳͖̫͊͋͌ͬ͑ṟ̮̭͔ͪ̓̔ę̪͗̅ͪͦ̈́s̰̹̜͔̙̠͔̍͗s̛̳̝̙̪͍͚̀͋e̞͚̘̲ͤͧ̋͌̃ͫ̽s̴̙̠͖͈͎͍͎̃̍̄ͪ͋̽͒ ̶̀ẏ̴̍̅ͦo̗̹̟̞̦̺̖͗ȕ̩̳̭̣͍̝̝́ͮ̔rͪ̂͗̅͌͛͛ ͐͑͗ͦͪͣ̉h̸̹̱͈̖̥ͭ̐i̜̱͎̩̹ͬ͞ḏ̳̩̟͈͖̼ͨ̓͢e͕̰͓̤̟̘̋́̈́̈́͘,͇͑̎ ̞̠͚̙̙̯̪͋̈́͘r̦̮͍͆ͮͅǘ͇̣̖̏ͮ͐̿͂̊͞ͅș̅̎̅̀t̪̗̺͍̮͐ͨ̏͘ͅͅl̨̝͔̹̠̱ͪe̛̮̭̬̮ś̫͍̤͔̠ ͚ẗ͇̉͆͌͜ḩ̠̲̊ͬ̀r̖oͧ͌͏̬̝̦͇̦u̩̘͙͂́g̝ͧ̎h̔ͯ̐ ̸͓̪̬̖͓̂̃ͣy͕͙̗̑̎ͧ̂ͩ̐̃ǫ̂͗̓͊ͧủ͎̤̣̜͔̳̅ͯ͒ͭͅr̠̹̘̆͊ͣ͊ͫ ̞̭̐ͩ̍̍̓͛͆f̡̼͈͔̟̭̣ͫ̄ͫȕ̧̔̑r̪̹̪̲̜̽̃͋. F̫̆͌̎̉e͙̭̮͚͔͉̹͑e̸̠̐̎̍͂ľ̴ͫ͌ͤͤ̄ͥ į̗̣͎̠t̶̜̞̝̙̬̣̋̏͋ͬ̓ͦ̄ a̮̟͕s̥̜͔̹̼̜̥̑̏̃ͦ͐ y͍̯̞̗̣̜ͥ̉͐̚͞ͅơ̫̗͌ͅü̙̖̬͎̟̏͟r͎̤̟͍̭̙͈͌̐̀ c̬͇̬͛ͬ̊ͩͥͬ͟h̫̙͂̎͒̓̿̚e̫̮̭̳͇͉̩s̴̍ͯ̍͂ͣ̐̑t̬͍͈̬ͅ e͍̖͌ͨ̽͘x̙͔̙̯͋ͪ̍̆̕p̥̮ä̡̪̦̗̠̱͕ͅn̩̏ͨ̀d̨̹̪̮̗̘̙͆͛͂̓ͣ̏̈́s̬͙̤̦̋͌ ͓̘̦̞̱͍̗̓ͤî̥̗͓͕̤n͎ ̶̯̒͆a̘̬̞͙̎̊͌ͫ̓n̺̤̎ͮ̐̈̓d͚́ͫ̒͞ ̗̞͎͉͊̀oͬ̂͗̑̉̾͏̣̳̹̤̱ͅu̴͇̍ͯ̂ͦ́̍t̉ͩ̀ͭ̇ͩ͋̀,̑̊̄̋ ̹͍̫̗̅̄̕ì̬̥̣̇ͫn̰̲̳̣̭͔̔ͬͮͅ ͚͇̭͕̹ͧ̅ͫ͟ǎ̤̰̌̌͐ͪ͒ņ̬̝̲͓̤͂͌ͯͅd̥͎͌ ̃̂͊̾̑̾̽͟o̢͚̪̭̠̯͋ͮͦu̕t̗̎͋̆̄ͥ̆͜,̓ͧ ̵̺̯͓̱̭͓̝ͣ̓̃̓̅f̺̹̘̣̦͚̖̓̈́̆ͭ̒̂̀ȉ̭͎̻͌͛ͨ̊̉ͦl̞͚͙̝̤͈ͥ͒̒l̦̜̱̩̳͇ͩ͛ͯ̓͜ï̉҉̞̼n̋́̅͏̖͈̦̦̣̖g̴̿ͭ̄̔ͦ̄̆ ͔̪͎̳̗͋́͠w͇̠̙͍͂͠i̢̤̥͚͕̱̜ͮ͋t̥͙̦̺̼͍̻̋̍ͬͮ̋̔̀ḫ͍̱͕̟͎̺ͩ̏ͭ̽̉͂̀̚ ̶͖͔̑̒ͤ̇t͔̯̘̰̝͒ͣ̿h͌ͨȩ̙ͬͮ͐̓͂̈̾ ̖̩͇̬̼̄̒ͤͫ͗͑ͅs̙̎̚ͅa̝͉̟̦̹̥̠m͖͇ͮͯ͜e̢̎͊̔ͬ̚ ̙͖͐ạ̶̦͗ͣ̇͛iͤ̆ͫr̩̰̣̆́͊̃ͯͪ̀,̪̥̮ͧ̾ ͮ͐ͪ͑͌ṭ̩̦̫̘ͫ̾ͤ̅̾̌h͇̙̩̬͛͞ẻ̏̋ͤͤ ̷̖̺ͦf͉͚̱̘͛̑͛̀a͔͈̲͙̙̝͊ͅm̘̺̾ͪͮ̾̾̌i̠̳͔ͧl͌ͭ̈́͑̿ͫ̊͏̤i̗ͫ̌a̟̬̰̬̟͉r̝̹̫̰͙͖ͮ͛ͨ̒̅ͨ ̖͖̠ͦͯ̇͛̒̓́s͍ͫ̄̑̎͜ç͚̱͂ͨe̩̝͕͓͙͚ͬͅn̜̫̱̻̯̱̞͆̈̊͊̊̊ẗ́ͤ̎ ̼̖͔̑ͫͣ̄̚̚ͅo̢͊͋͗̑f̷͍͕͂ͤ ̝͉̘͇͙̘̐͝ͅt̸͎̣̦̍͛́̍̈́̒̇h̶̟̅̈̏̋͆e̜̬̖̗͡ ̢̪̻͍̬͛ͤ̊ͫ̓ͩͅhe̺̲̳̍̑̽̎͐̈r̜̞̘͗̈ͦͅd̟̰̤̬̝̣,̣ͫ̏̀ ̖ͮ̃ͪ̊͢o̧̭̣̣̯̟̤̍̓̀͆f̵̦̲͇̺̣̰̈́̀̈ ̫̦̺h͕̻̲̬̤ͨ̆ͤͥ̀a̩̻͛ͦyͯ͊ͥ̈́̍̚,̭ ̖̮̫̼̣ͬͯ͢o̖̟͉͑ͪ̿̌f̡͙̃̿ͮͪ͛ ̟̲̙̫̯͡w̟̳͉͖̱ͭ̏ͪ̔͛a̠̫̱̹̩̞t̄̃̍e͓̪̝̝̳̟̮͒̊ͯȓ͓̝͕̜͓̦̿͊̃̔̂,̺̣̜̏̎ ͉̾ͣ̓ͧ̄õ̉̓̾͑f̷͇ͮ́̉ͤ̇ ̪̲̟̻̮̳̈́̏̑ho̬̳ͮ̓̓̌m̍e͚͉̳̹͍͎͑̄ͧ̽.̽ͣ̓̐̅ͪ̚͜ Ŷ͎̦̽ͬ̾o̖̭͉̙͚u̹͔̫̙̫͂̂͑͂̀̆͆ ̞̞̩̈͋͆ͤ̔̾ͨͅͅa̞͋ͦr̰͈͖̔̆ͧͪ͋ͩe̬̜̩͍̠̭͕͑ͮ ̡͚̗̒̋ͥͬh͈̋ͪͥ̄ő̫̺͖̩͓͎͓͒ͪm͉͎͎̓̉ͫ̀̈́ͬe͚̥̤ͅ.̛ ̭̳ͨ̂Y̜̭͈͕̳ͣͫ͗̈́̎̿͟o͍ͯ͆͆͊́ͮͦu͎͉̩̒̊̎̑̿͊ͬ ̫͕̲̩̙͇aͫ̈̃̍r̷̗̟͙̮͈̖̜e̢̋̂̓̈̈́ͮͩ ̨̬͕̹ͮ̌́ͫ̊̏c̥̦̟͇͋̾͒ͣo̞̪ͭ̂̂͆͠ṁ̇ͤ͐ͧ̓̇҉̰͖̬̯͍̦̙f̢̑ͪͫͩ̇o͉͕̤̩͕̗̰ͤͥ͋̑ͣ͊͡r̮̝ͩ͗̾ͧ̓ͣͮt̰͉̺̦̣̥̙̀̂ͬ̐̎͡a̛̠̿͋͆͗b̬̲̥̼̀̚͡l̵̳ͧ̿ͧ̏͛̌ě͈̩̯̱̖̲̍̋̍ͬͅ ̗͚͔̮̦̊̑͟i̢͙̞̹̓͆̍n̪̱̲̺͌̐̑̒̄ͯͮ ̩̬͙ͦ͋ͩ͗͂̅ÿ͎̭̞̞̣̩͊̑̿́ò͗̎͛̋ͯ̽҉̙̦̮͚u̹͈̘̱͛̔͛͗̉̐͝r̻̙̲ ̥̌̀͝ḫ̤̤̻͇͇̻ͤ͆̅ͤ͌̎ȯ̯̃̈́͊̊̚ͅm̶̟̗͉̺̲͚̺̊e̸̪̱.̭͖̟͕̱̲̄̈́̈̉̎̄ R̵̺̟̬̮̉̽ē̮̜̪͇̪̩̎̀ͩͮ̐͘l̘ͤͩ̌ͩ͗ą̖̹͈̾͗̇̐͌̚x͎̭̥̻͇̩͉.̴̝̉ ̞̠̼̖̻ͬ̌̉͞T̤̝̐a̾ͯͨ̈́̍k̤e̡͈̠̮͙̾̓ ̳̗̅ͬ̊ͥ͠a̷̮̖̹̽ͦ̉ ͇̜͌͒̚d̽҉̮͉̟̪r͌ͧ̿ͬ͏̘̗̙̪̟̰i̭͎͋̈̎͛̕ṇ̓̏ͪ́͗̀k̷̹̹̲ͧ̾.̳̝̫̹̞̚͝ ̟̹̘̲͈ͧ̄ͦ̅̓̋͗͠ͅṞ̥ͬͨ̿̀e̟̜̤͒ͯ̐̔ͫͫ̿͞l̳̭̮a̻͈͓̗͙̙ͮ͠ẋ̝͍̩̫͑̆͒̚͜ͅ.̢̳͇̜̎ Ỷ̆̉ͧ͜őͯ̈u̪ͅ ̥̥̠̭̗͚͌́͟ȧ̯̤̟̬̗̽̆ͩͅr̝̱͍̘ͭ͜ͅe̒͊͆ͩ͏̦̲͔̼̖̝̗ ̮̩̥͚͇̿͑͑h̪̰̗̖̖̙͙ͭͭọ̴̱͉̦͋m̞͉̩͓͈̐̐̍́̌̂ͅͅe͔̫̞̜̖͍͆ͤͬ͌͒̎͢.̗̫̼̝̙̯ͫ́́ͅ ̢̥̯͈̳̟̰͉ͫ̿ͬ̒ͭ͑A̢͚͍͚͌̏ͪ͂̀̆ ̶̙̀͒̏̍ͅh̳̎͢o͙̻̖͖͇͈͔ͩͩ̐̌ͧr̺̱̺̫͕̓̏ͦͪs̙̘̤̩͖̻e̯̟ͭ͗̒̓͡ ͈̖̘̝͎̺̆̉̓̇̇̾͡ͅb̄̓̇̃͐ͯ̇ê̷̳̠̪̝̫̂́ḽ̨̲͉̗͍ͧ̏ͪ̍͂͛o͍̣̦̝͔̣̭̎̓̃͛̒͆̊n̩͜g̷̙̠͚s͖̠̬̟ͪ ̛̘͛̽̔ḯͬ͛͊ͬͬͧ͏̖͎n̮̣̽̾̈́ ̦͍͚i̬͇̙̻̱ͦ̒̋͑̈́ͣt̢̖̥̱͈̼̰ͭ̃̂ͮ̎̚s̤̫̫̺͍̲̐́́ͬ͢ ̮̬͇̑ͬ͆͊̏͋sͤ̐͋ͧ̊t̞͓͔̦̬̩̟̐̾͑͒ͬ͘a̰̲̰̙̮ͯ͛ͮ̓̅̄̎ͅl̲̘̯̜͗̑̂͒̃ͬ͆͠l̵̲̞̫̳̉̋̇ͅ.͈͙͖̖ͪ́ ̷̠̫̲̫̟̦Y͇̳ͪọ͖̯̰̫͖͕ͯͦͤ̌̈́̇̓͘u̥ͫ͆̇͆̉̚͞ ̘̍ͦ͗b̰̯̰̓͒̓̇̎̒̆ĕ̻̙͕̀̾͘l̹̘ͬ͗̆͊ͦͅo͝n̴̙̰̭̳̳̓̌̌͒̏͆g̢͖̹̅ͥ̆̐̚ ͧ̆͊͛̅͢i̼̾ͭ͡ṅ̦͍͎̣̠͎̤́͡ ̡̻̪͈̗̒ŷ̷̦̱͚̊ͥ͐o̱̓ͪu̸̮̺͎̪͉ͩͦ̿͑ͤͮr̯͙͈̹͊̌̈́̓͆̇ͤ̀ ̨̗̞̝̌ͩ̒ͫs̜̪̲̬̦͖t̶ͯ̈́̀͑̑ȁ̝̮̐̀ͬl͏̖͓̙̹̞l̖̹̪ͦ͌́ͅ.̡̰̼̣̤͓̘͉ͧ ̰͎̩͍̩̒̐Ỳ͍̳͍̥̻̌̉ͨͤ̄̌̀o̢̮̻̬͒̐̾͆ư̜ͤ̄͊̂rͨ̒̿̿ ̮̙̄͑ͤs̥̮̠̓̐͂͌ͩ̚ͅt̫̮͚̯̟̫ͯͨ̓̅́͜ḁ̴̌ͧͣ̾l̼͗̈̆̅ͅḽ̲͗ͨͬͧ̅̿͐ ͍̗͚ͭ̎ͮ͛̈́̒͡ͅi̵͉͓̥̹͂́s̛̩̞̞͓̹̿̄̒ͫ̊̏̚ ̲́ͦͤ͐ͣh҉̘o̒̐ͫ͌m̝ͥͪ͟e̯͍̺̤̹ͭ̇̏ͣ.̭͉̦̤͍̼̳”

“Fine, but only because I like the smell of this place,” Trent countered as he folded his arms and snorted angrily. He took a deep breath and smirked as he felt his overalls strain against his well-built chest. The warmth had spread from the bands and now engulfed his arms, but he didn’t care. A good hard day’s work always left him feeling a little hot, anyway. That smirk only widened as he gazed at his bare arms and noticed the thick, bristly black hairs growing in. “Ladies love a little hair, especially when it’s dark,” he thought cockily to himself. He smacked his lips and walked over to the trough, where a pool of dark water sat waiting for him. He reached his hands in and cupped them together to take a sip. The cool water running down his throat was positively heavenly. He quickly dipped in for a second helping, and then a third, and a fourth, splashing out far more than he drank, until the water began to refill. “About time you got me an automatic!” he shouted, then grinned as he braced both hands on either side of the tub and shoved his face in all at once.

Trent hardly noticed the warmth as it spread to his face, nor the prickling of hairs sprouting over it as he continued to suck in gulp after gulp of water, only pausing for a few brief seconds to breathe through his nose, before plunging back into the depths again. When he pulled back up from the trough, he let out a nicker of contentment, reaching up to dash the water from his eyes and sleek black fur with a few deft swipes. He crossed his eyes to see the long strip of white running down his nose to his muzzle, just to make sure he’d gotten the worst of the stuff out. Then he chuckled. “Going a little overboard there, Trent.” He shook his head again, tossing his mane as he worked his boots off and kicked them aside to hear the comforting clip clop of his own hooves on the floor. Why Silao had insisted he wear those silly things, he would never know, but he knew better than to question the boss. A good employee listens, after all. He walked over to the feeding trough and took a handful of hay, before taking a heavy bite with his rapidly expanding incisors. The force cut right through the fibrous stalks as easily as a mower’s blade. His eyes rolled in pleasure as his tongue brushed against the sprigs, shoving them back to his rear molars to be ground to that delicious paste, before swallowing.

“͇͙̹̜̝͔͊͗̆̃͜S̛̹̬͇̫̪̹̭͐͛͐ͥ̇ǘ̥̫̠̹̬͘c̫͉̤̦̱̼̓͛̔̒̄̈́ͅḩ̺̬̘̋̏̋ͅ ͓̻ͦ͒g̩̼̫͙̅ͪ̆͂̈́ͭo̤̙͓̪͙͔ͭͥ͌̊o̷̘̗̹̗̘̗͙ͪ̾d̛͚̼̱̳̹͈͋ͮ̍͆ ͕̰̺̼̮̃͗͂ͩh̲̠͈̰́͋̓̐͗̊͠o͊ͭ̋͠r̪̙̜͍̅͢s͔͋ͪ̈́̾̿͟e̡̻̻͖̰ͬ͛ͦ̄̈ͅs̟̗͑̂ͩ̀̔̚,̖̰͕̲̱̱͇ ̣͕͔̹̺̝͑ͦ̀̑͑̀ȧ͎͙ͤͮ͌̀͑ͅl̟̙͓̮̠̭͈̈͝l̵̪̱͚̝͉̖̦ ̞ͦͭ̈ͧ̂͌̚ọ̼̘̣͕̹̬̄̓̐ͪ͂̇͘f̭̘̯͇̟̰ͦ̑̉ ̫̳̟̋ͭͮ̄̽͜y͙̫ͪ͑̇͒͑̎͟o̘̺̺̞̼̘ͮ̑ͮu̜̝̥̹͎.͕̳͎͓̽ ̬͔͚̯̗̣ͪ̿̏S̭̝̟͂ͦ͐́̑͂o̳̿ͨ͋̇̍͆ ͔͐̒ͤͬ͒̽ͫ͡w̞͚͚̬ͦ̑e͙͂͆͐ͣͅl͎̭͇͈̬ͨl̨̬͍ͯͪͯ͋ͫͅ ͆ͩ͗̑ͥͫ̚b̖̪̖̙̻̱ͫ̆͑̒̚ḙ̹͍̤̑̓̍ͧ͌͟h̛̠̖̰̮̰ͥ̿͑̍ͦ̿̚ͅa̤̯͕ͥ̒͘v͓̘̥̱͍͚ͤͧͦ͌̈́ͤ̚e̹̬̹͕̼ͭ͋̇ͩ͌ͮd̬̥̹̖͉̯ͬ̓̋̂͘,ͣ ͈͎̟̣̱̿͆̐̓̄s̯͙̝ͫ͒̃ͯ̈͠ͅõ̇ͨ̂͢ ͖̯̦̲͔̝̗r̤̭͎̄e̩̭͖̙ͩ́̇́̓ľ͕̻̳͚͔ͬͭͩ̆ͦ̉͘a̛͔̜ͅx̥̝̝̯̘̽́ͅēͪ̈́͂͒̇͏͙̖̱͓d͍̻̣̎ͩ.͖͋͌̾ͯ̃̎͋ ̱͔̝͉̓ͧ̓̏͂S̯̭̝͆́͒ͧ͒ͅo̖͔̳͒ ̝̲̻͊̓́̍͂̚v̞͔̰̼̥̜̿ͥ̎͗ͨ̂ér͛͊̒͒҉̭͍̩y̠̜͚̬̬̓ͭ͛̀ ̲̾ͤ̈͌̐r͘ê̬̗̻̤̠͈͙ͣl̟͚̹̻̋̾̕a̰̟͇ͩ͛̑͟x̼̰̥͍̦͆̈̀̍̄ė̟̇̔̊̚d̾͛ͬͮ͟.̛͙̣̖̩̲̫ͪ͊̒ͯͨͯ̇ ̘̼͉̯ͣS̛̞̣̤̳͉̈́͊̈́͒õ͕̼̻ͨ̌̔ͦͫ̀͞ ̧̥͈̯̳̜̫̳ͥ̍ͤ̑d̦̪̼͂̓̇͑ͭͣ͒͟ͅo̵͙͙̻̩̦̪̖ͥc͎ͥ̒͌̈́ͣ̄̋ì̢̮̜̃̒̆ͪ̓̚ḻ̨̘ȅ̷̞̙̪̘͇̮͒ͣ, a̫͔͕ͮ̈́͂f͙͕̞̻̋̑ͪ͋͆́ṱ͖̭͓͔̐̉ͅe̜͇͕͖ͪ̐̓ͤͬr̴̙̺̬̈̇ͦ ̏́a̪̩̔͑͛ ̖̉l̰̼̯̈́ͫ͋͆ö̤̝̺̙̰͕́nͣ͂ͤ҉g̥̫̲͛͊͌ ̻̼͌̈ͨ͞d̸̎̋ͭ̃ͯà̲̭̫̲̓̀͂̆ͯy̬͎͓͓͔͎͢’͉̩͕̟̱́s͛́͆̊ͥ̿̾ ̵̋ͨw҉͖̠̦͇̦ó̸̼͕̠̃͋̂r̴̅̔͊̽͐̚k͓͉̪̔̀.̴͔͒̚ ͓̮͖̍̃̊̈́O̞̘̹̱̭̲̠ͭ͆́͆͠f̽ͭͦ͠ ̴̖̝͖̽ͮ̒̓ͣ̋ͨc͍̯̣̭̼̦ͧ̑ͮo̢̲̲͉͍u̞̝͚̥͙͉̲ͤͮ͛r̭̬͎̻͕̼s̡͕͖͔̮̲͗̒e̬͒ͪ̌,̡̞̗̩̪̰̦͊̌̾͐ͨ ̜͍ͬͪy͚͚̏ͥ̍͊̓̓ͣo̜̤̼̳͙̖ͮ̃ü͓̰̗̼ͨ ̂҉̬̰̥̖͈d̜̆̄ͤͪͮ̑̀̚o̺̠͔̜͔̬͒ͦ̐ͨ̚̕n̽ͤ̇҉̳̝̗͖̯̪’͈̠̱̤̤͂̍̊ͥͅt̵̟̤̺͉͖ͬ̓ ̜͆ͣ̈͊m̯̹ͣ̈̈́ͫǐ͕̳͔͍̟̳͋ͯ̉n̠̲̥̞̊̌̐̓͝dͧ̎̆̐͏͓̞͇̯̹ ̶̥͎̘̟ͅt̘̲̏ͪ̓ͩ̅h͉͓̳̑̈́ͥ͗̉̌aẗ̨̞,͚͗̓̄͋̕ͅ ̷̤̤̹͙̬̝͖̀͗̽ͧ̿d҉̣̱o̹̜̿͌͑̉͛̚ ̨̫̭̈́y͕̞ͧͨ̒͜o̰̩̙̳ͨ͊͛ͤ̍̒ư̲͍̠̹ͥ̒ͅ?̭͙̼̕ ̘͔̃͛̉Ỳ̺͙͍̱̬̜͉̅̀̌̊oͯ̉̆́̏̅͌҉͔̻͕͇͚u͓͚̩̙͓̩͖̿ͭ͆̉͒̍͒ ͉͚̟̤̔l̵͖̻̖̤̜̺o̖͊̾̓͐́̉̅͠v҉̲̼̜̟̥̜e҉͉̯̮ ̻̳̆ͤͮͧͫ́t̛̬͚̖̹̖̳̟̋̅̌o͖̙̼̞̥ͦͯ̅ͭ͑ ̭̤̹̙̞̫̄̑͗̒͑̏̚w̏̅͒̏̾̒̈́͏̮̝o̟͎͚͈̮̦̺ͪ̌ͯ̄̋ͦ͟ř̗͔̰̞̥̌̀̀kͭ̾ͮ̀.̖ ̷͔̱̻ͧͨ́̿̌ͥ̈́A̾̒ͫ͊́҉̩ ͫ̽҉̬͇̹̘ġ̅ͨ̏̈ͫͩ҉̗̼͇̘̪͉̞o̹̞͈̹ō͈̂̽ͬ͜d̮ͫ̃͂ͩ͞ ̈ͩͭ͜h̜̲̮̀ͦͯ̉ȏ̼̝̪͚͉̠̲ͭ̓̋̓ͣ̉r͎̝̻͕̼̪͉͡s̳̮͓͖̲̐̍ͩ̄̎ͦͭë̫͔̖̳͕̗̦́̏̾̍ ̠̞̪̲̭͕ͮ͟ĭͭ̎ͦͅş̻̺̩̞̄ͭ ͇̲̼͍̼̟̿̾̽̊́̿̔m̷̯̦̳͗̾e͉̥̹̟̙͒͑̆ͣ͘a̷͍͖̟̥̻̹͑͗ͮn͊ͭͥ̄͐̋t͚̻̥̘̫̭͗͟ ͎̱̮͕̣̙͆̔̆̃̃̊̓t̠̼ͩ̄ͤ̈́̔ơ̦̝͎̟͚̟ͣͧͧ̈́ ̴̗̫̹͕̪̹̠w͓͖̐̑̅o̻̠̪̣r͙͇͍͐̽ͅk̠̱ͯ̔ͥ̚,̺̠͟ ̴̝̞̼̹͉j̓̔͒̎͏̪̪͖͚̗͇̘ū̺̘̙̫̥̟s̩̦̮̪̹t̳̺͕̄̅ͣ́̽̒ ̳͍̝̯̼̯̬͛͊a̎̍̏̊͊ͮ͗́s̡̙̳͇̣͎̝̿ͬ ̻͕̗̬̅a̶̝̹̗̝͉̰ ̞̮ͥ͑̇̄̔ͬ͋́g̃o̧̤̰ͬ͌ͣͭͦ̓o͉̫̫̩͚̔ͪͪ̂͐̀̚d̵̞͖͕̍ ̧̭̩̗͌̐̿͗̄̄h̠̠̼͔̏̈̕o̮ͣͦͬ̿͘rͬ͒̉̆̔ͧs̰̦̻̟̯̞̮e̮̗ͤͦ͒̑ ̝̭̥͚̉͋͗ͤ͡ͅi̴̫̻̳ͩ̋̓͆ͬs̫̞̹̫̮̼̤ͫͥ͜ ̦̣̯̱̫͉̿̾̉̓̽ͫ͢meant ͙̥ͨ̇t̬͈̘͈̻̆̅o̩̙̤͐ͧ̾̏͋̋ ͎͕̞̌ͬͧ́ļ̠̉ͪ̇i̗̖̘ͫ̐̍̌̏s͙̩̬͕͉̜̅̌tͦ̿ͬ̋͛e̤̪̙̖̤͘n̤͍̻̘̰̽͒ͣ,̟͍̬͙̫̦ͦͫ ͚̤̪̯͙̭ͦt͈̖ͭ̓̚o̠͍̰̫͐ ͇̳̖͍ͭͮ̍̌ͣͨ͡l̠͔͎̙̤͚̊̽̈i̜̙͖̖̭̰͒ṡ̲̭͖̯̐̍̽̽͠ẗ́͊́e͔͓̤̓̒ͣn͓̉̅̓ͭ ̶̲̓̽̇ͫ̏ͨt͐̎̅ͯo͕̟̜͒̔ ̮͍̱̼͔̪̓̍͐r̵̤̮̹͎͌̒̐ȅ̯̘l̺̃̇̒̍̋ͭ͆ȁ̵̬̟̘̘̪͉̭̿̅x̩̺ͧͧ.̘̳͎̓̂͐̍̊̚ ̞̤͙̖̱͉̻ͣ̆̀̿͗̉ͦ͡Wͮͥ̄̑͏̺̤̦o͙͓͕̲̭͊ͯ̓ͤͅr͑̊̚ķ̞̗͓̟́̎͒ ̴̏ͪ̈́ͮͥt̞͓ͭ̐ͫ̇ͧͅo̼̟ ̕l̞͔͍ͭ̆̾̌͐͞i̘̯̳̖̓̃̈̋̑ͥ͂s̭̅͢t̺͕̳̟̓͌̋͐e̜̳͕͈̔̋̿̚nͭ̎́͏̩̟͍͍̩̣.̴͎̤̺̞̄͊ ͇͖̲́̐̿ͬ̒͡L̯̻ͧ̑͂ͪͩ͗̅i҉̺͖̳ș̘͈͛͑̌͗̏ͩ͛t́̊̿ͨ̌͑͂͏͉̥̼̝͎͈̘e̪͊n̳͔̠̻͚ͨ̆̾ͭ t̨̤o̡̠̭̿͂ ̺ͧ̋ͪ̎ͩ͆͜r̺͐ͪ͂ͬḙ̝̭ͫ̅̋͐̌l̴̪̖̠̙͗ͣ͛̉̾͑ͬa̰ͭͬ̾͐̓̀x̊҉̱̜͎̝̼̦.̾̋̒̐ͩ҉̤ ̪͔͍͙̰̈́͋̆ͫ͐̓͡R̘̤̥͝el̮̺͌̉ͬ̎̒͗a͒ͫͩ͋̎ͧ́҉̭̦̠̖͎̙x̵͇̦̦̠̙̟̞ͫ͑ ̬̥̦̈́̏ͭţ̘̭͍͔̠̫̓̌̇ͩ̑̌ͫo̴̠̮̊ͯ̈ ̵̰̼̼͇̋ͨ̆͆̌ͥp̎҉r̝̪̳̖͔̊͊e̛͉̭p͕̘̜̰̭̪̦̒a̴̩̰̱r̸̝̜̖̿̈e̐̓ͫ́ ̨͙̖͍̱͉̔͌̚̚̚ͅt̬̳̭̊̔̀̚o̲̖̫̯͊͂͛̑ ̠̦̭̊ͬͦ́ẅ̝͈͉͓̮́̉̀̀͡ȏ͓ͨ̾͐r͚̣͕̣̹ͤ͋ͮ̓̏k̺̮̇͊ ̰̺̭a̢͆͒g͓̜̯͓͈̦̣͝ả̱͇̞̲̜̼̖ͣ̊̿̀i͙͐̓̓̿͂n̤̣̭̱͆.̬͉ ͦ̌ͧ͋̇̈́̋T̹̪͂ͭ́ͭ̈́̚ȟ̦̰̝̻̖̘̀͛a̺͎̋t̲̱̙̂̽ͩ͗̄̎ ̓̀͢i̍̏̓̚͏͇̪̬̤̟̤ͅs͔̓ͫ̋̿́̓͢ ̥̓̓̃y̥̖̘͔̫̞͚ͩͫ̿ͦ͆̓͢o͋͡ű̜̼͕͚̝̍̅̔r͍̹̳̈́͂̅̑̽͑ ̦̘͓̮͍͎̻c̦̎ͧͥ̒̈́ͦy̯͗̐̋ĉ̛̟͈̼͎͔̃̔ḽ̓ͥ̎̽̀͡ͅé̝̟̀́,ͩ̆̀ ̰̎͆ͧͥͭḍ̡̄ả̺̤͕̮̗̥̣ͮ̍̌y̖̥ͥ ̌͐ͬ̈́ͤ̚̚iͪ̈̊̊͡n̷̰͚͔͍̩͕͗́͆̒̚ͅ,̬͎͖ ̗̞̠̙̺̗̼͗a̻̹̠͔̙̰̙n̞̫͙͌ͯͫ̆̾d͚̟̦͉͖̒̊̊̄ͭͪͮ ̳̥͔d̙̈͆̽ä̰̘̗́̔̉̑̏̔y̴̲̠͚̟̘ͭ̇ ̙̭́̽ͥ̆̎͆͡o̙̞̎̉͑͛̾͂̓̀u̶͙t̓ͮͯ̓̔̋͡.̋͋̒̆͊̾̈ ̰͙͈̎S̍̉̈́̉҉̯ǒ̳̹͔̾̓ ͪ̄s͖̻̦͔ị̴͔̳̜̩ṃ̩̪͚̻ͩp̡̥̦̥̥ḽ̵̩̉̐͂̅̌̔̿e͚͓̞͑ͮ̎̊ͅ,̮͇͖̙̮̪͋ͦ̌̑ ͎͈̣͈͐s̻̩̱̾̈́͒͑o̜͎̽ r͇̼̻̪ͪ̂̆ͤ͗̈e̠̟͔ͪ̄̓̈ͅl͎̀̉ͩ͡ǎ̶̱x̻̰̺̥̉́̿̊̄͂ͩe͈͈̣̮̿͗̒̔̉́d͙͈̟̯̀͌̑ͦ̇.̢̗̦͉͙̣̟̿ͅ ̟͓̖̓́̊̄Nͪͅo͒ͨͬ̂ ͔̳̞̤͎̼ͮ͊͊ͦ̍͊͡n̠̳̗̹̺͕͉ͧ͟ẹ̮̪̟̖̣ͤ̈̊̎e̢͙̻̝̘̻̥̒ͧ̓ͧ͛̈d̢̦̜̟̦̓ͨͤ ̢̺ͪ̉̔ͩ̒͆t̆ͪͧ͌ͩͩ̀o͍̘͓̣̹͇͉͊̋̄̎̏̋̚͜ ̴̉͒͆̈́̃͛̓t̛͉ͨ̑ĥ̠̼͑͋i͛̑n̼͓̳̾͠k̡ͩ̒̍̅.͕̮̗͈̳̦̝̆͂ͬ̉ ̗̮͚̞͉̺͔̊͛́Ṋ̠̦͎̯̾ọ͇͓ͬͣͮͮ ̳̕n̸̻̬̓e̼̲̫͙͟e̸̘͇̫̫͖̦̱̐͆͌d̬́͋̿̓ͮ̌͞ ̈́̄̐̉̆͜t̛̜͈͔̳̳͚ͬ̃̆̄̍̀̎ọ̡̺̫ͫ̈͑ ̼̙̖̜͉̦̮̾ͬ̉̽ͥ̒̇͡w̄o̲̞͈̘̯̊ͪ̓͢r̰̣̍̈̇̓̽r̤͕̭̲͈̗̰ͭ̄ͭy̜̭.̮̥͙̳̣̳ͪ ̻̪͕͓͚̝̠̐̈̚R̋ͩ̓ͩͮͅȇ̫ͩl̡͕̯̫̻͎̠ā̴͚̠̩̼̫x̨̟̳̩͙͙̲ͤ̂ͮ.̘̄͛ͣͬ̐ ̸̲͖͔͕Ḽ̼̠͉̟ͥͮͧ̆͘i̴̯̤̱͇̼͎s͈̤̣̙̮̐ͭͅt̹͖͙̻̙͕͙́ę̺̫͉̖̲̯̈́ͨ̊n͇̲̓.̸̭̣̙̩̤͌̄̔ͤ̈́ ̘͙͎̎͆̆ͥR̵̼̘̘̗̫̲ͯ̃͒́̊ͤë̮̥ͣl̤̬̟ͫ͊̉̌̕a̻̞͙̝̜͙͕ͮx̷̗̝̻̋͌ͧ̚.̵̣̟͒͂̆ͅ ̢͉̖̥̜̾ͧ̔̾W̷̗ͧ̍̑ỏ̸͎͇͔͖͕͛ͯ́r͔̖͚̰̍̎͂̉̃̐̚k̸ͬͯͬ̚i̻̲̠̜ͮn̒g͖͚ͯ̾́ ̹͈̩̞͓̬͗t̷̯͕̅ͨ̊̐o̟̺̲͚ͯͬ̄ ̸̫̭̠̹̜͚̘̾͐ͪl̨̻̪̫͉̭͒î̟̙̘͖͔̒̄s͎̬̱̔͗ͥ̽͆t͓̒ͣͥ̅͠e͔̺̦͓͒n̨̳̒͋̈̉̈̂ͨ.͎͕̘͔̯̮̟͂͌̿ ̞͔̳̼͈ͅW̮͙͠ǒ̤͉́̈̏ͪ̚͡r̘̮ͮͨ̽͛k̜͔̃i̶̦̗͚͓̺͗̈́ͬ̓̎̄ṋ͎̱͎̮̻͙̈́̅͆͆͒̀ͧǧ̸͕̼̱͓ͯ͛͆ͅ s̛͕̙̒͑̊̀͊ͤ̂o̩̐̽͌̋̉̚ ̳͚̙ͣ̃͌ẖ͔̟ạ͎ͅr̟̣̼̞̩͙͎̓͗̽͂d̨̖̜ͮͬ̓̄.̞̻̄ͫͅ ͇̠̗͎̌̆ͤ̌̈́͘S̢ủ͍͕͓̣̝̱͢c̷̞̪̝̗̠̦̙̅ͨͦh͕̖̼͕͐͟ ͚̝̗̰̩̳ͩͬ̄̓̐gͨ̈́o̫̖̮̬͍͔̭o̺̻̞̲͆̉̽̇ͣdͭ̎҉̘͉̗̹̠̼ ̯̜̱̣͚͚̻͌ͤ͆̀̓ẇ̅o̤̦͖͛͠ȓ̆̑̆ͩ̍͏͔k̈́̒͆̍͐ͅḥ͚̻̙ŏ̜̘ͫ̆̚r̴̺͈ͭͮ͒̇s͒ͧȩ̫͉͖͇sͣ̓ͯ̎͆ͦ͛͏͙̖̪̖̞̹.̨̦̺͙͕̪ͯͦ ̨̯̫̭͖̈́L̪̮̲̀ͯ͊̂̂̋i̡̠͕̩͈̣̘͗́̔s̡̩̣̤̭͇̘͓̾́̉t̞̩̥̺͕͍ͤ͆̐̓̒̃͑͝ͅe͔͚̟ͦ̅͆̂̚͡n͉̤̞͕̻̑̓ͣ̓i̻̮̐̐ͯͤņ̠̤̤̦̗͙̓ͤg̮͔͓͈͎ ̖͓ͬ̈́͑͒̔̑ͬh̔̈́͐a̟͍̮̱̟rͣ̏̍̿̽̅͌͝d̓ͬ͛ͫ̓.̧ͪ̔̐̎̑ͮ ̴͍͚͇̼̉̑ͨͪŴ̵͈̩̳̈́́o̳̫͐ͪ͊͛̀ř̨̝͙̈́͗̄́̾ͧķ͙ͤͥ̂ï̶ͮ͂ͧ̄ͬ̓n̥̗͇̦̩̭ͨͯͯ̃g̞͕̪̠͙̃̓̆̏̍́ ̆͑͏͙̺̗̮͓h̷̃̽́̅a͇ͭͮ͗r͙̘̗̤̬̥̻̉̊͐͆͑̒̊ḍ̤̪͉͆ͩ̽ͧ̋ͨ̏.̵̱̩̤̖ͯ ̭͔̊ͮͤ͘Ṡ̸̞͇̮̟͑̐͑ȍ̷̺̤̈́̃̿ ̗̗̘̝̝͛͆͒ͬͧ̿ͯͅv̗̮̞̱̣̅̄̑ͤ̿͘e̢̘̗̙͈͐ͧͮ͂r̤͎͎̪̗̳̃̎͝y̱̖̰̹ ̶̹̖̠̣̍̓͋͆̆ͣ̀h̥̙̳͍̥̞̾̿̉a͕͛ͣ̉̃̈́͆r̡̜͕͉̰͓̭̾̌̌͗ͯd̵̘̬͌ͣ͊ͧ͑̿̉.̶̰̤͑̈́̏̏͐̋”

Trent let out a moan of pleasure as he leaned back against the wall, and shuddered. A slick lather had begun to form on his growing fur coat, soaking his shirt and making it cling tightly to his rapidly thickening skin as his shoulders broadened and his waist widened. He breathed heavily and whickered as his arms and legs expanded with muscle. He could feel the overalls becoming tighter on his body as skin stretched and muscle corded, while fat burned away to nothing. A hefty bulge began to press against the crotch of his overalls as he rubbed an increasingly muscular rump against the wall of his stall. The room seemed to spin around him as his neck thickened and lengthened, while his legs began to shift. The knees popped out of place as the seams near his waist began to burst, and his legs shot upwards while the mass of muscle around his waist continued to expand, bursting the seam as he let out a weak neigh.

“S͎͎̘̗̮ͩ͋̋̕õ̓̇ͬ̊͏̟̘̝̦͖̬̺ ͚̯ͤ́́ͣͤ̚h̸͈́̍̐̉̔͐ͣa̢̗͗̍̈́͋͂ͫr̞ͫͩ̏ͯͤ͌d̫̫̹̋ͭ ͈̜̻̅a̡s͉͈̪͔͌̏͗͐̔͑̽ ̫̮͉̞̱̪̩ͪ̐ͥ͋͗ͤy͙̋̏̂ͫ́͜ơ͚̳̗͍̝̾ũ̼̝̰̘̙̈́͑̚ͅ ̗̭̝ͥ͌̈́ͫͯ̾̚c̪̥͎̭̀ͯ̔̑l͈͖̠͌o̜̗ͥ̈͛̒ͥ̄p̳ͮ͡ ̛͔͚͍̫ͤ̄̋̽o͖͇̻̫͈ͩ͂̈́̇̈͂̚ṇ̮̎ͬͤ͐͆̏̋͡ ̇͋͏͓̣a̛̼̘͚̽ͦ̊̚l͚ͩl̷͎̤̘̠͋ͭ́ ̟̰̮̬̓̊̇͞f͎̱̳̪͚͔͛̀̌ͥo̠̞̼̘͆̆͋̊̀u̦̯͔̻͍͉̪̇͋ͭ̂r͈͇͚̭̪̒̌͒̈̎ ̡͖͊̈͌̐́̿h̥̞̖̬̲ͪ̽̾͗̄̇̐o͏̫͔̝̬̮̞͕o̪͍͙̯̠̰͐̿̀v͇̣̳̼̟͍͈ͣͣeͯ҉̬͔̰̠̰̱̰s.͔ͩͮ͗̏͐̀ ̱̖̯̰̬̀̄̀͌̆̚H̘̜̔̃a̦ͮ͂́r̞͔͈ͦ͂͆͑̋ḍ̨̪̉͆̃̑̇ ͓̰̮̘͙͚́̑ͪ͒͆ͮͤṭ͕͑̒͐́͗ͧ͛͡o̘̭̥̪̯͙͑ͯͨ̊̏͡ ̠̝͈͔̭̱͜s͊͡t̡̥̩͍ą̪̟̝̫̣̪͗̍n̝̜̻͍̘̳ͦ̏̈̕d̫̤̉̑ͣͭ̑͒͌ͅ ̬̊ͦ̋̇w̙̹ͨ̉ͧ̆̄̈ͯi͎̅̄ͧ̿͑ͤtͣͩͣ̍̓ẖ̯͓̩̲̮̍͛̈̊͂̓͠ǒ͎̯̹ͣ̈͐̊̀u̙̮͉̰̱͍̣ͧt̜̝͟ ̠̍ͨ̀ͅt̙̘̫̘͚̜͍̿̓h͉͙̹̤͇̀̊ͩe̜͇͕͔͉͗ͅͅm̢̺̗ͩ.̜̼͇̥͓̜̲̎̀ ̢̜̼̠͒͗͗͗͌ͬH̭̄̕a̿͟r̢̰̔ͦ̇ͮ̑d͈̏́ ͕́ṭ̏͟o̪͚͔̒̎̈́̓̎ͩ ̼̠͕ͪ̊ͫ͂͗͠m̛̺̘̱̙͎̱͙̃̋͌o͙͉̭̞̻̕v̳͖̘̣̦̑ͬ́̎ͫ̈͝e̐̄ͣͨ҉̲ ̘̠̍ w̜̋̉̒ï̜̿ͨt̮̒ͩ͌͂̉ͧ̽h̞̖͍̪͕͙ͧͣõ͛ͭ̃͟ủ͔͖͆́̽̈t͓͌͐ͣ ̧̟̰̟͗̓̓t̩̯͉͈̾̆̍̇h̋̂͊͡e̦̦̗̼̗̓͊̀͑͗ͯ̿̕m̸̖͕͔̹̹͔̦͂͌͆,̩̻͗ͩͅ ͖͈̀͆̈͒ͯ̀t̳̥̥̪̉͡o̶͎̩̙͙̪̰̙͆ͥ͋̚ ̛̱̭̗̮͖̰̂͌ͪ͆̓ͮ̀r̊͌ͦ̐u̓͛ͥ̀ͤ̄nͦͧ͒̋҉̬̳̗͚̗̮̯,͚ͩ̃ͪ̂̆̉ ̮̯̿ͣ̓͒́t̬̘̰͈̹͈̾̍o̳ͥ̾͆̚ ͕̫̻̝͙́̋͜ẁ̮͈͚̼ͮ̚͠o̯̦̮̼̟͗̿ͮ́ͫ̌r̶̲̼͕͇͊̆ͅk̲̳͑ͥ̓̔̚.͑̚͏̝̤ ̖͔̦̫̪͘ͅͅS͕̦̳̓̿ͯͯ͋͌́u̠͔̭͑̽̆c̤̃h̫̺̾ ̝͎̥̖̌̍͛ͣͮ̀͜s̗̅̿͡ͅt̥̻̘̺̖ͥ̆r̐̈̇o̤̣͙̜̊̚n̒̐̾̈ͪͮ̅͠g̶͙͉̭̱̥̯̻ͭ̚ ͌͏͎͚̥̤ḫ̻̽̎̕o̡͙̳̤͉̎ͣ͒̾̑o̥͙̭̮͔̰ͭͯ́v̡͈̲̐e̦̰̯̩̍ͪ̂s̶̙̥ ̠̼̟ͭ̒̍͋ͮ̚͞o̴͓͍̅́̀ͅn̵̠͐̈́ ̡s̸̙̦̳̪͛̀̉ͬ̌̍ͯt͍̘̉̏ͣȑ̰̻̭̒̍o̫͒ͣͭͤͮ̀ͮͅṉ̴̩͍̬̙̤̝̐̊̀̈́g̦̩̹̫̻̟͋̀̽ͤͣͨ̒ ̗̏͂̅͂l̥̠͈̮̘̈́̏̚ë̯̭̜́g̩̖͡s̹̻̫̪͎̝̪̀̓.̘̯͈͓͈̯̲ͧ̋͂ ̲͌ͪͩ͛S̸͚̫̹͐̏o͒͛̊͏͖͙͙̠̲͕ ̲͔͓̹̗͖͎̂̓̌ͦ́̎s̴̪̞̣͗ͫ̔t̹̘͍̳̦͒ͯ͒̉̇͌͑͘r̨͍̯͍̥̤̠͈ͨ͒ȯ͇̳͚̻͙̩̰̋n̛̰͚͔̠͖͐͌g͎͇̤̦ͤ̿͗̇ͩ.̟͔͎̦͔͟ ͔̣̘̹͕ͬ͗͐̆̑͠S̪̯͔̻̟̖o̗ͣ̑̍̌̽͞ ̗̉̽v͂̍ͤͣͯ̓͏̝é̛̹ͤ̆ͤͨͨr͔͉̟͕̻̫̩̃y̲̺͓͈̮̫ͪ ̵̝̬̭͍́s͍̜͖̒ͮ̈̅͜t̖̺͈̟͕̦̓ͯͨ͗̄ͫ͞r̴̺͇͋ͤ̂ͥ̾o̐̔̾ͮn̖̖̩͚͗̈͐͗ǧ̢̪͚͓̍͌ͯ̈́̑.̻̅ͮ ̞̖̲͈̞̒͝T̺̭̬̎ͫ̀hͮ͐ͣͩ͂̽ͧ͏͙͙̲͓̠̹͉e̠̟̤ ̔̿̀͏̬̱̘̩̘̜u̩͔̖̼͈͉ͣͨ͂̆̑ŗ̮ͣ̄g͖̟͑͆̋̿̚e̻̱͎̲̍ ̧̜ͭ̋ͩͬt̘̼͙̝̩͔ͤ͋͑͛̋͐̔ͅơ̻̝̦͔̬̞͛̎͌ ͎̱̭̞̗͎s̟̒̆́t̖̮̼̬̮̀̐̂̇ͥa̧͚̰̗͍̣̭͒͒n͉̻͊̂͠d͆̑̏ͣͤ͊͝ ̣͕̫̤̹̺̒͋̅̿̈́̋̾͠ó̜̗͓̘̙̤͓n͈͚͍̜͆̂͂ͧͬ̀ ͔͝ā̪̳͍̗ͧ͟l̹̚l̥̹̱̯̞̗̲ ̵̲̓̾ͩͦ̚f̩͔̽̃͂̎͒o̺̩ͣ̋̑ͫ̍̚u͍̳̜̝̠͡r̔̆̀͆̋͒͞s͇̲̺͇̬̦͗̈̚.̨̩͚̰̯̝ͅ ̙̘̙̹͖̈̀͑ͦS̹ͯ͌̐͗͒ͦ̌͟o̭̰͎͚̻̮̓ ̴̘͈̻͂͐̋̈̾s̷̥̲̥̝̄ͣt͇͒̆̇ͮ̊̀ͬrͧ̈́͒ͪ̅̏̇o̶͎̦̾n̡̥͙̻̭͇͋̾ͮ͑̓̓g̺̞̣ͅ.”

Trent sputtered out of his rapidly swelling lips. His body trembled as the joints in his arms began to shift. Muscles spasmed, adjusting to limit his range of motion. His shirt’s collar began to tear beneath his mass as his chest swelled in size, and his torso began to lengthen. It was getting harder to stand, and the tightening muscle in his rear forced him into more of a hunching crouch than a proper leaning as he began to teeter, his hooves stamping on the earth as he struggled to remain upright. But … why should he? This … was this upright? He rolled his eyes again, this time in confusion as he looked around. Things were … different, somehow. He had to turn his head to either side to look properly. That only proved to further disorient him as his ears rotated to find the location of each speaker in the stables. “S-stroonnnngghhhh–,” he struggled to say in a guttural voice. His vocal cords had shifted, stretching longer and thicker with his changing neck. He looked to his hands with one eye and watched as the black keratin began to spread. His middle finger swelled, turning completely black as it became harder and harder to separate his other fingers. Soon the keratin consumed his whole hand, leaving nothing but a broad, heavy hoof that continued to expand before his eye.

“Wh-whaahhhaaat’s … happe–NEIGHEHEIGH!”

The horses responded immediately, adding their own neighs, nickers, and whickers. His ears couldn’t flick fast enough to catch them all, furthering the dizziness, the disorientation. His chest burned as he struggled for air, breathing rapidly through his nose as the weight increased. He heard several loud pops that startled him, prompting another whinny as he jumped in the air. Unfortunately, this proved his downfall. As he slammed down on his hind hooves, the support of the wall disappeared, and he found himself falling, falling, but … things didn’t look different. He felt the impact on his front hooves, but … everything still looked the same. Well, except for the dizziness and his split vision, but the scents of the stall more than made up for that. He shifted a foreleg and took a step forward, feeling the vibration travel up his leg, feeling each new muscle, his new strength. No … just his strength. Strong hooves on strong legs. Yes, he was strong. So very, very strong.

The annoying pressure around his barrel finally gave way, and he looked back to see a flash of blue and white, before the color began to leech away and blend in his vision. Something clung to his back legs and rump, and he didn’t like it. Without even thinking about it, he began to buck, kicking out his hind legs as he pressed on his forelegs for support. The movement was as natural as breathing. In a matter of seconds, the offending articles had been flung into a corner of the stall. Trent snorted his satisfaction and disdain at the rags, then trotted over to his water trough for another drink. Trotting felt good, relaxing. The more he moved his body, the better it felt. He stuck his muzzle in and took a long draw from the container.

“G̞͈̥̪͇͎̽̈̑̈̍ơ̫͕͋̓ͣͪ͌ͭo͂̓ͬ́d̡̾̍̃̂͑̚ ̷͎̱̮͖͙ͭ̍͋ͩͫḣ̾̇ͨ̾҉̗͇̖o̼͍ͫ̉͌̍̐r̤̮͜ͅs͓͙̈́ͮͨ͞e͋̄̄͌̓͛s̨̥̬.̼̳̭̥̩ͪ͌̐̔̾ ̮͍͉̣̩̦̭̐J̺͕̇̌̈́̍ͪ̃̚͜u̹̤̱̫̣͕̱̐ͣ̑̏ͧ̾̇s̠̝̦̯̱̖͆͋̂͂ͯ͢ͅṯ̹͉̅̐̓ ̥̹̦̥̖̖̽ͤͧͨ̂g̢̗̫̻͂̈́ͭo̴̩̅̓̑̄͂̚o͚͖͔̩̮̞͈̊d̸̝̹̙̥̺̄̋̊͋͂ ̹̤̗̻̟̤̅̀ͤͣ́̚ḧ̺͔́ͧ͘o͐ͨ͒̉̓́ŕ̳̺̼͓̟͚͍ͬ̇̌͟s̤̗̺͇͇͌͐ͤͥe̼̩͒̏ͧ̚š̜͚̖̼ͧ̇͆́̂̀ n͏̫̖̰͚õ̗̼̯̙̙̬̬̉̈́́ŵ̱͍̻͉͓͂̑ͥͤ.̞̻͇̫̞̣͖͑ͪͩ̂̒̀̚̚ T͗̊h̙̬̻͕ͦͪͭi̛͐̓ͩͨn̜̣̘̙̔̿͝ͅk͕̪̖̞̩̙̬͘i̘̫̮̣̙͗ͦn̮̻̟̩̘̩̠̉̏͒̅͒g̹̯̥̗̝̤ͪͮ͞ ḁ̶̹̹̙̝ͧͤ̊̽̃ͅb̢̦ͥ̅ͤ̑̉ō͖͎͈̞̤͂ͣu̞̮̔̅ͬ͘t̮͇͙̮̹̝̔ͪ͆̄ͮ t̡͍͑̉́ͫh͖̤ͪͯ̇̾e̴̤̞̹͎͙̤͑͑͑̽͆̀̚ ̸͕͉͓̜͕ͯh͕͚̦̱͍͊ͯ̒͡ę̹̥̻̻̥͖͍͐̎ͦr͚͈͈͓ͩ̋͗͑̔̋͆d̔̈̍͏̱,̝͕̋ a̹̪͈̖͚͊͐̌̉̿͘b̎͛̃͗ͤ̏͏̫͎͓oͣͣ͏̝̩u͊҉̪͎̪͕͓̮ͅt̂̽͛ͫͨ̆̑ ̰̯͞m̩̥̲͑̓̓͋͋̅̏aͥ͒͂͏ţ̊ȋ͈͉̾n̟̥͍̤̥̭̹̊̋ͭ̾̔̃̐͝g͕͛͛̈́̐̿,͚͑͂́ g̘͔͓͖̫̳ͯͤͫ̂̈́̽ͩr̞͆́ȧ̩̪̗̆̎͌ͤz̘̹̻͕̤ͅi̩̦̪̹̩͗nͩ͢g͈͚̰̙̀,̜͕̞͛ l̡̥̫̺̻ͮ̒̐̃͌ͦi̢̯̳ͣ͗ͯͮv̩̥i̫̰͊͒͆ͦ͌̎͟n̥͔͓̲̱̥̫̊̑̾̋̌ͦ̉g̞̺̟̫̯,̯͖̙̻̎ͪͤ̄̉̓͢ ̋̏̋͝r͒ͣͦͯ͏̫̥͓u̇̍͠ń̨̜ͪn͍̍̇̋ͧ̈́̇̓i̧ͫ͐̊n͕͐̏̀ͮ̐ͯ͘g̠̅ͦͪ̈́̍́,̍̂̾͏͕̮̰͉̪͙ ̡̅ś̟͐̈́̈́̃̕l̔̾͛̔ͤ̇̽҉͎̳̟ė̷̻͗̐̉̎e̙͍̼͓̣̘ͦ̉͌̈́ͨ͑́p̴̤̫̻͕̮͚ͥ̓ͩ͌ǐ͇̑ͣ̽̆n̩͉̹͖̮̜̩͂ͣͩ͌g̖ͨ̓͑̄̇.̸̝͔̰͐ͨ̀ ̮̠̪͓̭̣̝ͤ͑ͧS̘͓̟̘̩̱u̬̘̪̮̅͌̾̚c̩̪̜̰̤͌̑h̖̭͎͚̪͇̫̎̋̽̾ͥ ͙͋̈́͆s̻͕̙͉͚̙͡ḭ̻͇̝̬̆ͬͥ̒̊́͒m̵̍̋́͑ͫͦ̎p͇͛͑̍́̏l̫̘̗̼̼̾ͭ̊́͆̌̎ẹ̸͈̳̬͇͓̳ ͙͚̏̀̎̒t͕ͭͬ̒̈̅͒̽́h̺̖̠̖͋́ͧ͌̈͌ò̗͔͎̌̃̅ͪ͛u̲̺̤̭̖͓̝̎ͩ̇̏͟g̢̣̩h̬̜̫̮̣̼̯̾̀͂́t̲s̭̞̣̙̩̓̌̑͌͊̀.̬̩̫̜̩̻ͬ͗ ͓̯̲̰̂ͫ̋̓̏ͅŜ̬̯̰̘̬̠̐ͬ͟l̥̲͕͉̥ͅo̲ͦͨͤw̷̮̙̻̪͇̽̅ͬ ͯ͒͒҉̥̼͚̣̻a̪͉͔̰̤̳̿͐n̼͓̱͔̱͂̐̀ͅd͎̺ ̴͓͊̑ͩͦ̿ͤ̌ṡ̘̪̬̦̩i̹̗͈̙̓ͩͧ̉͐̃m̛͕̤̬͙͙̾p̶̘̳͕l͇͇̗̻͉̬̑̏̋̒̚͜e͊͋̀.̜̯̣́͋̋̔̒ ̳͎ͧ̉ͫS̤͇̲̈̀i̫̘̥̹̭̠ͦ̈́̄ͬ́͑̄͞m̙̺̙̿p̜̻͕̣̙͐͂ͪ͗̐̑l̸̦̻̭͔̥ͩ͊̑é̖̩̄̂̃͆̂ ̩̳̰i̳͉͔̥͍̻̜ͦͦŝ̘̮̖͖̝ͩ͆͗́ ̣̯̖̾͗͌ͬ͊g̹͉̘͚̙͍͓ͩ̒̄͑̀o̙̺͍̜̔̊ͅȍ̻̹̺̦͉̟̪ḋ̤̰.̭̏̔͒̌͌͒̓ ̸͇̹̪̭͎̎ͤ͆͛̚̚I̛̬̳̖t̞̜͙̏ͫ̇ͪ̚ ͛̉͑͊̈́ͩ͟l̳͈͔ͪ̈́͆̏͗͟e̗̋͑ͨͬ̌t̊͛͐͊ͤ̽s͚̩̩͔̲̮̰ͦ͜ ̵͍̯̓͗ͮ̄y̠̣̩̝̱̯͋͑ͤͩǫ͕ű̴̥̙ͪ̀ͨͧ̉ ̆̄͂̏̌ͨ̿ b̻̪͈̼̟̺̹͑̓̀ȕ̠̿͒ͪͤͦi̵̺̹̮̺͑l͔̲̻̹̘̿ͩͮͯ͞d̹ͪ̆̆͐y̥͒̊ͬỏ̥̰̙̙̊̇ͨ̄́u̵̼͑r̨̲ͭ̍ͭ͊̔̉̾ ͈͕̩̪̺̦̇̑ͣ̌ͮͅs̞̲͍͍̞̲̈́̓͌̒ͤ̋ͪt̳͕̏̒͊͊̋͒̀̚r̛̠͉͖͕͔̞̊̿͂ͥ̓ͩ̚ẹ̖̜͎̦̩n̜̲̰̯̣̳͆ͥ̎̉g̺̞̬̀ț͖͚̏̇ͩ̐̑͌́̕h̦̜̫͋̾̎.̛̫̹̟̤̌ͭ̇̇̊ ̧ͧT̙̎͡h̙̗̺͎̹̓e̝̮̗͓͓ͯ͗ͨ͐ ̚̚͠s̢̪̳͇̒ͣͮ̾t̷̳̪̝͇̮̟̰͋̈̑̿̅̀ͩr̝͔̲̭̋o̧̪̠͍̩͚̊̇ͭ̈n̮̏g̭̘̜͓̖͑ͯ͌e̴̖͑ͣ̍ͭr̰̭̪͕̣̠ͨͥ̋ͤ ͉̺̹͙̪ͮ́͘y͚̰̖̖̲͚̽ͥ̆o̗̞̗̺̊͑ͩ̈́̓̍̚u̡̜̺̩̠̞͂̂͑ͦ̚ ͓̤̺̟̺̖͔̔ͧͯͧ͛ͩȃ̳̳ͅr͚̪ͬͅͅé̼,̵͇̫̳̰̮̠ ̯̲̝͖̩͔̅tͦͮ͒͑h͖̘̭̮ͪ̓ͬ̏̿͟è̲̭̱̝̙͉ͅ ̑ͫ̒s͂̎̔̍ĩ̝̤͓̻́m̛͍͔̰̦͙͎͑̌ͪ̌ͪ̓̄p̢̿̑̎l̹̙̤eͥ́̍̓ͦ̾͆҉̹r̍ ̤͐ͤͪ̉̑̆͛͘ý̾̈́̀ò̟̦ͨ̊ͫ͒̓̈́ṷ̖͈̫͈̎ͣͯ̂̋ͧ̅ ͭ̔t̳̙̙͕͒̎͒ͩ͠h̹͉̫͖͍͉ͦͅi̵̗n̸̘͓͋̿k̲̹̗̟͈̤̺ͦ̾ͯ͂.̰̜͕̹͚͕̐̒ ̱̘͖̈ͫ͂T̛̯̯h̻͈͙͈͖ͬ͊̅̇̐̏̾e̐ ̩̩̳̬ͬ͊ͭ̓̓̄s̷̲̐̉̌͒i̻̰̰ͧ̌͋͛ͦ̇̌m͖͈̮͎͈̲p̞̅̔l͇̰̖̝̟̭̻̿̇ͤͫ͞eͣ̇ͨ̾̒r̟̬̘͎̠̳̩̋ͮͬ͌ͣͨ ̨̫̳ͩy͓͇ͨ̽̉̀̍̚ͅo̵̯̮̹̤̠̲̞u͇̞̲͍͍͈ͭ̊̑̔ ̝̣̜̦̔ͧͭͫt̰̬̲̏̑̂ͅh͗̄̎ͫ͐́̐i͓̞͔̰̝͖̽̅͊ͩṋ̡̟̄ͫ̅̆̊̂̽ḵ̭̺̏,̟͔̗̬̭̯̐͢ͅ ͉͉̞̭̣̣͓̒͆͒ͤ̚͟t̜̓̌h̩̜ͅe̹̭̎̈ ͩ̍́ḙ̎͋͌̊̎̕a̲̞̲̳͍̽ͦ̒s̞͈̖̟̀i̙̱̹̙ͯͬ̏̑͐e̟̪͙̞̞͇ͤͤr̖̠̈́̐ͯ͊͟ ̮̗͚͎̹͎̹ͮ́̽́̍͗ͭ̕ĩ̥͖͎̯̳̟̟ͭ͗ͤţ̥͚̬̙̭͉̆ ͚̝̳̯̣̍ͪͮi̠ͩ̄̈́ͫs͚̱̯͔͉͈ ̖̥͇̫ͤ͊̌ͥ̀͠țͫ͂̓o͈̻̮͎̭̘͆̈̄̆ ̯̜ͣ̒̿j̞̠̬̥̹͍͉̓ͭͨͣ̿̽͞u̯̺̭̘̭̒̈̿̐̂͗̐s̘͍̪̹ṭ͋̊͐̓̕ ͊̕b̖͚͓ͯ̍͌̒͋̓̔e̲̺̙̘͚̥̼ͣ̌̒̓̌ ͪ̒͐ͧ̔ă͇̳̲̏͢ ̟͖̜̯̳ͬ͋͐ͦͫͤ̈ğ̠̖̬̖̿ͣͮ͑̍ͅo̪͉͙̊o̱͇̼̦̎̔͑̓̎́ͅd̨͌ͣͪ̒͂ͣ̇ ̳̼̤̃ͩ̀̐͛͊͠ḩ̬̪͙͍ͅo̸͚̰r̪͎̔̅̂ͩs̶̪̥̭̜̙ͦ͆͆̃̉͛̓e̘͖̐͟.̈́̇̓̌͐ ͖͍͇ͯͩ̄̀̑̀̚A͍̐̒̈n̡̜̘̫ͤd̗̹̺̯͇̬͉̆͂ͯͮ͐ ̣̖͚̲͕̦̣ͯ̚͠y̴̪͓͕͐̋ͪ́̐ͮͨo̼̓̇͐ͮ̓̊ͮŭ̮̂̊̾̌̎͋'̶̼̍̅͗̑ͧ̽̿r̻̖͂́͛̌̚e͙̤̰̞̖̎͂͌ͭ̓̀ ̏ͧ͏̺ͅal̷͉̝̣̹̖̙l̝̫̤̔̉̐̾ ̻̠̝͙͇̊̐̄̿̓ͥs̜͕̺̫̾̆ͦ̕u̎ͮ̿͒̈̒ͮ҉̜̝͈͕c̿̉̃̌̆̚͜h͔̲̰̹͈̙̏̓͢ ̫̘̋ͣ̒͢gͦ̂̌͡o̶̺͕̭͎̥ͬ̂̆̂̈́̀o̜̞̺̅̋̀̒̏̊ḑ̹̺͔̩͎̹͓ ̹̭̃͛ͨĥ͔̮̥̇ͤ̓̇̽o͔̮̘͊̉͟r̩̖̜̜̰̖s̘ͬ̍ͪ̊̽e̵̗̜͗̍̏̂ş͈̗͎̺̅͗.͖̱̪͉̝̹̻ͭ̑̔̔ ̶͖̼̇͒S̯̬͈̦̘͔ȕ̢̘̣̱͇͇̞ͬ͊̿c̴̺͎̻̪̮̜͖h̺ͦ̾ͧ̄ͧ ̜͍̖̙̹̽̐͗͗͢ĝ̟̺̺̅ͯ̌ͩ̌ő̾ͮ̂ͭoͯ̋d͔̠̮̥̣̆͆̀ͨ̇ͨ͡ͅ,͙̬̝͖̍̓̾̔͜ ̴̅̄s͏̼̜̗̤̟̘i͚͖̹͔͉ͯ͒͑̑ͦ̔ͬm̰̻͓͂̂́̂͌p̯͕̤̘̌l̲éͤ̀̿ͭ ͮͯ́̓̊̂h̪̥͈͖̃̍̄ͫ́́o̝͈̎ȑ̢̦͑ͦ̍̈̚s͚̞̩͖͑ͦͬẹ͖̿͛͌̽͋͌̃͠s̼͇̳̀ͬ͑̀.͞”

Trent swung his head slowly as he emerged from the trough. He curled his upper lip, exposing his massive flat incisors as he sampled the air. Horses. He smelled something coming from himself strongest. His own natural scent. Then the others. So many. He felt a warmth in his nether regions as the blood flow increased. A pleasant scent caused his new sheath to open, and he nickered his want as the weight of his scrotum increased, pulling down to hang comfortably between his much wider legs. He felt the brush of his feathers and fetlock hairs brushing against his fur as he clopped around. The stall felt smaller, but not uncomfortably so. The voice was so much garbled words now. He didn’t need to think about it. What he needed was one of those mares.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long. A simple workhorse didn’t care much for time. He simply went about his business, eating hay, drinking water, and relieving himself as he needed.

“Ah, there you are, Tremor. Come here. Let me get a look at you.”

The voice was strange. The horse didn’t quite understand, but it sounded familiar. And that sound … Tremor. Yes. That sounded … right. He approached the small creature and lowered his muzzle to the extended hand. He smelled something and stuck out his tongue to lick. Sweetness danced across his taste buds. He let out a sputter of contentment as his tail twitched behind him and the long hairs brushed against his rump.

“I was wondering when that would finally grow in.”

The sweet-giver bore its teeth as it patted Tremor’s muzzle. Tremor’s lip curled up, and he sampled its scent. It was familiar, somehow. Was this thing a part of his herd?

“You’re going to earn us quite a bit of money, Tremor. Congratulations, and welcome to the superior race of Equine kind.” It turned to another thing. This one smelled female. “Josephine, if you would,” the sweet-giver asked. It had a strange thing on its muzzle. Tremor could see himself in it, only he looked smaller. Tremor didn’t feel smaller. He tossed his head uneasily, and felt a reassuring pat from the sweet-giver. “Easy now. Easy. You’re a good horse, remember?”

Everything stopped for Tremor, and he lowered his head at the words. He felt something scraping gently against his fur, and nickered in contentment as pleasure ran over his body.

“Good horse,” the sweet-giver praised.

Tremor felt very sleepy by the end of the stroking, and swayed on his hooves as his eyelids drooped. His ears flicked absently at the sound of the sweet-giver laughing. He heard something rustle, then felt the guiding hand of the sweet-giver point him towards the center of his home, where a pile of warm, fresh hay had been laid down. Tremor needed no further encouragement. He clopped over and laid down on the makeshift bed, before closing his eyes and falling into sleep, where the last vestiges of his humanity would soon be trampled by his new equine mind.

Josephine shut the gate quietly with the shredded remnants of Trent’s uniform hanging in a bundle under her other arm. “I believe your experiment was a success, Doctor Silao. The subject has become completely equine in all ways, and stands at a full twenty-four hands tall.”

“We’ll need to keep monitoring him for the next few weeks. I want to see how well his new body reacts, before we move on to the next test subject. After all, we want to be able to offer whatever form a future customer may desire, even if their mass is significantly less. I believe we’ll go for an ectomorph next time. I want to see the results when there’s less mass to work with. Make sure to add that to the agenda, Josephine. Then take the samples you collected to genetics, and put a rush job on the records department. I want proof of lineage on my desk by closing time.”

“Of course, Sir.” Josephine bowed her head. “I’ll take my leave.”

Silao smirked as he looked back on the recumbent Shire Stallion. His sleek black coat, white muzzle stripe, and shiny white feathers made for a stunning appearance. The hairs Josephine had acquired would prove most enlightening in genetic analysis. Assuming this subject turned out as well as it appeared, then it was only a matter of time, until he could market this new product to all manner of companies: gyms, rehab clinics, hospitals, doctors. So many avenues for practical application. So many delicious ways to cure humanity. He chuckled to himself as he clopped his way past the cobblestones and out into the afternoon sun, then began to whistle as he spun his cane in the air beside him. He could hardly wait.

Jungle Games

This is a story I wrote, inspired by a pair of pictures by an artist named Sarvak on Furaffintiy.net. I’ll include the links below for you to view the art and descriptions that go along with it, if you wish. I hope you all enjoy. :D

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/19036299/

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/19117182/

“Hello, and welcome to the jungle.”

You cry out in surprise as you stare at the hunched figure standing in front of you. A ragged blue hoodie clings to his wiry frame, while the tattered remains of a pair of shorts brush against a pair of toned, hairy legs. A thick, brushy unibrow juts up at you from heavily tanned skin. His blue eyes seemed almost to sparkle beneath the filtered light of the canopy above.

“My, my. No need for such a startled reaction. I mean, I know I was ugly when I was born, but I never made people scream before.”

You gulp, and take a step back from the stranger as you note the swishing mass that shouldn’t exist wagging behind him.

Oh, would you relax? It was a joke. I take it you’re here to visit Lord Sarvak, yes?”

You nod your head dumbly, unable to really say much other than that, considering the oddness of the … creature that stands before you.

“I thought so,” he says, smiling smugly as he casually scratches an itch at his side. Right this way.”

“I, um … didn’t think he’d be expecting me,” you mutter.

Oh, a lot of people come to see him, actually. He’s a rather popular monkey,” the … man … monkey … thing responds.

“So you’re his doormonkey?” you ask.

“Well … yes, I suppose you could say I’m the footman for now.”

“For now?” you ask as you raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yes, for now,” he glowers back at you. “Lord Sarvak likes to play games, you see. I was once a visitor, like yourself. I wanted to get rich, to feel fulfilled, have fun, not have to work all day at a job that numbs my brain, the usual sorts of desires that draw people to him. Well, that, and I have a few debts I’d like to pay off.” He chuckles as he begins to guide you through the damp rainforest. There isn’t that much of a path, per se, but it seems the area had been walked enough to make a sort of a trail. “I assume you came to him for similar reasons. He’s willing to grant those wishes, and more besides, but he wants to have his fun with the process. So, rather than give a free ticket, he plays games with his petitioners. In my case, we made a bet. I get to be his servant for half a year, and if I’m still my same old self by the end of it, he’ll make me a very wealthy man, and even provide me the means to return home whole and hearty.” He hunches forward, and tenses his muscles, then jumps upwards to snatch a fruit off a low-lying branch, before taking a big juicy bite out of it, exposing his sharper canines as he eats greedily.

“Um … no offense, but you don’t exactly look too human,” you say pointedly.

Well, of course I’m not looking very human. What did you expect in the simian court? Master Sarvak had to make some … adjustments, so I could fit in my role better. That doesn’t mean I’ve changed up here or in here,” he said, pointing to his head and heart with a free hand.

You’d rather not risk upsetting your only guide in a potentially dangerous jungle further, so you decide to change the subject. “So what’s it like? Meeting Sarvak, I mean.”

Your guide furrows his brow as you walk, pondering the question. “It is … ook ook … difficult to describe. The first time I stood in his presence, I knew immediately how wonderful and merciful a simian he was.”

“How so?”

He breaks into a high-pitched sort of laugh that scratches through his vocals, until it becomes more like a screech. “Oh, you’re funny. Master Sarvak has taken very good care of me in his employ. All the bananas I could ask for, a tree to swing around in, the distinct pleasure of being his servant….”

“And what about your home?”

He taps his lightly bearded chin with a leathery finger. “My home? Well, it’s not much to look at by your standards. I get a lovely tree house, a never-ending stalk of bananas, fresh juice every morning and night, a hammock and bed to swing around or sleep in as I choose, and all the vines I could ever want to swing around on. It’s especially fun when you’re harvesting fruits from the trees. They’re so tender, so juicy and sweet. It makes my tail wag just thinking about them!”

You do your best to dodge the appendage, while still remaining courteous. “That’s … not exactly what I meant,” you explain.

“Hmm? Oh, you meant my human home. Well … I don’t know if there’s much to say about it, really. It was just a studio apartment. I remember … four walls, and a magic screen to look out into the world. Master Sarvak has something similar, only he calls it a scrying glass. I remember a fire stick I used to start a woodless fire, and it would keep burning, until I was finished. Now that really was something.” He paused a moment as a dazed expression passed over his face. “Funny … I can’t quite … recall the name for it. It’s been so long since I thought about that place. So … very long. Actually … what did my home … look like? How … how long has it actually been?” He lets out an animalistic grunt, and scratches at his side as he struggles to break through the haze. “I … I, uh … suppose it doesn’t matter.” The scratching becomes more rhythmic, relaxed, and a smile pulls at his face, expanding into a grin that exposes sharper canines and thicker incisors. “Yes … doesn’t … doesn’t matter at all.” He lets out few more simian hoots. “Must attend my duties.”

He clearly seems lost in his own world, and you’d rather not get lost with him, so you do the only think you can think to do. You tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention. “Um, are you okay?” you ask.

“Hm?” He looks at you, and the fog in his eyes clears a little. He shakes his head. “Sorry. That happens sometimes when I think of the master. It’s good to think about the master.” The scratching has risen somewhat on his hairy body, and suddenly he stops, and plucks something off his skin. “Yes … good.” You watch as he sticks it in his mouth, and starts to chew. You can’t believe what you’ve just witnessed as the crunching of an exoskeleton echoes in the quiet jungle air.

You gape silently at his actions, and he looks back at your face, and rolls his eyes.

“Well excuse me. I’m hungry. The bugs make for a tasty snack. Puts hair on your chest, sharpens your teeth for the ladies.” His eyes burn suddenly with an unreasoning anger, and he beats his chest with curled fists as he unleashes a series of territorial screeches. “AH HAH AH HAH AHHH!” He coughed afterwards, and cleared his throat as he regained control of himself. “Forgive me. That behavior was … uncalled for.”

“Do you need me to–?” you start.

He raises a halting hand. “No, no. Don’t worry. It comes with the territory. The form comes with the instincts, including the need to display dominance.

You watch with some surprise as his ears twitch, and then start to stretch, becoming larger and rounder. “Um….”

“Yes?” he asks as he turns to face you.

“Your ears.”

“Yes? What about my ears?”

“They just grew. Isn’t that bad for your bet?”

He looks at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “What are you talking about? They’ve always been this big.”

“Always been….” Your heartrate is starting to rise.

“Yes, always.”

Sweat begins to bead at your forehead, and you feel the hairs rising on the back of your neck. Perhaps coming here wasn’t the best idea, after all. “Um … how long have you been working here now, then?”

“Oh, I’d say about a month or so,” he answers.

“And … what happens to you, if you lose this bet of yours?”

“If I lose? Why … Master would … he would…. Something about a … runner-up prize…. Why can’t I…?” He claps both hands over his head for a moment, and scrunches his eyes shut in intense concentration. Or was it pain? You couldn’t quite tell. Then a cool breeze shakes the branches, and the soft tone of bells rings in the air. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, and then sighs. He stops, and you watch as his tail seems to wrap around his ankle, and rub it. His foot changes before your eyes, the skin taking on a glossy sheen as it thickens to a leathery consistency, and the big toe lengthens to become a thumb-like appendage, while the toes shift to become just like fingers. The second foot joins in a matter of seconds, and soon he turns to face you again. “Come,” he almost seems to drone, “Master is waiting. Mustn’t keep Master waiting.” He lets out a few gentle simian ooks as his sideburns thicken, and lengthen down the sides of his face and jaw to form a sort of furry mane.

“Um, you seem to be … well, that is to say….” You find yourself at a loss for words for a moment, then finally out and say it. “Something’s wrong with your face.”

He reaches up with his hands, and starts feeling over his cheeks, his nose, his brow, even the inside of his mouth. As he does so, you watch as his nostrils become more pronounced, and his mouth seems to pull out with his hand, forming a sort of semi-muzzle. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with my muzzle?”

“For one, you didn’t have it a few seconds ago.”

Your guide furrows his brow, and you watch as it thickens. The ridge stretches out like a clay pulled by a sculptor’s hand, before it compacts and swells, spreading like roots down the sides of his face to form a sort of natural hollow for the eyes to sink within.

“And now your brow is changing!”

He folds his arms, and rolls his eyes. “Well, a thick brow is part of the package. I’m a monkey servant, remember? … Monkey … just … monkey. Yes.” His gaze became distant again as the whites of his eyes began to disappear. “Hmm?” He sees your expression, and shakes his head to try to clear it. “Sorry. I’ve been feeling … scattered lately.”

You definitely don’t like where this is going. “Why don’t you tell me your name? You never did introduce yourself.”

“My name?” He shakes his head. “Master made me promise not to speak it, while I serve him. A proper challenge for a proper servant, he said. You may call me Domaap. It is the name Master told me to use.” He smiles dazedly at you.

“Um … why are you grinning like that?” you ask. “It’s sort of creepy.”

“Because I’ve come to enjoy hearing the name,” he explains as you reach a hill of roots. He begins climbing, and you have no choice but to follow. Naturally, given his simian anatomy, it comes more easily to him than it does for you. “It fills me with pleasure. The other monkeys think it’s a joke of some sort. I don’t understand how it is, myself.”

“You’re telling me he made you his servant, and you still can’t understand monkey speak?” you ask, surprised. You’ve worked up a good sweat by now as you continue to climb.

“Well, of course I speak simian. When you live in a jungle where the main population is monkeys who are bound in service to an even larger, more powerful magical monkey, you kind of have to know how to speak the language. It’s just a proper name, from what I can tell. I understand the speech. That doesn’t mean I have the meaning of every name memorized,” he pointed out logically as he reached the top and extended a hand down. You take it, and he pulls you up the rest of the way. “I can teach you some of it later, if you’d like. It’s actually quite simple to learn, more a matter of simplifying thought patterns mixed with body language and the occasional exclamation.”

“Like cursing?”

“More like hoots and screeching. It’s actually rather fun, once you get past the initial embarrassment. It’s far more entertaining to listen to them, once you get the knack for it. They’re simple, but passionate, and all dedicated to the master.”

“Why do you keep referring to this monkey as Master?”

Domaap shrugs as you continue to walk along the top of the natural wall. “I call him Master, because he is the master here. Everyone knows it, and everyone lives according to that fact. He gives us our jungle, grants us a home, rules us fairly.”

“Us?”

“Well, yes, us. I am a simian right now, so that means I fall under his rule, too. Any time we obey him, pleasure is our reward. I still remember when I first grew my tail and hung from the trees with it. It was such a rush. Master gave it to me as a reward for such speedy and efficient service when dealing with petitioners. Sure, it took me a while to learn how to climb properly, but once I had that down, the sky was the limit, quite literally. I could go anywhere in the canopy, swing from limb to limb like it was nothing. Back and forth, and back and forth, and back … and back … and … back….” He slumps further forward as a crack sounds from his spine. You watch as he swings his arms freely, and they lengthen. Soon enough, the sound of his knuckles scraping the ground reach your ears, and you watch as the skin around them cracks and darkens, while they swell larger. His fingers stretch out, and curve naturally as he alters his stride completely to match his new form of locomotion.

“Domaap?”

He turns his head back to face you, and grunts questioningly.

“Um … was part of your deal becoming a complete monkey?”

He grins, exposing his sharper canines as his lips fold outwards. “Mon-key … Master,” he grates out slowly, then slams his hands on the ground a few times, jumping excitedly on the forest floor, while his fur, because that’s basically what it is now, thickens into a proper coat. “Good … ha–ppy.” He leaps into the air, grabbing one of the low-lying branches, and starts swinging as he hoots out what you think is a simian equivalent of a laugh. The trees shake and tremble around you as that laughter echoes, and returns. It redoubles as the boughs in the higher parts of the trees shake with movement. You swallow forcefully as you realize you’ve been shadowed the whole way. There had to be hundreds of them.

You feel a sharp pain, and smack the back of your neck, pulling back to reveal the bloated remains of one of the biggest insects you’ve ever laid eyes on. Domaap hoots excitedly, and leaps down from his branch to take what remains he can with his fingers, then shoves them in his mouth. When he looks up at you again, the whites in his eyes have all but been consumed, leaving a sort of golden hazel iris to stare back at you.

…

But they had been blue.

“Domaap, how many people have actually won Sarvak’s games?”

His shoulders shake as he hoots gently in what you assume to be the simian equivalent of a chuckle. “No … know,” he grated out. You watch with a rising sense of horror as a forest of hair sprouts and spreads up his shoulders and neck, thickening along the way. “Just … serve Master.” He thumped his chest with a fist, then motioned towards you. “Come.”

The humid jungle air soon leaves you covered in sweat, and a low-lying fog begins to stream around your ankles as you follow your guide. Your hidden followers peek curiously out from the tree boughs. Some are completely feral, including in size. Others still maintain some small semblance of their humanity, namely in the form of tattered clothes.

You stop at the foot of a massive tree, where a curious plant is growing with a single broad, sturdy green leaf the size of a platter. A pool of rainwater has collected inside, and your host reaches in with a cupped hand to sip. He smiles at you then, and leans forward on his knuckles, before motioning to the leaf. “Drink,” he grunts. “Help … talk to Master.” His brow furrowed further, as though he were struggling to recall the words. “Speak … sim … sim–ian.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shook his head. “No … see … Master. No … talk … Domaap. No talk. No … no ….” He groaned out the last word, then hooted as he slapped his leathery palms onto the forest floor. The trees came alive with screeches, hoots, and hollers that pealed like laughter as he pulled off his shirt to reveal a fur-covered chest. He beat against it a few times, then grinned, and hooted excitedly as he watched the fur spread down his arms to thicken into a proper coat.

“Domaap?” you ask hesitantly.

The new monkey rises up onto his two feet, and stares uncomprehendingly at you. His tail sways behind him as he points to the leaf, and mimes drinking one more time, then leaps up onto a tree trunk to climb onto a low-hanging branch and hang upside down with his tail. He folds his arms, and looks expectantly at you.

You look back the way you’ve come. The fog has all but eliminated any sign of the track you’ve taken. Even if you could manage to stumble back the way you came, it was highly likely a predator of some sort would find you, before you managed to escape the forest’s boundaries. Domaap continues to stare at you, cocking his head left and right as he scratches his scalp with a finger. The familiarity seems to have faded from his expression, and all you can see in those eyes now is a strange sort of curiosity, as if you were the first human he had ever laid eyes on.

At this point, it’s rather clear. You have no choice but to do as he suggested, or else risk being lost in this jungle for the rest of your days. You brace yourself, then walk resolutely to the leaf. The water is still, completely undisturbed as you peer over the leaf’s edge. You can just make out the shadow of your face, but nothing else. A single drop falls from the tree above to ripple the surface, and you cup your hands nervously, before reaching out to take the liquid.

The cold water raises goosebumps on your skin as the excess runs down your arms, while you tip your hands up to slurp at the water. Your throat tingles for a moment, and you clear it forcibly to relieve the sensation. Then you look up at the monkey again, take a deep breath, and sigh. ‘Here goes,’ you think to yourself. “Domaap?”

The monkey looks your way. “About time you took the hint,” he groused as he dropped to the jungle floor. He smoothed back his messy hair, then hunched forward to lean on his knuckles again. “If you’re that hesitant, there’s no way you’ll be able to face the master and win.”

“What … was that? I mean, I assume we’re talking monkey, but it all sounds like English to me.”

Domaap shrugged. “The water is mixed with nectar from blossoms on the tree. The nectar drops when the pool is ready, sort of like the tree already knows. You’re lucky. You got a fresh dose. That means you’ll be able to speak with and understand us a lot longer than most.”

“And what happens when there’s more nectar than water?”

Domaap grinned, baring his sharper incisors. “Then the forest really likes you,” he said mysteriously. Then he turned, and waved his hand behind him. “Come on. Master Sarvak won’t wait forever, and he’ll have my tail, if I don’t get you to him soon.”

You walk nervously behind him as the creaking of tree boughs and the occasional whisper rushes past your ears. The longer you travel, the more prominent the voices seem to become.

“Fifty bananas says the newbie doesn’t even make it to the game,” one says.

“Twenty on chickening out,” another clamors.

You blush as you hear another voice ask whether you’re single.

“Pay no attention to them,” Domaap suggested as he looked to the trees.

“So, bananas are currency here?” you ask, desperate to change the subject and follow his advice.

Domaap shrugged. “Bananas, other fruits, sometimes tools or services. It varies. After all, what’s a game without a little betting on the side, eh?”

“How many have you bet on?”

“Oh, a few,” he said modestly as he brushed his knuckles over his chest. “I understand you humans better than most. It gives me an advantage. Honestly, though, what I’d like to do is explore the forest more. Being Master’s servant is fulfilling, and I am happy to do it, but I can’t go very far, unless I’m bringing new guests to him. The others tell me about all these places in the forest, and I can’t go, because Master needs me. It’s how most of the others get back at me for winning.”

“And how long did you say you’d been serving him again?”

“As long as I’ve been in this forest, so pretty much all my life,” Domaap said. The air seemed to waver around him momentarily as the fog swept over his shorts. You blink in surprise to try to ease the strange sense of strain that’s suddenly assailed your eyes. A few moments and one eye rub later, you open your eyes to see an emerald-green loin cloth wrapped tightly around his waist and nether region. It pops brightly against his dark fur, leaving little to the imagination. “Master has been very kind.”

“I … see that,” you say as the pit in your stomach sinks even lower. Desperate to take your mind away from that foreboding sensation, you decide to change the course of the conversation. “The trees here are so large. The forest must be very old.”

Domaap chuckles as he leaps onto a low-lying branch, and swings lazily, before somersaulting in the air, and landing perfectly back on the forest floor again. “Master made it himself, long ago. No woodcutters here, no developers. The forest protects itself, protects us. Master called it … alchemy, I think.”

“He made all this with alchemy?” You look up at the thick trunks, the spidering boughs, the heavy green vegetation casting the forest in an unearthly light. You take another breath of the mist, and a hint of something floral catches your senses, almost like a pollen.

“Yup. He helped the forest grow, develop ways to protect itself, even communicate sometimes. You could say … she’s sort of like a mother to us.” Domaap pauses at that, and rubs a hand appreciatively against one of the massive trunks. The boughs rustle, and the perfume becomes stronger for a few moments. Then you look up to see a blossom floating gently down. Its petals are a fiery orange tinged with licks of yellow and red near the edges.

A mischievous breeze stirs the mist, directing the flower’s course, until it lands in the monkey’s cupped hands. Beads of moisture shone like jewels along the flower’s petals as the two of you stare. Then Domaap lifts the flower up to his nose, and takes a deep breath. You watch in utter disbelief as the dark fur around his face begins to shift. It’s subtle at first, but like a ripple in a pond, a wave of color suddenly rushes out, consuming his head fur, then rolling over the rest of him. Fiery red blazed down his back with golden streaks and the occasional cinder-like orange. The fur around his torso shone like sunlight as the gold became more pronounced. The gold, orange, and red coursed down his tail, merging into a brilliant band, before fading off to streaks of gray, black, and white at the very end. The very visage of the flower became etched on either bicep just below the shoulder in black, not unlike the core from whence the stamen in the flower rose.

Your body feels tense, after seeing this latest transformation. Domaap looks at you in turn with a bashful smile. “That was … I suppose what you would call a kiss,” he says as he takes the blossom and mounts it by his ear, then clears his throat. “I’ll place it next to my hammock later. For now, it’s time you met Master. It won’t be much farther now. Come, come,” he waves as the two of you press on together.

The path isn’t nearly so difficult now, but your anxiety has reached a new level. Every shake of a bough, every stray breeze, every twig snap makes your heart hammer faster against your chest. You start to feel lightheaded, and you wonder if it’s you or the forest. “Does … does the forest ever … do things to people?”

“It wouldn’t be able to defend itself, if it couldn’t, now would it?” Domaap asked with a mischievous wink. “Don’t worry. You’re a guest. She won’t do anything to you, if you behave.”

“… Behave. Right….”

“She had fun with the last developers that came through here. They made good additions to the forest. You know, saplings, fungus, maybe a couple of predators.” He shrugged. “They don’t hunt us, of course. She won’t let them.”

“Predators….” You can hardly believe it.

“Well, that is what alchemy is, after all, isn’t it, changing the nature of one thing to make it another? Does it really matter whether it’s lead or a creature?”

“I suppose not,” you finally say. “It’s … not painful, though, is it?”

Domaap shrugged. “It depends on the visitor. If they deserve the pain, they’ll have pain. If they don’t, they won’t.”

“And … how do they know, the forest and Sarvak, I mean?”

“A little magic, a little alchemy, and maybe a game.” He grins at you. “Everyone loves games here.”

“And … if I meet your master, he’ll make me play a game with him.”

“Yup!” Domaap’s grin widens. “Don’t worry, his games are fun. He won’t let anybody hurt you.”

“It’s not getting hurt that I’m worried about,” you mutter back.

Domaap suddenly stops, and shoves out an arm to hold you back. A thick layer of leaves and brush stands before you, and the mist writhes out from the barrier. “We’re here. Make sure to mind your manners. We don’t take kindly to people who disrespect Master,” he warns. Then he reaches out to the leaves, and brushes them gently.

The foliage moves aside, rustling almost warningly as it parts. The fog washes over you in a wave, causing you to shudder, despite the warmer climate. You feel the strong leathery grip of a hand clasping yours firmly, and suddenly you find yourself stumbling through the curtain of fog into a massive clearing. Sunlight sparkles through the mist, causing the moist earth beneath your feet to emerge from hiding. Tiny specks of light dot the trees above you in boughs, where a series of vines and boughs appear to have grown together to form a series of shelters. These doubtless were the treehouses Domaap had mentioned earlier. Bamboo shoots and other forms of grass stuck up at various locations near the bases of the trees, stretching like fences to guard against intruders. There, in the center of the clearing, a tall, well-toned monkey balances on a gnarled wooden staff with one foot mounted on the top, while a second supported further down where the wood of the staff spiraled outwards, before tightening back up again in its downward course. His eyes are closed, but his fiery orange fur blazes in the misty clearing. His tail swishes idly behind him, its end a bright golden tassel that seems to trail sparks in the strange half-light of the clearing. Or was that just fireflies?

You blink a few times just to be sure, before returning your attention to the monkey man. His dark-chocolate-brown skin only served to further emphasize the brightness of his fur. You note how his ear twitches, and his lips curl up into a smile. He opens his eyes to expose playful golden orbs hemmed by red along the edges. His pupils are dark and probing as he peers up and down.

“So, this is our new arrival, hmm?” he asks as he looks you over. “Interesting.” He leaps up, performs a triple front flip, and lands gracefully on his hands and feet, before rising back onto his legs again. You do your best to keep your gaze away from the rather prominent bulge pressing against a blue loin cloth as he approaches you. “I’m guessing Domaap here has already explained the rules of our little home to you, yes?”

You gulp, and nod gently.

“Good. That will make this much easier. Domaap?”

Domaap steps forward and bows to Sarvak. “Yes, Master?”

“I want you to go join the others and harvest a couple of bushels of golden bananas.”

“Wh-what?” Domaap balks.

“You heard me. I want to have the prize ready for our guest. After all, one must be able to show an offering of good faith to one so brave.”

“But Master….”

“Now, Domaap.”

Domaap’s eyes grow unfocused for a moment. “Yes, Master. I’ll leave at once,” he says dazedly.

Sarvak reaches out, and pats Domaap on the head. “Good monkey. Treat yourself to a banana on your way back.

Domaap looks up adoringly at Sarvak. “Oh yes, Master. Thank you, Master!” He grins, baring his teeth, and exposing his sharp canines.

“Off you go, now. I want to play this game alone.”

You watch as Domaap scurries off with a few excited hoots of joy. He leaps onto a nearby tree, and the boughs shake as he jumps with practiced ease from branch to branch. If you hadn’t met him earlier, you’d have sworn he was a native.

“And score another one for me,” Sarvak says with a smirk, then chuckles. “I do so enjoy watching humans. They’re such funny little creatures, so assured in their own sense of superiority as the ‘dominant species,’” he says as he performs a set of air quotes for your benefit. “Give them a few changes, though, a little push here, a tiny nudge there, and … well, they don’t seem to care about being human anymore. Most of them rewrite their memories of their own accord.” He chuckles again, sighs, then shakes his head. “Humanity is overrated, anyway. You people are so focused on things like industrialization, a concept of money as power, boxing every little part of the world into your own standards and definitions, dismissing things like magic and potions with a contemptuous wave of the hand. After all, mankind is too advanced to believe in such things anymore,” he scoffs. “And they call us the ignorant savages.”

You gulp as the crushing realization of just how far in over your head you’ve gone practically shatters your psyche. Your body begins to shake, and you struggle to keep yourself together.

Sarvak takes one look at you, then sighs, and shakes his head as he clicks his tongue chidingly. “One of those, are you?” He’s by you faster than you can blink, and you feel his strong arm around your shoulders. His fur tickles where it brushes your neck and cheeks, but it feels warm enough, and … surprisingly, he doesn’t stink. “Look, I’m not some power-hungry spirit determined to take over the world, okay? And I’m not here to destroy humanity. Everything has its place in the world, even humans.” He shrugs as he leads you to a high-backed swing made from interwoven vines you’re certain wasn’t there when you first walked in. “I guess you could say I’m just the bookkeeper. I watch over my forest, take care of my charges, make sure they’re well fed and sheltered, maybe play a few pranks on visitors, if I feel like it. If anything, I’m more like an overprotective father than I am a ‘master.’” He chuckles at the wavering warble he added at the end, and despite yourself, you find your heartrate starting to slow. The shaking eases. He turns to smile at you, and you don’t see a hint of malice. If anything, you see … pity?

“Where exactly is this place, anyways?” you finally manage to say as he guides you to the vines and presses you firmly into the swing. He’s surprisingly strong. Then again, he’s a monkey. They’re supposed to be strong.

“Somewhere in some jungle in the world.” He shrugs. “The forest likes to move around from time to time.” He leans back, and a surge of spongy flora suddenly rises from the ground to meet him as he seats in an organic equivalent of an easy chair.

“This … is weird,” you finally admit, “and freaky.”

Sarvak shrugs. “Things like this always are for you humans. It’s par for the course, really. Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

You swallow nervously, then look back over to him. “Domaap said … the forest protects itself. It’s sentient, then?”

“I’d say closer to sapient, but yes. As you can see, she’s most considerate.” He smiles and pats the chair appreciatively. “Though she hasn’t exactly spoken yet, so it’s not entirely certain where she stands on that scale we mentioned earlier.”

“And people have tried to hurt her before?” You wince as you feel the vines tighten somewhat beneath you.

“Yes, they have,” Sarvak says softly. “Humans are always creating new ways to develop, or harvesting new ingredients for their medicine. I can’t fault them on the harvesting, but the destruction they bring about to do it sometimes borders on the ludicrous.” He shakes his head, then sighs. “So yes, we’ve had to defend ourselves a few times before. You could say that’s where the memories go, in part, when humans lose my games. The forest needs to know what advances man has made, so she can counter them in the event of an attack.”

“And how do humans find their way here?”

“How did you?”

“I … read a book.”

“Correction. You read a portion of a book, one you found on … the internet, I believe it’s called, isn’t it? You’re not even sure how you found it, but you read it, and here you are, waiting to get some easy money.”

You squirm under his knowing gaze. “Life’s been a little rough to me,” you say weakly.

“Go on,” he urges. “Tell me about it.”

You try to avoid his gaze.

“Eyes on me, please. It’s rude not to hold contact with a host,” he points out.

You fiddle with your hands, squirm a bit, but ultimately, little by little, you raise your head to face him.

“That’s better. Now, come along. Tell me the truth.”

You’re suddenly struck by a strange sense of vertigo, and you lean back in your makeshift swing for support. “I … I, uh….” And then you start. It comes haltingly at first. You want to obscure the details, leave your life your own, but the more you talk, the harder it is to keep your lies straight. You furrow your brow in confusion as you talk about dropping out of high school to live on your own. How was he doing this?

“Easy now. I won’t judge,” Sarvak promised. “I just like to hear the stories. Come now; tell me more. No more guilt. No more worries. No more fears. Just relax.” You hear the gentle creek of the vines in your seat, and you wonder idly when you’d started swinging. “Just look at me and relax. Let it all out. You’ll feel so much better, if you do. It’s always better to tell the truth, you know, don’t you agree?”

“I, uh … suppose so.” A sweet scent fills your nostrils, and you feel the gentle tickle of blossoms against your skin. “Mmm … smells … nice.” A light tingling rushes over your body, and you shudder as you feel the tension start to leave your muscles.

“See? You’re feeling better already. Come. Tell me more.”

And you do tell him more. You’re not sure how long you’ve been talking, when you suddenly see a rough wrinkled hand shoving something long and yellow in your face.

“Banana?” a familiar voice asks.

You break your contact with Sarvak for just a moment to stare up into the simian face. You feel dazed, thirsty. Your stomach growls.

“Thank you, Domaap. You can leave the bananas there,” Sarvak says casually. “And could you fetch our guest something to drink?”

Domaap grunts his acknowledgement and walks off into the underbrush again. You’re surprised to find yourself holding the proffered banana in your hand, already peeled.

“Go on. Eat,” Sarvak prods as he takes one from his own stalk. “I guarantee this will taste better than anything you’ve ever tasted out there before.” He bites it, swallows, then smiles as he stares at you. “Well, go on,” he prompts.

You look down at the banana. It almost seems to glow, but you’re sure that’s just a trick of your eyes. You sniff it, and smell a strong, sweet scent. A moment later, you’re staring bemusedly at an empty peel. A strong, fruity taste hangs in your mouth, and you look confusedly at the monkey across the way.

“Well, go on, big nose. There’s plenty more where that came from,” Sarvak presses. “Eat.”

And eat you do. Your nostrils flare, and you chomp down on banana after banana.

“That’s it. I told you they were better than anything else, didn’t I?” he asks.

“Yesh,” you acknowledge through puffed lips. Your jaw is working like a pair of pistons, but you don’t care. You don’t stop. You have to eat.

“To use a phrase one of my brethren were so keen on using, before he joined us, ‘it’ll put hair on your chest.’” He chuckled. “Among other places.”

You hold back after a time, and slouch into your seat. The vines are creaking more heavily now, and you blink your eyes sleepily as you brush some of your hair out of your face. You scratch at your stomach, and grunt at the strange pulling sensation you’re getting from your clothes. It’s rather uncomfortable. But then you’ve got a coconut cup shoved in your face, and you’re drinking something thick, smooth, and creamy. You forget about the strange sensation.

“Drink it all up,” Sarvak says. You do, and the strange bloating sensation you felt before is relieved, though not the tug of the clothing on your skin. Your brow furrows again, and you look up at the strange protrusion over your eyes. It’s bushy and thick, like a bunch of stray eyebrow hairs, but you don’t understand how that could be. You knead and pull at it, but that doesn’t seem to help. If anything, it seems to make it worse.

“Leave it,” Sarvak instructs, and you do so without a second thought.

“Time to talk again?” you ask. Your vocal chords feel strained. The itching sensation has increased, and things feel … almost swollen as you swallow again. You reach up to scratch an itch at the top of your head, and a thrill of pleasure flows down your body as you continue the action. You’re hardly aware of the strange pushing sensation against your kneading fingers. Indeed, you’re too enthralled in pleasure to be much aware of anything.

“That’s right,” Sarvak says gently. “But first, you need to relax more. Kick off those shoes. Stay a while. I think we’re close enough now to be past formalities, wouldn’t you say?”

You nod and grunt, since your mouth is too full of banana right now to respond properly. In a matter of seconds, your shoes are flying through the air, and land on either side of Sarvak’s chair. You wriggle your toes in your socks, and sigh.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes….”

“So much better without those pesky shoes.”

Your brow furrows. “Stupid things,” you grumble. Then the pleasure washes over you again, and you sigh as you lean back in the vines and stretch your feet on the clearing’s floor.

“That’s right. Now, where were we?”

And so you resume, and you look gladly, almost eagerly into his eyes this time. You’re struck by the occasional lightheadedness, but when that happens, you just grunt, and scratch yourself a little to give you time. You think Sarvak knows, but he’s so nice, just lets you do what you want, and smiles. He doesn’t even blink an eyelash when your clothes start to rip. He’s such a great guy. You really do like him, and he’s giving you all the bananas you could ask for. What a gracious host. You smile as you chew, and your swollen jaw shifts in proportion with the muscle strain. You hardly even notice the twin pops as your socks burst open, like the seams in your pants, to reveal rough, leathery feet. In a matter of seconds, you find yourself peeling bananas with your toes, then passing them up to your hands to chew.

“So there it is. I was just … tired, I guess,” you finally say from your spot on the ground. You twirl your last banana idly between your fingers as you readjust the remains of the vines into a nest, shoving the fragments of cloth in with some spare leaves growing within reach to form the extra padding. “Tired, and,” you yawn, “waiting … for someone like you.”

“And I’ve been waiting for someone like you,” Sarvak said intently. His eyes were so pretty. They seemed almost to glow as you stared into them. You felt so safe. “Domaap is an excellent servant, and he loves his duty, but he gets tired of being by my side so often, and he wants to explore the forest. I can’t say I blame him. She has much to offer, and she does so love surprising her children.” He sips from his own cup as he eyes you. “I don’t need more servants pampering me hand and foot.” He rises from his chair suddenly, and walks over to you. It’s … funny. You don’t remember him being so short before. He barely comes to your chest. “I need someone strong to support me, to protect me when people come with ill intent. Some come to steal from me sometimes. Others … others try to kill me.”

A guttural snarl rises naturally from your throat. “Why?” you demand harshly. Your eyes narrow. Your free hand clenches into a meaty fist as you bear your teeth. A tingling sensation runs over your jaw, and you’re hardly aware of how your canines have lengthened somewhat and your mouth has shoved forward with your new snout to form a sort of proto-muzzle as you snort angrily.

“Money, power, land, ingredients, reagents, fear, take your pick,” he sighed with a shrug. “The point is that I need someone to guard me, to protect me in the event someone tries when they get close. My little monkeys would be lost without me. And well, if I die….” He left it hanging in the air.

You struggle for a few minutes as you try to catch the monkey’s meaning. You know Sarvak wants you to finish it, but you’re not sure how. Then, slowly, a tiny bubble of memory bursts its way to the surface of your thoughts. He was the bookkeeper. He’d said that. Keeps earth’s books balanced, or … something like that. “Earth dies, too,” you finish gruffly.

“Exactly. Very good.”

You grin at his praise and puff out your chest proudly as you strike it with your fist. “I’m smart,” you grunt.

“Yes, very smart for such a big ape,” he agreed.

That … didn’t sound right … did it? But … Sarvak said to tell the truth, and … he was telling the truth, too, right? So … that means … you had to be an ape. But … but….

“Shhh….” He hushes you gently as he pulls your head down to stare at him again. “Our game is nearly over, my massive friend.”

Those eyes….

“Very nearly over, over the edge, over your old life, over humanity.”

“O … ver….” You can’t look away. You hoot gently, meekly, to voice that small piece of concern, so very small compared to the bulk you now feel in your body, that raw brute strength.

“But here’s where the game gets interesting. See, I’m going to take a risk, my friend. I’m going to give you a choice. True, it’s only fifty-fifty, but it’s a gamble all the same, which makes it such a wonderful game. You can go back to that old life of yours with a dead-end job and nowhere to go. I’d even be willing to part with some of my valuables to send you on your way, let you live the life you always wanted over there: comfortable, peaceful, rich. Of course, you’d likely end up living in some city high rise with all those noisy cars and rowdy neighbors, and you’d be doing everything in your power to protect the valuables in the first place. Honestly, it’s far too stressful, in my opinion.”

His tail flicks over your vision, and the bright lights make your head feel all funny and fuzzy as he taps the edge on the banana in your hand. The peel starts to glow with a gentle golden light, just like the tail. It feels warm, and a light tingle passes from it into your much larger hand. “The other option, my friend, is quite simple, and you like simple, don’t you?”

You feel your head nodding. Simple was good. You liked simple.

“All you have to do is eat that banana. Do that, and you can stay here, where it’s simple, calm, peaceful. You’ll have all the fruits you could ever want, including our long yellow friends there,” he added with a wink. “You can be my guard, someone to watch my back, intimidate any people who get the wrong idea about their visits here. You know, the ones who want to hurt me.”

You growl again as the haze of anger descends.

“You can teach them a lesson, make them understand how wrong they are. I can show you how.” The tail caresses under your chin. “How to be dominant. How to lead them. How to reform them. Or, if you prefer, well, you can do it the other way, I suppose.”

“Other … way?” you hoot, confused.

“Oh, you know, like when you break a twig. I don’t like killing, but if it comes down to it, sometimes you have to.” He shrugged. “That would be completely up to you, of course. But there’s no need to think about that right now. No need to think at all.” He’s staring at you gain, and your eyes are locked with his. “Thinking is over now. You don’t think much now anyway, do you? You prefer to act.”

“A-a-aaahhhhct….” Eyes … so pretty … so … nice…. Thinking over. No think.

“So act. Eat or don’t eat. Choose now, you silly ape.”

For just a moment, images flash through your mind. You see the small apartment you rent, the abusive manager, the cursing roommates, the mocking “friends.” You look at the banana, and your mind clears as the full impact of what that choice would mean blazes through the fog like a comet. Then you look down at Sarvak, those glowing eyes, that sultry voice. He was kind, hospitable, friendly, and he was offering you a new life in a place where you would be well taken care of, where you could decide your fate without other people to boss you around, well, except for Sarvak. He would technically be your boss, since you’d be his guard, but that was beside the point. It was beautiful here, beautiful like those eyes. So … beautiful.

And just like that, the comet passes, and the darkness rushes in to fill its place. Funny words like choose, ape, and simple echo over and over in the caverns of your mind, and they keep getting louder the longer you stare at the banana. You scratch at the ridge on top of your head, and the pleasure calms you. The darkness thickens. The caverns expand. Somewhere, deep down, you feel something give. You grunt. You hoot. You peel the banana, and as you raise it to your dimming eyes, you fumble for the words that will seal your fate. “I’m just a big, dumb ape.”

You take the bite, and Master Sarvak smirks as you polish off the banana and toss the peel aside with the last vestiges of your humanity. You shudder in pleasure as Master Sarvak speaks, “Yes, you are, Pumbavu. Yes, you are.”

You are Pumbavu.

You are a dumb ape.

And you are happy to serve your new master until THE END.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 11

You groan as your alarm goes off and you open your bleary eyes. No dream this time, or at least not that you remember. You scratch at your chest and slowly rise to pull the earbuds out. Then you look up at the fathead again and offer a brief salute. “Morning, meathead.” You get up and scratch at your crotch as you make your way to the bathroom mirror. You yawn as you stretch, then flex your arm the same way you have been for the last two weeks. “One more day, and you’ll be a proper habit,” you mutter. You put on that easygoing smile you’ve been practicing and let out a chuckle as you relax your gaze, letting your eyes appear to glass over. You pitch your voice lower (you find that so much easier in the morning) and pat your bicep. “Morning, meathead.” A shudder passes through your body, and you feel a slight stirring below. Ever since you started on those recordings, that’s felt better and better to say. You still don’t think you’re nearly big enough to qualify, but time and effort has at least yielded some results. You see a bit more perk in the bicep than you had expected, and the surface is less yielding than it had been when you first started, giving off less of a smack and more of a dull thump on impact. After you’ve showered and dressed in your gym clothes, you make your way to the kitchen, where you fix a massive pile of blueberry pancakes to go with your protein shake, or whatever it was. Part of something called the bulk cycle. You eat a lot of carbohydrates, mostly healthier ones, and then use them to build up mass that you turn into more muscle. At least, that’s how Duff had described it, after Hank gave the order. It went against everything you had come to know as a model, but since this was for the sake of bodybuilding, you had little choice but to trust the experts. You ate ravenously, using the shake to wash down the quick bread, and finished in just a few minutes. You piled the frying pan into the sink and loaded up the dishwasher, taking just enough time to dust in some soap and start the cycle, before running back to grab your keys, wallet, and gym bag, then make your way out the door. You run the pre-workout pump track through your ears as you jog to the bus stop. Your heart races and you feel the surge as the recording goes into full swing. By the time you reach the bus stop, you feel too energized to stop, so you jog in place, while you wait. It’s been getting harder to just sit around for any period of time. If it weren’t for the music in your track, the bus ride would be absolute murder. By the time you arrive near the gym, you’re practically blowing through those doors, where a smirking Hank stands waiting. “Leg day,” he noted casually. You just smirk confidently, the music thumping in your ears. “Bring it on.”

“Damn, man. You plowed through those exercises today,” Duff noted as the two of you passed through the gym’s doors and into the frigid air. Then he laughed. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes next time. Hank’s just gonna up his game, you know.” “Hey, I made it through the worst of it, didn’t I? I could’ve stopped coming, but I didn’t. If I can adjust to this, I can adjust to whatever he throws at me.” Duff shakes his head and chuckles. “Try to keep that in mind, when you’re going through hell.” “Shut up,” you laugh and punch him softly on the arm. “Seriously, though, I’ve gotta ask. What’re you listening to?” You shrug. “Custom tracks to help me focus as I work out. It’s part of the contract.” “Mandated?” “Pretty much. If there’s anything I don’t like in the script, I can take it back to the doc no problem.” You shrug. “It’s actually pretty cool. She put me in a carousel once, while we were testing to find the right blend for me. It was pretty cool.” “And you trust her?” “She’s a professional, and she strongly advised me against allowing the role to define me as I grow into it. All the tracks are designed to do is give me motivation and help me get into character for brief periods of time. Come to think of it, I haven’t tried one of those yet.” You tap your chin. Duff blushed, even as his lips curled into a smile. “Let’s just say you’re in for a surprise, then.” “A good one, I hope.” “Depends on how much you enjoy it.” Duff shrugged. “I like it, myself. It puts me in the right frame of mind when I’m working out.” “That reminds me, actually. When I first came in, Hank called you a beginner. If you’ve been working in the gym for so long on building up, why’d he say that?” “Probably because I haven’t really bulked up much yet. I’ve been sort of stuck at a plateau for a while now. I think it’s why he’s let us hang out so much. He probably wants us to train together, once you’re at a point where you can handle it.” “Handle it?” “Your body’s only just adjusting to the strain of a more serious workout on a regular basis. I work out almost every day now, both as part of my fitness program and my training here. It’s going to take a couple more weeks at least, before you’re ready to pump that kind of iron on a regular basis.” “But I will be able to one day.” Duff looks at you with a cocked eyebrow. “You sound almost excited about it.” “Determined. There’s a difference.” Duff smirked, then chuckled. “Not much. Think I might be able to watch you? I’m curious to see how you act.” “Think you can handle if I act like a total jerk?” Duff shrugged. “You don’t have to be, if you don’t want to be.” “Touche.” “I’ll take that as a yes.” “Hey!”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 15

“So, things have been going well?” Doctor Schroder asked. Once again, you find yourself sitting on that familiar couch, this time leaning back against it, rather than leaning forward nervously. You and the doc know each other well enough by now to be more casual and candid with one another, after all. “Yeah, pretty much. Working out is actually starting to turn sort of fun.” “Good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” She smiled at you then. “And your sleeping problem?” “Getting easier. Still takes me a while, but I guess it was just a matter of getting my mind used to incorporating it as part of my sleep cycle.” You shrug and sigh as you feel the material of your medium shirt riding up against your pectorals. “You look like you’re starting to get a little on the snug side,” Doc noted. “When were you planning to move up?” You arch your back to stretch it, spreading your legs wide to give you the best sensation possible. “Soon,” you groan in pleasure as your muscles send that familiar tingle up your nervous system. “You know, I thought this was going to be hard, but like I said before, it’s actually gotten a lot more fun over time.” “How so?” The doctor began taking notes again. “I don’t know. I guess having Duff has helped a lot. He’s a real firecracker, once you get past his shyness. And he really knows what he’s talking about. I guess you could say my training’s been sort of like a good cop, bad cop routine. Hank works me hard and barks orders, while Duff takes the time to explain what’s going on and why Hank needs me to adjust a position or move a certain way.” You blush. “The other day, he talked me into a chugging contest. I haven’t done something like that in years.” “And was that also fun?” You give a sort of half smile as you think back to the event. “Yeah, it ... kind of was.” You chuckle. “I don’t know why, but it was.” And suddenly you’re laughing. “It’s stupid, I know,” you say as you wipe a mirthful tear from the corner of your eye. “But I can’t seem to help myself.” She furrowed her brow. “Tell me, did you have many friends growing up?” Your laughter cut off instantly. “Why the sudden change in topic?” “Because I’m wondering about this interaction of yours with Duff. As you said yourself, your behavior with him seems ... unusual.” She jotted a few more things on her clipboard. “I’d ... rather not discuss the past,” you say evasively. She raised a brow, but remained calm as she jotted further notes. “If that’s what you want.” She shrugged. “I can’t force you. However, I will note that if you had an issue in making and keeping proper friends in your youth, it would explain your exuberance here, at least to a certain extent.” You want to say something, but a sullen silence grips at your throat. “Normally, I would suggest we change to practicing your voice acting at this point, but based on your expression, I think it might be best, if we paused here for the day. Take some time to think about what I said.” She looked up from her clipboard. “And remember that the past is simply the past. We make what we will from it. What really matters is what happens in the now, and if what you’re doing makes you happy.” A humorless chuckle escapes your lips. “How did this turn from a standard progress check to a therapy session?” “I am supposed to monitor your mental state throughout this transition, remember?” Schroder pointed out. “I don’t want you to turn into some sort of brainless meat puppet. That’s not my purpose.” You rise slowly from the couch and pick up your duffel bag. “I know,” you say as you turn and make your way towards the door. “See you next time?” “The usual appointment. Don’t be late.” You nod and close the door behind you. You can feel the old aches returning again, the loneliness. Was that why you hooked up with Duff so quickly? Were you really that desperate? You sigh and shake your head, then grit your teeth in frustration. You thought you’d moved past all this. Why here? Why now? If you couldn’t get rid of these emotions, what was the point of finding success in the first place? You just ... you just want them to stop, permanently. “You may not want me to be, Doc,” you mutter under your breath, “but ... maybe I want to.”

The pit only widened that night. You arrived at your apartment and sloughed your bag onto the floor. It was a titanic effort just to get yourself to the kitchen as you tore open the new packets and filled your upgraded bullet cup to the maximum fill line. You watched the liquid spinning as the blades forced powder and milk to become one. You listened to the steady grind as the motor forced the mechanism into action. But you weren’t really seeing that. You weren’t really hearing that. No, your mind was in the past as cruel faces and voices dripping with venomous barbs slurped in the darkness of your subconscious. “Fatass.” “God, you’re so pathetic. When are your fucking balls going to drop?” Even after you’d changed, it still hadn’t been enough. “Hey there, pretty boy.” “How’s the pansy doing today?” “Where’s your boyfriend?” You could feel the tears falling as the rage built in your chest again, burning the hole deeper, wider. “Damn it,” you growl as you slam your fist on the countertop with a heavy thump. Even after all this time, you still couldn’t let go. “Weak,” you hiss to yourself in chastisement. You practically wrench the cup loose as soon as you’re able and chug its contents. You don’t even have the time to register the flavor. You’re mind’s too busy with its own battles. You smash the cup into the sink with a thunderous clatter, and it bounces along the walls and bottom like some sort of deranged pinball, before spinning to a halt. You’ve already seized your duffel bag again and storm into your room. You drop the bag on your bed and stomp over to a rack you don’t remember seeing there before. A note sits on top.

For the days when you can’t stand doing anything else.

~D

Two bulky dumbbells sat to either side of the note. A pair of dials faced you, each numbered with what you assumed to be a weight setting. “Screw rest day,” you growl and seize the things with both hands.

You puff and growl like an animal as you pump up and down, up and down. The burn sets in, and you’re glad to have something to fight that surge of self pity. You stomp over to the bathroom mirror and glare at yourself as you continue your sets.

“You--.”

Up.

“--Are not--.”

Down.

“--Weak!”

Up.

“You’re strong!”

Down.

“Getting stronger,” you grunt.

Up.

“With every pump.”

Down.

Sweat started to soak into your good shirt.

You didn’t care.

Up.

“You are strong!”

Down.

“You are muscle!”

Up.

“You are proud of your muscle!”

Down. “Growing muscle,” you grunt.

Up. “Big.”

Down.

“Bulky!” Up. “Brawny!” Down. “Muscle!” Faster.

“Now quit feeling sorry for yourself and forget those fucking bullies once and for all, you stupid meathead!”

Faster, meathead.

You’re panting now.

Bigger, meathead.

You’re plowing through.

Stronger, meathead.

Something is starting to tear.

Stupid meathead.

And suddenly you feel cool air billowing over your your back and shoulders. Your chest is heaving. Buttons are scattered across the vanity. You’re not sure how long you’ve been pumping. You just know you’re coated in sweat. You finally lay the weights down with a tremendous clatter as you calm yourself. The seams along the shoulders of your casual long-sleeved shirt have ripped open. The buttons on the cuffs of the sleeves have come undone and multiple buttons have been torn from their places down your front. The sleeves can hardly contain the mass of your arms at a full pump, and they constrain against the blood flow, as if in some vain effort to staunch the growth you are so avidly pursuing.

“Not anymore,” you growl. “Not anymore.” You look deliberately at your reflection, raise up an arm, and flex with all the effort you can muster. Finally, you hear a tiny pop, followed by an easing of the pressure. You look down with some distaste as you tear the remainder of the seam apart with your free hand. “I’ll break through next time,” you swear as you hold up the ragged piece of cloth. “I will be free.” You let it flutter down into the sink, then grasp the weights and turn to stomp back towards your room. “I will be stronger.” You feel an unearthly calm as you drop the weights back onto their stand and break out your player, heedless of the scraps that still hold to your frame. You have more important things to focus on. You flip to the role playing folder and select a track at random. “No matter the cost.”

You just barely have enough time to read Muscles4Brains on the display. Then the music starts to play. You hear Doctor Schroder’s familiar voice guiding you down, and the world begins to change.

“No matter the cost....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 19

“She took your recordings away? That’s harsh, man,” Duff said as the pair of you worked at the bench press. Hank was down with a nasty head cold, so he’d appointed his right hand man to take his place as you continue towards your goal of muscular perfection for the part. Since Duff still had class requirements, though, you’d agreed to shift your workout schedule closer to the evening for his sake. It actually made for a much more intimate setting. There were a lot fewer gym goers this close to closing time, so they had free rein over the gym. “Yeah, it sucks. I really liked where it was going. I mean, sure, I’m a bit more aggressive than I used to be, but the rest of my changes have all been positive so far. And it just feels so good, you know?” Duff chuckled. “Working out always does, after a while. Healthiest addiction you’ll ever have.” “I wouldn’t call it an addiction.” “Mmhmm. And just how much time do you dedicate each morning to exercises, before you start your day, despite having to come to the gym later?” You decide not to deign that question with a response, focusing on pushing past your previous limit, instead, to add a new set to your reps. “That’s what I thought, dumbass,” Duff joked playfully. “M’not a dumbass,” you grunt as you thrust through another particularly difficult press. Your arms are trembling and sweat is starting to bead your forehead. “Bro, everyone’s a dumbass, sometimes.” A hint of a smirk crosses your lips as you growl, struggling for every inch. “Guess it ... takes one ... to ... know one.” You roar triumphantly as you finally reach your peak and lock your arms in place. Your chest heaves and you feel the sweat that’s pooled along your back. Duff helps you to guide the bar back into place, then offers a hand to pull you up. “Well, yeah, of course it does. I’m smart around the gym and talking about muscles and stuff. That doesn’t mean I don’t have trouble with other stuff, sometimes.” He shrugged. “Happens when you’re hyper focused on one thing.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of funny, when it happens. I like to use it to troll people, sometimes, just to see the looks on their faces.” “Really?” Duff chuckles as he leads you towards the squat rack. “Oh, yeah. All the time. I like to fake zoning out at a store checkout or with some of my classmates, during a project. Two words. Fucking hilarious.” You wince. “Do you really have to curse?” “You did it.” “Yeah, the one time.” “And you’ll do it again, and again, and again,” Duff said matter-of-factly. “Sure, it’ll start off as an accident. A tiny slip here, a few sprinkled there. Maybe you’ll get jump-scared by someone. Or maybe some jackass is going to piss you off at just the right moment. But once you start using them, they have a way of sort of seeping into your brain. They burrow deeper and deeper, rewriting thoughts, crossing different paths in your synapses. And before you know it, you’re as hooked to them as you are to pumping iron. They just flow out of you, and they all feel totally natural.” He reached over to the weight storage rack and started mounting plates on the bar. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to be using them in every sentence, just that they’ll be there when it’s the right time. And then, before you know it, someone’s gonna call you out on it, and you’ll realize it. You’ll smack your forehead, and suddenly, either out loud or in your head, you’re going to say, ‘I am such a dumbass.’ And you’ll realize it’s okay to admit it.” Your head felt like it was spinning. The more Duff explained, the harder it was to concentrate. A strange sense of pleasure, almost eagerness, flooded through your body, and you felt that familiar tingle as the blood flowed down into your crotch. You feel something rising in your throat. You try to bite it back, but in your addled state, you can’t seem to fight it. “Fuck,” you hiss slowly, and your body is racked by another shudder. Duff smirked victoriously. “Told ya. Now get under that rack, dumbass. You’ve got squats to do.”

Later that night, you swaggered home with that bow-legged gait you always seem to use after a good leg day. Without your tracks to listen to, the bus ride had been kind of a drag, but you managed to pass the time with an occasional well-timed stretch and flex. It almost turned into a sort of game. See how many times you could pull it off, without arousing suspicion from the other passengers. You scratch your crotch idly, without so much as a second thought. There weren’t any people on the street who’d notice, anyways. They were all inside by now, having dinner or watching a movie, or whatever crap it was they did to waste time. You pull up short for a moment, mid-scratch, then furrow your brow. Since when did you think of those activities as a waste of time? You shake your head and sputter briefly, then resume your tromping swagger. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since you were online. Maybe you should take the time to relax a little, veg out, while you drink your shake. You continue to mull this train of thought over as you resume your stride. The moment you’re home, you lumber over to the sink and open the dish washer, where a neat row of identical bullet mixing cups sit, awaiting your touch. You grunt to yourself, making a mental note to clear out the washer later. For now, you needed your shake. A white paper sign sits on the wall behind the blender, reading: GAINZ. You chuckle and roll your eyes as you lift up your arm for another flex. The pump from your workout hasn’t died out entirely, and you watch as the flat surface rises into a hill. You rub it absently, heedless to the stifling noise of the blender. “Gonna make you a peak,” you grunt to it. Gotta make those GAINZ. You continue to rub the muscle in a sort of half daze. You’re not sure exactly how long you’ve been at it, but by the time you manage to break yourself away from the motion, you notice the shake has finished blending and your shirt is crumpled on the floor. You don’t pay it any mind as you you kick it out of the way, walk over, detach the cup, and twist off the blender attachment to run under the water as you have every day, twice a day, for the last month and a half. Your eyes flicker over the series of posters and slogans you’ve accumulated. Brutish men in singlets and loose workout gear pose for the camera or are caught mid-set. All of them seem so focused, oblivious to the rest of the world. You look down pitifully at your own diminished form and feel the familiar bile stirring within. You hate being so tiny. You thought you were happy before, but now ... now that you’ve seen the possibilities with your own eyes, experienced the growth.... “It’s not enough,” you whisper to yourself, then take a swig of your shake. Motivational phrases plaster the walls along the hall leading to your room. EDUCATION IS IMPORTANT BUT BIG BICEPS ARE IMPORTANTER. No Pain, No Gain. You pause in front of that familiar post you found online. A thick, muscled model is leaning back on some kind of cushion. His eyes are obscured, because his head is tilted back and blurred, but his torso is completely bare. In a manner almost like a prayer, you reach out with your free hand to touch the caption next to the head, then bring your hand back to touch your own head. EMPTY THIS. You’re not sure whether you thought it or said it, but it doesn’t really matter. You perform the the same motions as before, this time with the second caption, and rub over your abs, before thumping against your pec. GROW THIS. You grunt as that pleasurable fog starts to descend again. MINDLESS MEATHEAD The picture showed a heavily muscled builder staring blankly ahead in little more than a pair of short shorts and a switchback cap. A punching bag hung in the background behind him. “Huhuhuh....” You’re not sure if that was you or your imagination, but for some reason, it doesn’t really matter. You find it sort of funny how quickly these meatheads have filled your home. At the same time, though, you can’t picture having those walls without them now. They ... belong here. Muscle belongs here. Another sip, and suddenly you’re sitting in front of your computer. You’re ... not sure how you got there. You look absently toward the corner of your bedroom, where an exercise ball and a weighted jump rope have joined your dumbbells. After all.... Gotta get your morning workout in. You nod your head absently. You know it to be true. Hank told you. Bodybuilders work day and night. You click your monitor out of sleep mode and look over your history. Health sites, diet tips, supplements. You feel two pills on your tongue. You lift your cup. You swallow. You put it down. “I lift things up and put them down....” A dull chuckle forces its way out from your chest, aided by the weight of your muscles. It’s natural to laugh this way now. “Huhuhuh.” And it feels so right. You search the net for a time, reviewing some of the previous favorites and posts that you’d found most prominent in your web history. Finally, your shake is empty. Your head is in the clouds, and you grin dopily as you rise from your computer, not even bothering to close out of the browser. You drift over to your bathroom mirror, where you do as you have done every morning and night, like clockwork. You flex. And, once again, it feels so right. Unbidden, a primal growl rises in your throat, followed by a guttural, “Fuck, yeah.” You don’t even care how your throat itches after. It was worth it. You tromp over to the shower, and your pleasure-addled brain pops up one of those friendly tips Duff is so fond of giving. It’s better to take a cold shower, after the workout. Makes your muscles recover even faster. Faster recovery. Faster growth. You couldn’t get there fast enough. For the first time, you experience the icy surge. And suddenly, the buzz is gone. You yelp in shock as your whole body cringes. Your chest heaves against your will, taking sharp gulping breaths. You can’t get out of that stream fast enough. “Okay, note to self, ease into the cold.” Your teeth chatter as you adjust the knob to turn up the temperature. Then you sigh in relief as the warmth washes away the shock. It takes a while, but you eventually find a balance for the level of cold your body is willing to take, and go with that first. You furrow your brow as you think back to your actions tonight. That ... wasn’t usually like you. The actions felt almost like a dream. The way you flexed, passed through the halls, cast off laundry like it was nothing. For the first time since this venture began, you don’t flex, after you leave the shower. You comb your hair in a handsome part and make your way through your apartment. Each new discovery opens your eyes wider and wider. A thick layer of dust has covered practically everything. The television hasn’t been used, and the remotes are laid neatly by the console. The air smells musty, and the floor is littered with old shirts you haven’t bothered to pick up, after your workouts. Old dishes are piled high in the sink from the many times you promised you were going to clear the dishwasher, but never did. You spent the next two hours clearing, dusting, and cleaning up. You sigh in relief when you reach your room. At least it was somewhat cleaner than the rest of the apartment had been. Your laundry hampers were overflowing, and the majority of hangar space had been occupied by underarmor shirts, track suits, singlets, and other workout gear. Designer shoes had been replaced with Nike, cleats, New Balance, Adidas, Asics. Boxes had been neatly stacked and packed on the sides, out of the main view of the closet entrance. You cut one open, and there are your old shoes and belts. Formal loafers, smart wingbacks, Ferragomos, Hermes, Gucci! “What have I been doing?” you murmur. You rise disbelievingly to your feet and shake your head. Even your bed is an absolute mess. The covers are crumpled in a lump on the far corner of the mattress. Your bed clothes haven’t fared much better, laying haphazardly over a half-exposed mattress pad. A full length mirror you don’t remember buying has been bolted to the wall next to your little workout setup. Then you realize, to your horror, that you’ve been walking around practically naked in your apartment for the last two or so hours. Your race for your drawers, only to find them bereft of the most basic garment you seek. All that remains to choose from are the infamous jock strap and its cousin, the posing trunks. You bite back the urge to curse with a supreme force of will and snarl as you snatch the strap. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you slide the bands in place, feeling the air flowing over your bare skin. You do notice with some surprise, however, how well the pouch supports your privates, and you can’t help but catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The bulge is definitely more attractive than those boxers you used to wear. And it does feel comfortable. So very ... comfortable. The beginnings of a smile pulls at your lips as your arm begins to rise automatically to assume that favorite position. Then you gasp, slamming your hand over your bicep with a heavy smack and pulling your arm back down again. You shake your head, dusting out the cobwebs, and quickly unpack some of your more formal dress. A casual set of slacks and a long sleeved button shirt would do nicely. At least ... they would have, were it not for the fact that none of them would fit you anymore. You glare at the clothes swinging mockingly on their hangers. “I hate you all,” you growl. It may have been petty, but considering you’d nearly lost practically everything you used to be in the persona you’d developed, it seemed justified. You resolutely refused to indulge in the pleasurable tingling that spread as you donned a pair of tight compression pants and a thick hoodie, forcing yourself to walk to the laundry closet, despite the nervous energy you feel rushing through your muscles. You sorted the laundry into piles with a deliberate slowness, being careful to ensure nothing was mixed accidentally. It was difficult to maintain focus on the task, but you weren’t about to let laziness cause your clothes to degrade faster. ... Even if you did get new clothes with every modeling gig. You sighed in relief as you lifted the last garments from your first load into the drum, added the detergent, and began the long wash. You smiled in contentment, proud of your accomplishment. However, boredom soon asserted itself again, and you sighed as you looked over the remaining loads. At this rate, you wouldn’t be in bed till after midnight. You sigh again as you look over to the dumbbells and jump rope. You feel a familiar lurching in your chest, almost like an ache as your fingers twitch. “Maybe,” you lick your suddenly dry lips, “maybe just a little cardio. To pass the time.” Soon the rhythmic cycle of whoosh and snap is echoing in your ears as you jump up and down, up and down in perfect time to the washer’s sloshy spinning. ... You don’t even hear the buzzer.