Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 15

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....”

Working Like a Thrall Chapter 1

This is best shown as a PDF, so if you’d all just follow this link here, you should hopefully be able to read it as intended. I’ll be including a brief introductory portion below that pertains to the story from the librarian’s perspective, so please read it, before you go to the document. Thanks. :D P.S. This does get a bit on the mature side in some places. You have been warned.

Azeroth had been safe for the last six years, after the first great war ended. The dreaded Horde was defeated, its armies pushed back, and its gateway destroyed. Unfortunately, that was not to last. The Horde returned, and it was out for revenge. Many men, women, and children fell victim to this great and terrible foe in their second and most ruthless campaign to date. This is but the narrative of one such victim, whose word was sadly unheeded. The fate he has faced may be deemed too terrible for words. Peruse this narrative with caution, reader, for it is not for the faint of heart, and some small piece of the Horde's foul essence still remains bound within these pages. You are still determined to read it? ... Very well, then. You have been warned.

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 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. ... .. .

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 10

“There you are.” You look down at the small rectangular device Doctor Schroder has handed you. “That little thing will help you focus and make certain behavioral changes in your life to speed up the process as you change your body. As in all things with hypnosis, it will only work if you want it to work. The tracks are labeled, and I’ve included a master list here for you to know which tracks do what. They’re sectioned off by waking and sleeping. And as you can see, each of the waking tracks is further divided for different functions and actions: working out, diet, that sort of thing.” “And all I have to do is push the track number?” “Yup. The rest will take care of itself. I’ve also included a few temporary tracks for the sake of role playing. They’ll allow you to slip into various characters within the muscular stereotypes, while you’re at home. Take the time to get familiar with each of them. Once you find the one that fits you best, I advise you try leaning towards that. Then again, I’m not the director, so you may want to keep using all of them, in case the one you like isn’t the one the director prefers.” “And that’s it?” “Pretty much. From here on out, it’s up to you to brush up on each of the characters and learn how to talk and act like them. My purpose from this point onward is to simply help guide you to achieve the optimal expression of those stereotypes.” “And do we have enough time to work on some of those now?” “Plenty. Why don’t you show me what you’ve been working on thus far, and we’ll move forward from there?”

Duff cocked his head as he peered at you. You felt a little embarrassed at such scrutiny, despite how that was your main form of income. “You’re definitely different,” he mused. “It’s subtle, but I can see a little progress.” “It’s only been a week. How can I make progress that fast?” you counter. “I’m not pulling your leg, man. Just telling you my opinion.” “Sure you are.” “If you two are done chatting, it’s time for cardio,” Hank grated. “Move, kid.” The treadmill proved a refreshing exercise, after all the strain you’d put your body through the previous week. Duff pulled out an i-pod and laid it on a rest next to the controls, before threading a set of ear buds out and connecting them to the port. The rest of the run was sort of lonely as Duff stared ahead at the wall, but you couldn’t exactly blame him. The way Hank had you running, it wouldn’t have been too feasible to get a conversation going, anyways. After the warmup, he pushed you to your limits, focusing on endurance training once again. When all was said and done, you were ready to head home and shower again. You waved to Duff, but he seemed a little too distracted to respond. Some of the other builders were approaching him, and it looked like they were engaging in some sort of conversation. You shrugged it off and figured you’d text the guy later. It was only natural he’d have other friends in the gym, after all. He was a lot farther along in his progress.

That night, you peered up at the fathead of a vascular bodybuilder in a tight set of compression gear that clung to every meaty curve. You’d received it courtesy of Duff. According to the card info, he wanted to be able to give you something to work towards, but was too embarrassed to do it directly. Kinda weird for him to have done something like this when you’ve only known each other for about a week or so, but you weren’t about to argue about it. The guy was so sweet, after all. The builder smoldered down at you, an unspoken challenge in that harsh gaze as he pumped a pair of massive dumbbells. Your CHANGE IS GOOD sign stood out prominently on his chest. You look into those eyes one more time and chuckle to yourself as you reach for your lamp. “Goodnight, meathead.” You pause a moment. “Hmm. ‘Goodnight, meathead.’ Not a bad motivator,” you muse. You decide to print it up later. Then you chuckle as you flick off the light. Maybe you’ll dream again. As that thought crosses your mind, a familiar tingle runs faintly over your body. You can’t help but smile as you start to fade off. “I think I’d like that,” you yawn, then curl up on your side, and let the darkness take you.

The (former) Companion

We spoke just the other day.

You never left me after.