Fetlocked

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.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 18

You grunt as you thrust repetitively at the weight on your shoulders, squatting up, then down. Up, then down. Your new compression shorts feel tight against your thighs and glutes, letting you feel every last piece of tension in your muscles as you continue to press. And tight is good. You’ve already gained a good three pounds of muscle from the last few weeks, giving your lithe body a thicker build as the circumference of your muscles began to increase. You weren’t anywhere near the other builders yet, but you’d made a good start, and the fact Hank wasn’t yelling at you so much implied you’d made some progress with your discipline. “Gotta admit, kid, I didn’t expect you to stick with it this far,” Hank grunted. “You’re not the first model they picked, ya know.” “So, what, you’re telling me they were scraping the bottom of the barrel, when they chose me?” You feel the now-familiar smolder in your chest as your anger begins to rouse. But you’re in the middle of a set, and you know better than to interrupt that, so you push it into your muscles, instead, to power through the exercise. “I wouldn’t call it scraping the bottom.” Hank shrugged. “You’re just number ten or so, I think. The others wimped out, after the first couple of weeks. But you, kid, you’re different. It takes real dedication to keep up this kind of routine. Not many would. I’ll admit I didn’t think you’d have what it takes, but here you are, proving me wrong.” You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Okay, what’re you trying to butter me up for?” Hank couldn’t help but let out an explosive guffaw. “Kid, you’d have made one hell of a linebacker, with that attitude.” “Not a footballer,” you grunt as you round out your second set. “I’m a body builder.” A sudden shudder passes through you, and a familiar tingling spreads from your crotch. Hank cocked his head and stroked his scruffy chin, passively flexing his massive bicep and pectoral. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Not yet,” he said, after a good ten seconds of silence, “but I think you’re going to be.”

“He actually said that to you?” Duff balked as you sat at your usual seat by the restaurant. Your new jeans felt a little on the loose side, after moving up from your previous size, but that was the point of the workouts in the first place. They didn’t call it body building for nothing. You fidgeted uncomfortably in your new large shirt. The sleeves kept brushing against your skin and the sight of the folds when you tucked it into your waist with the belt left you with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. It was uncomfortable before, but ... you find yourself missing the feeling of those old clothes pulling so tightly against your body. “Yeah,” you reply as you sip from the tall glass of water the waitress left you. You’d quit drinking sodas a while ago. Too much sugar. You already got enough from the shakes and what you find naturally in food, so why take more than you have to? “Dude, do you have any idea how many bodybuilders would kill to be in your shoes right now?” “It’s not that big of a deal,” you brush it off casually as you look over the menu. The burger was always good, but you had a hankering to try something new today. “Not a big deal? He’s all but offered to be your personal coach!” You shrug. “Isn’t that what he is right now, anyways?” Duff smacked his forehead. “I mean after your contract’s done, stupid.” “Who’re you calling stupid? I’m not the one who zones out every time he lifts weights.” “It’s called mental training, dumbass,” he shot back hotly. “What’d you just call me?” “You heard me.” That did it. The loud screech of metal legs on wood sounded as the both of you stood at once to butt heads. “There’s just one way to settle this,” Duff snorted. His whole body was tense, his muscles pulsing from his increased heart rate. “What?” you snarl back. The smoldering in your chest had been fanned into a virtual inferno. Duff slammed himself back onto his chair and scooted it up to the table. Then he removed his cup and placed it on the floor, before ramming his upper arm on the table’s surface at an obtuse angle. His hand laid open expectantly. The gauntlet had been thrown, and you weren’t about to back down from a fight. You follow his example, prepping the table for what was to come. Your eyes narrow as you wiggle your fingers menacingly. “Are you two ready to--?” “Teriyaki and rice,” you both echo in stereo, never breaking eye contact. “Oh, um ... right. Anything ... else?” The two of you turned to fix your angry glares on her. She got the message and beat a hasty retreat. “What happened to your burger?” Duff asked as he leaned more heavily on his arm, adjusting his position in final preparation. “Wanted to try something new.” You shrug as you work your arm a few times, pumping it to loosen some of the stiffness and increase circulation. “Seemed a good choice, all that lean protein. And you said the sauce was good stuff. Thought I’d see if the hype was all it was cracked up to be.” “You’ll see soon enough.” He narrowed his gaze in an attempt to sharpen his glare. “Come on.” “Oh, I’m coming.” You grit your teeth in an angry snarl and clasp your hand to his, wrapping your fingers around the back of his thumb, even as he did the same with yours. It wasn’t much of a fight. You’d been making great gains, but Duff had been lifting longer and he had more training. You managed to hold your ground for a whole fifteen seconds, before the strain became too much and Duff gained the advantage. Your arm trembled as you struggled to push back against your opponent, but despite your zeal and your valiant attempts, your trembling hand finally touched the end of the table, and you let out an explosive breath as Duff lets go. “Fuck!” you curse. Then your eyes widen as you realize what you just said and quickly put a hand to your mouth. “Sorry.” Duff chuckled. “I wondered how long it’d be, before you finally stopped being so formal, dumbass.” “Quit it,” you grumble sulkily. Duff smirked as he reclaimed his water from the floor. “Whatever you say, bro. Whatever you say.”

“Whatever you say....” you mutter dreamily as you stand before a floor-length mirror, staring into your reflection. A towering bodybuilder stares back with that familiar intensity you’ve become so accustomed to seeing at the gym. A pair of compression shorts clings to stocky calves and bulky thighs, while a massive sleeveless tank strains against his bovine torso. The thing had to be at least a XXL. “You are a big, dumb bodybuilder,” he says in that bovid voice. “You lift things up and put them down.” “I am....” “A big, dumb bodybuilder.” “A big, dumb bodybuilder....” you parrot. “You lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That is all you do. Lift things up and put them down. Lift weights up, drop voice down.” You feel a sudden weight in your hands. “I lift things UP,” you crack, “drop voice d-OWN.” Another crack and suddenly, your voice is huskier, deeper. “Up and down. Up and down.” You start pumping in time to the voice. “Listening up as your thoughts slow down. Pumping up and dropping down. Deeper and deeper. Deep, like my voice. Slower and slower, like your thoughts. Because bodybuilders don’t need to think. Bodybuilders need to lift. You lift things up and put them down. You pump muscle up and put brains down. Because you don’t need to focus on big thoughts right now. You need to focus on big muscles. Big muscles grow by lifting. Lifting up and putting down. You’re beginning to feel it now, aren’t you? The more you lift, the bigger you get, the less you think ahead. Because you don’t need to think ahead. You just need to lift things up and put them down. All you want to do is lift things up and put them down.” “I....” “And the bigger you get, the stronger the urge becomes to lift things up and put them down. Because you are building muscle. You are pumping it up into your brain, burning those useless thoughts away like so much fat. Replacing them with what you really need to know, what stands at the core of your being, the real meat that’s left behind. “You are a big, dumb bodybuilder.” “I ... am a big, dumb bodybuilder.” “You want to be a big, dumb bodybuilder.” “I want to be a big, dumb bodybuilder.” “You lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” The repetition feels so wonderful. And all the while, you’re pumping, pumping. “You don’t think. You act.” “Don’t ... think.” “Because dumb bodybuilders like you aren’t supposed to think. You just do what your coaches tell you to do.” “Do ... what I’m told....” “Up the weights, up the gains. Put down old thoughts. Put down the brains.” You can’t help it. A dimwitted chuckle escapes your lips, and it feels so right. Your reflection is lifting with you now, and he’s pumping some serious iron. You hear the clank, look to your right. Now you’re pumping some serious iron. You hardly even noticed how your arms were suddenly bare or how tight your pants had become again. You smirk at the mirror, and your reflection follows your example. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say in stereo, and you laugh again, because it feels right. “I really am a dumbass,” you guffaw. “Huhuhuhuh.” You enjoy that feeling for you don’t know how long, before a strange sort of fog descends over your mind. Everything fades away. You blink once. Twice. Three times. And suddenly you’re back in Doc Schroder’s office. You look down at your diminutive frame in disappointment. Compared to what you were in trance, this is just a sliver. But at least that fake you gives you something to work towards. And you are going to work for it. “Welcome back,” Schroder says. “Tell me. Have you gotten a better feel for your character yet?” You chuckle, still feeling the familiar tingle from the hypnosis-induced dream. “You could say that.” “Good. I thought you might. In that case, it’s time we focused on practicing in real life. I don’t think you’ll need me to put you under anymore.” You frown. “But I liked that.” “Most of my patients do,” she noted, “but I’m not here to give them pleasure. I’m here to help them achieve their roles. I’m here to help you achieve yours.” She looked seriously at you. “You’ve been getting a little too comfortable with the bodybuilding stereotype of late. I’ve seen it in the way you talk, the way you move. You need time to focus yourself again. Until you do, I don’t feel comfortable putting you through any more hypnotic sessions. And besides that, if you’ve already achieved the voice range that you’re looking for, then there’s no further need of it. I’ll be expecting those files back next session, young man. No ifs, ands, or buts.” “But--.” She raised a stern hand, and her eyes flashed as the light above turned her hair into a fiery halo. “I mean it. Make sure to bring it in. If you don’t, I’ll have to take measures.” You sigh in defeat, slumping your shoulders as you lean back against the couch. “Yes, ma’am.” “Good. Now, then, let’s go over those lines again, shall we?”

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 16

Previous: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/174795146417/lifting-up-and-dumbing-down-part-15

“Damn, bro, you’re growing fast,” Duff said as he wrapped a measuring tape around your midriff. “Thanks again for helping me out with this project, by the way.” “No problem. What else are friends for, ‘bro?’” you ask as you smile down at him. His apartment was actually pretty sweet. He’d turned the majority of the studio into an at-home gym, complete with weight rack, dumbbells, a bench press, and a few other accessories. A broad floor-length mirror had been installed on one of the walls, and his kitchen counter was lined with protein whey, creatine, and all manner of other supplements, including a few familiar silver packets. “And how long have you been working on bulking up again?” he asked as he wrote something else on his clipboard. You look up at the ceiling and scratch your head for a moment. “You know what? It’s funny, but I can’t seem to recall the date.” You chuckle. “I’m usually pretty good at that sort of thing. I know it was around midwinter. I think a little before.” Duff shrugged. “I’ll just check the computers for your sign-in date.” “That’ll work,” you agree. “So, what other changes have been happening for you?” You blush. “Well, if we’re being honest, I’m getting a bit ... bigger downstairs, if you catch my meaning, and my voice has been cracking a little.” Duff nodded. “I thought you’d been sounding a little sick lately.” “I’m not sick!” you object. “I said sounded sick, not that you were sick, stupid.” He chuckled. “In other words, I noticed how your voice has been reaching towards deeper registers lately.” “Oh.” You frown a moment, trying to find some problem with that. You’re not quite sure why you are, but ... you are. You’ve been feeling a lot more confrontational lately. “I ... guess that’s okay, then.” You reach back to scratch your head casually. “Thanks for the weights, by the way. They’re a big help.” Duff chuckled. “I thought they would be. There’s nothing quite like a good lifting to work off some stress.” You smile dreamily as you raise an arm to flex. “Yeah, and the pump’s not that bad, either.” Duff smiled. “Sounds like someone’s catching the muscle bug.” You grin impishly, then strike a pose as you pitch your voice as low as you can manage. “I love lifting weights, bro.” Duff punches you in the arm as tears of mirth form in the corners of his eyes. “Stop it,” he laughs. “That’s my line.” He set down the chart. “Besides, you’re not anywhere near this yet,” he smirked as he pulled off his shirt and began to pose. “Are you challenging me to a flex off, sir?” Duff smirked. “And what if I am?” “You cheeky little--.” Soon you’re both posing and flexing like your lives depend on it in front of the mirror. You look curiously at yourself. Your bangs are brushing against the sides of your face, obscuring parts of your vision. You always liked your hair before, but now it just doesn’t seem very ... practical. And it’s a real pain in the a--you catch yourself, before you let that thought complete itself. Pain in the butt. It’s a pain the butt, when the sweat runs down off it and plasters it to your face, especially when it gets in the eyes. Maybe ... maybe it’s time for a change. Change is good. You shudder at the thought, a pleasure that’s redoubled by the sensation of your muscles rippling and shining under the lights. Your head feels sort of fuzzy, and you grin at yourself, before turning your head to stare at your friend. “Hey, Duff?” you ask in that huskier, stuffed-up sort of voice. “You know any good barbers?” Duff turns back to look at you with that same dazed smile. “I think I know a guy. I’ll see about hooking you up.” “Thanks, bro.” It came so effortlessly. Duff’s smile widened. “No problem, bro.” Then Duff shrugged his thick shoulders, and you were back to posing again, just a couple of bros having a friendly competition.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 22

“When I said center yourself, I didn’t mean jump headlong into the persona,” Doctor Schroder chided as she shook her head. “Did you go looking for other recordings, after I took mine back?” “Nope.” You lean back with a confident smirk as you run your hand over your bristling scalp. “I’m just really enjoying the new lifestyle is all. Lifting weights is fun now, and I keep wanting to push myself to be bigger. It’s not just for the sake of the job, and it’s not for the sake of the recordings. I actually, legitimately, want this.” “And the cognitive side of things?” You shrug. “Haven’t noticed too many changes. Sure, I get distracted at home, sometimes, but I’m learning how to find a new balance with that.” “Oh, really?” “When you wake up one evening and realize your entire apartment’s a mess from neglect, you don’t exactly have much choice. I make sure to add cleaning the apartment as a part of my workout routine now. It’s ... a little hit-and-miss sometimes, but I’m working towards that change, and change is good, right?” “It can be, if it’s really you who wants it and not somebody else telling you that you do,” Schroder noted. “Are you certain you want this metamorphosis?” “Doc, it’s not like I’m forgetting who I am and where I came from. I’m legitimately enjoying this. I feel more confident, outgoing, strong.” “And your change in wardrobe?” “If I’m going to focus on a gym-based lifestyle, then I need to wear gym-based clothing. I have a few more casual things for off days, if I want to wear them, and I’m seeing about getting a fitting for some new formal wear. Nothing too fancy, mind you. If I were to get a suit, I’d probably grow out of it in a few weeks.” “You’re putting on weight that quickly?” You shrug. “What can I say? Working out like this has increased my metabolism. And I wasn’t exactly the biggest guy on the block, before I started. I’m just unlocking my potential.” “The natural way, I hope.” All sense of humor drains from you at that comment and you sit up in the couch as you level her with a flat stare. “Hank’s not that kind of trainer, and I’m not that kind of builder. Duff’s already explained what that shit can do to you. There’s no way in hell you’d catch me using.” “I just wanted to be sure. There are those patients I’ve had in my previous work that weren’t willing to work hard for their ‘change,’ as you put it. Needless to say, things ended poorly. Though this does bring us to a rather important segue. You appear to have modified your mode of speech. Why the change to language?” You shrug. “It just feels natural. It slipped out one day, and after that, it just wouldn’t go away. It’s not like I’m cursing at every sentence or anything like that. It just sort of slides out at the right moments.” “And you aren’t feeling any uncharacteristic urges?” You shrug. “Not really. I mean, sure, my testosterone’s gotten a lot higher, so I’m dealing with more aggression and things along those lines, but other than that, I’m doing fine.” “And you’ve been keeping that in check?” “Duff’s been helping a lot with that. He and I usually have some sort of contest or something along those lines, whenever I feel the urge. He’s a good friend and a great competitor. We usually vent those urges with contests at the gym. Who can break whose record, that sort of thing.” “And that’s all fine with you?” “Why wouldn’t it be? We both know it’s just for fun, and we never let it get in the way of our friendship.” “And the haircut?” “Sweat kept streaming down the hair into my eyes,” you shrug, “so I got it buzzed.” “I see. And that’s the only reason?” “Pretty much.” “Well, you do still appear to have retained the majority of your original personality, albeit with certain minor alterations. I’m still not giving you any more recordings, but I think it’s safe enough for us to resume our regular voice coaching sessions.” She laid her clip board aside and curved one leg over the other as she leaned forward. “Now, then, let’s start with Schwarzenegger and move on from there, hmm?” You grin impishly at her as you flex a bicep. “I lift things up and put them down....”

Duff wiped away the tears from the corner of his eye as the mirth-filled laughter finally settled down. “Dude, I can’t believe you can pull that off!” He laughed again. “Come on, try one of his other lines. Do it!” You chuckle, shake your head, and roll your eyes. “Fine.” You clear your throat and tense the muscles along either side, then take a deep breath. “You are terminated.” The laughter resumed again. “I’ll be back.” “Bro! Bro, stop it!” Duff clutched at his sides as the bout of giggles continued. “You asked for it,” you point out. “Any misery you’re suffering is your own fault.” “What a marvel: a voice that can kill with humor!” “Yeah, yeah. Ham it up, why don’t you?” You roll your eyes as you stab your fork into another bite of your rice bowl. “By the way, thanks for the tip on the secret menu. You’re right, the brown rice makes it a lot better.” “Healthier for you, too,” Duff noted. “So, how’re things going with that contract of yours?” “I’ve got my next report photo op coming up.” You shrug. “I think they’ll like the improvements I’ve made.” “Give yourself a few more months. They’ll hardly recognize you.” “I hardly recognize myself sometimes,” you chuckle. “But then again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Your eyes drift idly over to where one of the waitresses is busy setting an order down. Her long blond hair cascades down her back in a loose ponytail tied by a hair tie, and her rich green eyes reflect the light like crystal, every time she turns her head. “Not bad at all....” The dull sound of snapping fingers finally brings you back around as you turn to face your friend. “What?” you ask. Your head is feeling that tingly sensation again as you take a sip from your ice water. “Dude, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last minute.” A smirk pulled at his lips. “You’re crushing hard, aren’t you?” You feel the heat rushing to your cheeks. “N-no,” you protest. Duff chuckled. “Bro, you’re worse than I was at the first lunch.” “Curse you and your perceptiveness,” you growl playfully. Duff shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve always been good at my rolls for initiative.” That raised an eyebrow. “You play D&D?” “I’m a DM.” He shrugged. “It helps to pass the time, after homework and workouts are done.” “I’m surprised you don’t have to deal with hostility.” “The guys know me. Just because I’m fit doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into some bully. They know that. And any who don’t know get just one pass. After that, it’s out of the group. We all agreed. We don’t have room for shallow idiots on either side of the spectrum. It’s one thing to role play such a character. It’s another to let that carry over into real life.” “Eegads,” you gasp. “Is that actual confidence I hear?” “Shut up,” Duff laughs as he punches you playfully. “You up for meeting at the gym tomorrow?” “Paired workout?” “Yup.” “Fine, but I call dibs on first run.” “Damn,” you swear, “you’re on a roll today.” Duff smirked. “It’s a gift.” You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah....”

“It’s a gift, kid. How are we supposed to say no?” The two of you are sitting at your small kitchen table as you look into each other’s faces. The warm air cycling through your ventilation system tickles across your bare chest as it swirls past. “Like this, harry. N-O. It spells no.” You slide the CD back over to him. “Unless it’s specifically stipulated in the contract that I have no choice but to play these tracks in my apartment, I don’t want them.” “But--.” “I’m doing fine on my own, Harry. Look at me!” You strike a double bicep pose and a shudder of pleasure passes over your body. “I already love this. I already want to keep building my muscles. I don’t need some recording telling me that every second of every day. I already know it to be true.” You shake your head. “And as for the acting part, you already know I’m keeping to the regimen. Like it or not, there’s no real need for this anymore.” “The company may not like it.” “The company can stuff it. Hank knows what he’s doing. I’ll be what they need me to be, by the time the filming comes around, but I’m not about to stop being myself either. I like blanking out as much as the next guy during my workouts, but I still need to function in the real world. I’m not about to let myself fall so deeply into the stereotype that I can’t live a normal life. I’m sorry, Harry, but that’s my final answer on the matter.” Harry sighed as he put the case back into an inner pocket on his suit coat. “All right. I’ll let them know. They may not like it, though.” “I think they’ll like what they see tomorrow. You’ll be there for the shoot again, right?” “Naturally. After all, you’re one of my best clients.” “Good. I’ll see you then.” You smile kindly. “Can I interest you in a smoothie, before you go? I found some great recipes online.” “I’ll pass, thanks. Got a date tonight, and I need to save room.” “Ooh, and who’s the lucky lady?” “That, my friend, would be my business.” You chuckle. “Harry’s got game.” You walk over and clap him on the back in congratulations. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You had to use that one, didn’t you?” “An oldie, but a goodie,” you agree. Harry chuckled as he raised his hands in defeat. “See ya tomorrow, kid.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 24

You grunt as you press through your tenth rep and look up at Hank. “Think you can add another ten on the rack? This is getting too easy again.” Hank smirked. “Look at you, getting all cocky.” “Not cocky, confident,” you correct as he grabs two five pound weights and places them on either side of the barbell. “I want to keep progressing, so if this is getting too easy, then I know to up the ante. You taught me that.” “And you’re learning it well.” “Was that an actual compliment?” “Would I do that?” “I think you would.” Hank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, smartass. Now get back to work. Those weights aren’t going to lift themselves.”

You smile to yourself as you continue to pump with one arm, while you run your vacuum cleaner with the other. The surge of blood through your limbs has become almost addicting to you now, and you keep wanting to feel that pressure as your muscles press against your sides. Each strain is another surge of pleasure as the muscles on your side strain and flare in time. Occasionally, you bounce a pec, just for the sake of variety. You pause a moment, shutting down the vacuum to pose in front of the mirror. Your emerald singlet clings tightly to every piece of your body, defining the muscle as you let out that same deep-throated chuckle. “Who’s a muscle man?” You ask yourself. After a few seconds to change poses, you let out another groan of pleasure and relief as you stretch, shifting your hold on the weight to your other side. Then you reply, “You’re a muscle man, and damn proud of it.” You look down at the bulge pressing against the crotch of your singlet. The outline of the jock strap you’re wearing is prominent, and you smirk as you tromp over to your weight rack and put down the dumbbell, before picking up your cell phone. You turn it towards the mirror, and Flash. You look down at your phone screen. A familiar smirk stares back up at you. “Looking good,” you compliment yourself. You’re about to turn back to your vacuum cleaner to finish the living room, when a sudden lurching in your stomach yanks you back towards the mirror. “Maybe just ... one more,” you allow yourself. Flash. Show off that muscle. Flash. So good. Flash. To pose. Flash. Like the camera. Flash. Fängsla’s camera. Click. “Show me muscle man. Show me the djur,” his voice echoes in your head. Flash. “Let the djur out. Let the djur stay.” Flash A pleasurable rumbling grates its way up your throat and out your mouth as thoughts of cleaning fade into the background. “Stay,” you low, and are rewarded by greater pleasure. You look down at a dimwitted grin, then look at the mirror to see the same features reflected on your face. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle as you reach up and rub your bicep. Flash. A shudder runs through your body as you pose again. The taste of vanilla is strong in your mouth, and you look down to see the image of your flushed face guzzling a huge bullet cup of protein shake. You belch, not even trying to contain it. “Nice one,” you mutter almost drunkenly as you kick the bullet cup out of the way and walk back towards your makeshift home gym. You lower your phone to the stand and grasp both weights. It’s time to work out.

... Like a beast. ... Like a djur. ... .. .