Dont Look

Don’t Look

One year. One whole fucking year, you’d been trapped in this hellhole. One whole year of weights and shakes, supps and bros, grunts and flexes, and that constant arrogant son of a bitch that made you into the MUSCLE GOD you are today.

...

Damn it. You can’t even think like you used to anymore. Bro was clever, for a dumb pile of meat. No sooner do the words cross your mind than your body acts on its own. You hear that deep husky chuckle as your voice echoes and rebounds through the gym. You hardly even recognize it anymore. It just sounds so ... dull, so empty.

Didn’t used to like him. Hell, like never came into it. You loathed him. Kept strutting his stuff, showing off, bringing home girls and bros alike at all hours of the day and night. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You had a schedule to keep, damn it. You had to WORK OUT.

...

WORK OUT

...

WORK OU--

Damn it! You had to go to your job. You had to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX.

...

It’s so hard to fight this thing. Your head jumps tracks every time you try to finish a sentence, to think about the old life. Everything just jumps right back to the GYM and WEIGHTS.

“FUCK!” you snarl. You wish you’d never worn those stupid AWESOME HEADPHONES.

You remember when you blew up at him. The look on his face, the blindside, the anger, and a glimmer of something else. Curiosity? Intrigue? Or had you just imagined that?

Mmm ... you’d love to imagine some hot a--

NO! Can’t give in to base instincts. That’s what he wants.

Though that one blonde, ... damn was she fine. Her voice. Her hips. You’re ashamed of what you did, but ... at the same time, ...

“I want more,” you whisper. You clench a hand into a fist. “Damn it....”

You remember the gift. He said to consider them an apology, a way to compromise, so you could, “sleep deep, bro.”

The dumbbells clack with every lunge you take now. Your body follows a set rhythm that you cannot break. Those words, those thoughts, those actions. Carefully planned, every last one. And you didn’t realize until it was too late.

Your headphones became your collar, its white noise your leash.

You’re still not sure what was real and what was dream. Strip clubs, health bars, gym work, muscle ache, kneeling, listening, a shadow, a phantom figure posing you like some giant mannequin.

It takes a moment to realize you’re now reflecting that exact pose in the mirror.

“Damn it,” you swear. “I’m such a dumbass.”

You feel your body shudder at that word. You know your programming approves, and he would, too.

You can’t remember when you first found out the truth. You just remember the anger and rage boiling inside, followed immediately by his crisp command. And suddenly, you were on the floor doing pushups. The anger was fueling you to break your last plateau.

You look down at your swollen arms.

You broke that plateau, all right.

Every move you tried to make against him, he would counter neatly, as a chess master would a novice.

You lost your job.

“Numbers are too hard for a dumbass like you.”

You lost your friends.

“You’ve got, like, nothing in common with them anymore, bro.”

The library banned you. You’re still not sure why. Maybe he greased a few palms. Big bro was hella rich.

“Who needs books, when you’ve got weights, bro?”

He blocked the channels with a password, so you could only watch athletic events.

“Come on, bro. Big game’s on. You know you wanna watch it....”

Even the beard was his idea.

“It’ll make you look like a total rugged badass, bro! Who wouldn’t want that?”

You were completely surrounded.

“Let me introduce you to some of my best bros...”

Always watched.

“Here, let me spot you, little bro.”

Stripped.

“You need some new duds, bro.”

Dressed.

“Aw, hell yeah. Now that’s what I call ALPHA!”

Fed.

“Chicken and rice. Gotta get your lean proteins, bro.”

... Programmed.

“Time to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX, bro. Got something new for ya....”

And you let him. The plastic sheath on one of the machines creaks and groans under your muscular grip as you grit your teeth, all while the white noise continues to play, pushing you, motivating you to work harder and grow your meat. The bulge straining in your crotch would have left you embarrassed at one point. Now, all you can do is stare at it blankly and chuckle, like it’s all some sort of game, and you’re winning.

... But how much have you lost?

Then the static cuts off. You hear the ringtone from your cell phone.

Your neck strains as the muscles you’ve spent so long developing pulse and writhe under the skin. There’s only one person who’d call you this late anymore.

And you hate his guts, even as his words push you to obey and respect him.

“‘Sup, bro?”

His voice on the other end is smug. “Just checking in on my new best bro.”

You try to bite back the glow of pride swelling in your chest. You don’t succeed.

“Was just getting in some extra sets before coming home. I’m fucking starved. What’s for dinner?”

“Your favorite.”

You moan. “Ribs?” Damn him for using your love of barbecue against you.

“I figured you deserved a reward, after all your hard work.”

You flex, as though he were there. It’s natural, automatic. It’s ... how you react to a lot of things now, actually.

“It has been a whole year,” he noted. “And I wanted to celebrate with you. We’re pulling out all the stops. Hell, I’ve even got a special gift lined up for you, if you want it.”

“Don’t I have to accept all your ‘gifts,’ anyway?”

“Was that a note of bitterness I detected?”

“Maybe just a little,” you admit. You can’t lie to him. He made sure of that. Bros before hoes. Bros don’t keep secrets.

“So, you’re still not happy?”

“You should know. You are my roommate.”

“I thought you would’ve warmed up to it by now. You flirt like a champ, tackle weights like a beast, and you practically baptized yourself with beer at the superbowl party.”

You shrug your titanic shoulders. “I’m a bro, bro. You kinda m--. M--.” You furrow your brow. You can’t say the word.

“I made you like this. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

You nod.

After a period of silence, he spoke up. “You do realize I can’t see you, right?”

The sound of your hand slapping your forehead was enough to set him off laughing.

“Fuck you,” you snarl. S’not funny!” Finally, a loophole in your programming you can exploit.

He was silent for a time. “No, I suppose it’s not. It wasn’t funny when you challenged me either. You killed my date that night. Not cool, bro.”

“And that justifies putting me on a training regimen?” You couldn’t outright call it brainwashing or hypnosis. Those words had been forbidden.

“Considering all the names you called me that night, yeah. I wanted you to see just what it was like to be a bro, to think like a bro, to act like a bro. I wanted you to know just how it feels to have society judging you every second of every day for your choices, always thinking you’re just some dumb musclehead waiting to show off. Never taking you seriously, never giving you the time of day. I wanted you to see the sacrifices we had to make to get where we are with the whole world laughing in our faces. So yes, I think your ‘training regimen’ was well deserved.”

You could practically see his glare over the line.

“I may be a dumbass and a jerk at times, but at least I own it. I told you what I had planned. I let you know in advance, and you never said a word to me, not one word. Did you really think I wouldn’t have listened, if you’d just pulled me aside in private and asked? But no, you were too scared to. You thought the big bad alpha bro was gonna beat you up the moment you stepped out of line. You’re not scared of me now, are you?”

“No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

You grit your teeth again.

“Judging by your silence, you know the right answer. You’re angry at me, but you’re not scared of me, because you’ve gotten to know me.” He was silent for a time. He didn’t have to worry about you closing the call. Only he could end the conversation. “I’ll tell you what. It’s clear enough that you’ve learned your lesson, even if you’re not willing to admit it. Part of that is the pride I helped build, and part of it is the pride you had before I even started helping you. So, I’m going to give you a choice, or rather, a chance. If you want to be your old self again in every way, you just have to do one little thing. I’ll even make sure to pay you back for all your troubles and losses.”

“... I’m listening.”

“All you have to do is keep yourself from admiring yourself in the mirror. No flexing, no posing, no standing still to look over your changes. If you can keep that up for the rest of your workout time without doing any exercises or fitness-related stretches, then I’ll reverse everything I’ve done in your head. Fail, though, and you have to pay the price.”

“Which is?”

“You get to say goodbye to your old self entirely of your own free will. You’ll accept being a bro, embrace it, love it, revel in it. The bro will be you, and you will be the bro. You’ll become the dimwitted musclehead you feared. The gym will be your home, your fellow bros your family. Sports and weights, muscle and shakes, and letting your meat do all the thinking for you will be your new norm, and you’ll love every second of it.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Then we continue as we have.”

“Let me get this straight. So, it’s either try and possibly be free, or don’t and wind up with the failure option eventually happening no matter what.”

“Exactly.”

“... You’re on.”

“Excellent. Good luck, little bro.”

The call cut off. The static returned, and you took your seat as you reviewed your phone. Just had to keep distracted. That was all.

The first few minutes were a breeze, but after that the restlessness set in. Your body wanted to move, and you knew the recording was reinforcing that need to egg you on. You leaned forward and pulled up your phone’s apps. Your brainwashing had forced you to delete the entertainment apps and left you only with fitness trackers and camera.

You clicked into the camera app and scrolled through your selfies from the start to now. Big bro had done a good job. You had to admit that. That uncertainty solidifying into a cocky smirk. The clothes shifting to large, then extra large, then XXL. Sleeves being torn. Seams burst. It left you feeling breathless. You squirmed in your chair as you felt another surge of instinct scream at you to act, to move, to work out.

Your chest heaved as your triceps contracted under the sudden shift in your posture. You looked desperately down at your dangling necklace swinging back and forth. The chain was designed to highlight the amount of muscle you’d built in your pectorals. Surely, it could help keep you distracted for a few more minutes.

You fiddled with the chain, listening to its links hiss and chink as you hefted and manipulated it. You dug it into your skin a few times to try and distract yourself from that gnawing urge. Toes tapped, heels bounced. It was so difficult!

Why?

Your fingers played with the exercise band to keep your mind occupied, but that didn’t help. Your phone glitched, and the appc losed out. You opened the camera again, and caught a snatch of calf between all the weights.

Your breath became shallow as your hand shook.

Come on. You’re stronger than this. Think about the consequences. Think about ... about ... what were their names again? 

You could barely recall the faces of your former friends. They were more blurs than proper images. Blurs that slowly hardened into thick, square jaws and piercing eyes. The familiar impact of dice rolling on the table was replaced with the equally familiar clank of weights smacking against one another and the retort of guns on the shooting range.

Clapping hands became back slaps. Hand shakes were fist bumps. Exultant cheers and jubilant hugs were replaced with grunts, roars, and chest bumps.

That’s ... that’s not....

Tackling.

I...

Videogames with wrestling.

Can’t....

Soda cans replaced with beer.

No....

Delicate hands brushing over your beastly arms. “Hey there, stud. How about a gun show?”

Your legs are spread wide, your eyes unfocused. Weight and bars and chicks and muscle and posing and wrestling and ... and ... and....

“Heads up, Bro!”

The camera flash had been so intense back then. You blinked. You heard a shutter click.

You gaped at the image on your phone. Your thumbs moved on autopilot. You hit send.

Back at your apartment, your Big Bro smiles at the image and its accompanying text as he pulls the ribs out of the oven.

Better have those fucking ribs ready, Bro. I’m starving.

Mister Universe

Oh, hello there. What, were you expecting to meet some gigantic muscle man in a posing thong strutting his stuff? That’s all for show. The name’s Isaac. Nice to meet you. Please, have a seat.

I’m afraid I really do have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s a chair right there.

Ah, I love it when I see that confused look. People always wonder how I do it. It’s funny, really. Go ahead, take a seat. I prefer to stand a while longer. I agreed to this interview because you seem legitimately interested in the truth of my story, and I don’t mind telling it, provided that truth is known without embellishment.

You see, I started off as all young men do. Small, weak, inexperienced, and vastly ignorant of the way things work in the world. In that way, I was no different than any other child. I would imagine great adventures sailing across the high seas or plunging into the depths of the earth after hidden treasure and ancient civilizations. Sometimes I would slay a dragon. Other times, I would be a great barbarian fighting for his people to conquer and spread his influence. Sometimes I would be the good guy, others the bad. And it was fun for a time, just being like that. My friends told me it was some of the most real pretend they’d ever experienced.

I suppose I always was good at weaving a good story. In that way, you might say I could create whole worlds. But in due time, that gift was set aside and forgotten. I grew older, and I had to deal with the harshness the life has to offer a young man entering his teens. Cliques began to form, and the cutthroat nature of the teenager that rears its head in puberty began to blossom in its fullness.

I watched these things unfold, and I looked at them from the perspective of every frightened teen who wants to fit in. Jocks and fit people with aesthetic looks and charismatic personalities became popular. Those who didn’t fit that mold would fall behind.

I didn’t want to fall behind, so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I dusted off my old gift and fashioned a story for myself. I imagined myself as the perfect ideal for popularity in school: Fit, buff, rugged, with piercing eyes and a winning smile.

I would indulge in this fantasy every day. I would flex in my mirror and picture muscles growing. I would push myself at the gym and lift weights under tutelage from the fitness teachers. I pictured myself growing bigger and faster than any of my peers. And as time went on, that’s exactly what happened. I outgrew my fellows in every physical aspect. Girls would fawn over me. I became popular, even joined the football team. Everything was perfect. And when I flexed and grinned in the mirror, I would say, “I’m just a stereotypical jock.”

And that’s what I became. I lived on the high of popularity and social superiority. And then I brought my old friends with me. It was easy to strongarm them into the roll. A few words here and there, a little reluctant role playing session, and suddenly they seemed to fall right in line. I was their great barbarian leader again, and they my loyal horde. The metamorphosis was astounding to the teachers and aides.

Naturally, I became captain of the team. I pushed every one of my teammates to be their very best. I’d add the occasional affirmation with talk of being the perfect jocks, one team, one unit, working as one, that sort of thing. For a time, I think we actually did. It was strange to lead such a group. One minute, I’d scratch an itch or flex a muscle, and suddenly I’d feel that strange sort of tingle, and I’d turn to see the rest of my ‘bros’ had done the same. Every time it happened, we’d just stare at each other, blink, and laugh that deep husky chuckle that came so naturally now.

School hardly mattered to any of us. We’d pass, and that was all that mattered. But, of course, in due time, reality began to set in. College was coming up, and while many of us were scouted for our incredible skill in sports, we all knew somewhere in the backs of our heads that being the dumb jocks we were couldn’t last for much longer.

Coming out of that fantasy had to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. My first semester of college was brutal, and my friends felt much the same. One or two of them never could bring themselves out of the world I’d woven for them. They still play in the NFL, though one of them, unfortunately, is dealing with some very serious charges. I feel responsible for that to an extent. True, his will is his own, but I molded him into what he is. I pushed him to be competitive, to grow, to become so aggressive and violent. You have to be, if you want to play professionally. I just never thought he’d take it this far.

*Sigh*

Once I’d finally stumbled out from that cloud of being the dumb jock, I realized I still hadn’t truly found out who I am, what I could do and be. I’d limited myself, because of this dream I’d been living for so many years. I was attractive and muscular, but those traits weren’t going to be assets in a college classroom. They were only a hindrance in this new and alien world that I’d suddenly found myself in.

High school is meant to prepare you for college, but since I didn’t pay attention in high school, I didn’t develop the skills necessary for my work. I had to get a tutor to catch up.

That tutor and my lit professors saved me from what could have been a terrible fate. Lucrative, perhaps, but certainly terrible. I would’ve been stuck either as a model or possibly a male escort with the way I was going. I didn’t want to be a stripper. I could’ve gotten into manual labor, if I’d wanted to take that route, I suppose. As for professionals, the odds of making pro were infinitesimally small, and I didn’t want to risk it, once we’d had that first sobering talk.

It’s amazing how quickly my imaginary world was torn down by this one person’s words. I actually cried when it happened, you know, but it was necessary for me to see the world for what it was, if I was ever going to grow enough to find my place in it. I’ll always be grateful to him for that, because without that sight, I never would have awakened the academic in me.

I devoured all manner of literature and works ranging from fiction to non-fiction. The classics, the advanced, theses, journals, fantasy. You name it, I would read it. I learned, and as I learned, I found my mind expanding faster than I could have ever imagined. A whole new universe had opened itself up to me, and I drank it greedily.

Sleep didn’t really seem to be a bother to me. I just kept thinking to myself that I didn’t need sleep, and I found that I didn’t. It was nice from time to time for the sake of dreams, but it wasn’t really necessary. *Chuckle* You wouldn’t believe the number of studies doctors had me participate in when they found out.

I found myself in need of glasses, eventually, as my eye sight began to strain and I became near-sighted. It wasn’t a major loss, though. Glasses were great to use off-field, and I could use contacts when I played. Yes, I still played sports. I had to, if I was going to keep up my scholarship.

As you’re aware, I graduated with honors. While I did grow past most of my old self, there is one thing that did remain with me, a sense of competition. I drove myself to be the very best I could be in every field I participated in. And as a result, I eventually received doctorates and degrees in a variety of them. I crafted a new world for myself, one where I could indeed be the very best. And I realized that the best in academics and the best in sports didn’t have to be mutually exclusive.

And where does that leave me now? Well, as you know, I participated in a variety of contests for bodybuilding and strength testing. And I was fortunate enough to win this year’s Mister Universe. Some call me a muscle god. That’s half true.

You see, I’ve discovered that these stories I weave have a ... well, for lack of a better word, power behind them. Each time I tell one, it seems to come true. I dreamed of becoming Mister Universe, told a story, and then achieved the reality. I wove the tale of both worlds coexisting, and here I stand before you, the proper balance between the great muscular man and the inner nerd.

I can perceive whole galaxies and picture the worlds that reside within them. I craft a tale of travelling, and suddenly I’m there. I walk among men and I can see their hearts, what makes them tick, their desires, their fears, their worlds that they’ve built. And I’ve found that I can alter them on a whim.

All the research I’ve performed indicates that these are the attributes attributed specifically to two entities: either superheroes or gods. Considering nothing about me seems to feel super, and the fact I haven’t seemed to age all that much in the last couple of decades, I’m fairly certain that I’m closer to the latter. Fantasy would likely classify me as a younger god. I’m not certain how it happened, nor am I sure why. I simply know that it is. And I’m grateful for that gift.

Now I’m content to simply live my life with the prize money I’ve earned and focus on learning and growing. I love analyzing a person’s story, picking it apart and putting it back together again, so I can understand how they tick. And, occasionally, if I should happen to feel particularly generous, I add a little to that story.

Now, seeing as I’ve been so open with my story, how about we take a look at yours?

Maybe I’ll give you a gift, too.

Anxiety

The guilt you feel for a wrong you never knew.

The fear of hurting another to push them away.

The worry that you will never be what the world expects.

The constant constriction in your chest that squeezes like a vice.

It is a master of infiltration and disguise.

Its target, peace. Its calling card, perception.

Its compatriots: fear and doubt.

Its occasional ally: pride.

Spawned by: love, hate, lust,

MISUNDERSTANDING.

And there are times where it cannot be removed, cannot be destroyed. You cannot simply shoot it. One may mask it, but that disguise often makes it stronger.

One may seek to control it. But control does not come easily, and can be an expensive venture.

So what is the antidote? Is there an antidote?

Not always.

But there are things that help:

Openness.

Patience.

Empathy.

Love unfeigned.

Gentleness.

Kindness.

Hope.

These things are there, and they will come.

But only if you SPEAK.

Only if you ACT.

So.

Will you be the hostage,

or will you try again?

For me, I will ACT.

For me, I will try.

For me, I will do.

And we will see what will be.

Together.

What are you?

“A lowly recruit, Sir.”

And why are you here?

“I am here to train.”

For what purpose?

“To be the perfect soldier.”

And soldiers follow orders, don’t they?

“Yes, Sir.”

It is good to follow the orders of a superior.

“Yes, Sir.”

Good to obey, like a good soldier.

“Yes, Sir.”

And I am your superior, aren’t I?

“Yes.”

So that means you obey me, soldier.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

Good recruit. Welcome to the Spartan Program, where Strength, Obedience, and Discipline are all that matter. You will be molded. You will become the perfect warrior, the first of many. Sparta will live again.

“*Groan* Yes, Sir....”

You feel the first effects of my blessing, Spartan. This is but a taste of what I have to offer you, should you prove worthy.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Come now. You know me better than that. Address me properly, Recruit.

“Yes, ... Lord Ares.”

Good, good. Keep that up, and you’ll reach Captain in no time. I expect great things from you, Recruit. You are to lead a new generation of Spartans. Fill these barracks again. Return my troops to me, and I shall reward you handsomely.

“As my god commands.”

Good boy. Now go work out. I expect you to put on another five pounds of muscle by the end of today’s workout.

“SIR, YES, SIR!”

The Captive

“How do you do it?” a young teen asked as he looked up at the muscle man tugging the elastic bands for his resistance training. “How can you always be so dedicated?”

The man cocked his head as the veins bulged out of his arms. The slightest fluctuation around his cheeks and jaw betrayed anxiety. The rest of his face seemed more calm, curious. The light reflected off his sculpted chest as his swollen biceps flexed and strained with his triceps and flexors. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” the kid said excitedly. “I’d give anything to get strong like you.”

The man laughed. His mouth broadened into a grin. His eyes watered, but that was likely a result of either Spring allergies or maybe irritation from contacts. “Anything, huh?” His breathing remained steady as he strained against the tense wires. “Even your freedom?”

“Uh ... what?”

“There’s a reason I wear this gear, you know. There’s a reason I’m always working out. I used to be like you, kid. Normal, small, weak. I was just a lot chubbier, and I had a lot more nasty habits when it came to food.” He sighed. “Well, my body got sick of it.”

He shook his head to cut off any commentary. “No, I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean literally. I woke up one morning to find myself actively doing pushups and situps without any memory of how I got there. It was small at first, little things like that. A minor piece of fitness here, a few healthier choices there. For example, when I reached toward a bag of chips, and there was something better close at hand, my body would freeze, and I’d have to either pick the healthy snack or just forget it.

“I talked to doctors about it when it got worse. Eventually, I got locked away in a psych ward. I went through hypnotists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and who knows what else.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t fun. I finally got out of that hell, and by then I had little choice. My body had gained more control than I had. I walked where my legs wanted me to go. I lifted what my arms wanted me to lift. I ate what my hands put in front of my face, because I couldn’t do anything else.” A tear slid down his cheek. “I still can’t.” He gestured to his thigh with a jerk of his head. “There’s a reason I wear that brand of shorts, you know. My muscles like the idea of the joke. They’re alive, kid. My body literally has its own consciousness, and it’s taken the driving seat away from me.”

He lowered his broad back and released the tool he’d been using, then tromped past the kid toward the leg press. “I get maybe a couple of hours to call my own each day, and only if they fall within the habits my body wants me to follow.” He released a deep chuckle as he set the weight and positioned himself on the chair. “My consciousness broke for a while when I couldn’t cope, you know. I created the persona of a musclehead. For all intents and purposes, I was the perfect dumb jock stereotype, right down to the low IQ and bro talk.” He sighed. “Eventually, I clawed my way back to my old self again, but I still couldn’t really do much.” He grunted as he pushed against the plate, and his calves and thighs bulged with the effort. “I still try to work out a compromise with it from time to time. Sometimes negotiations succeed, and sometimes they fail. When I do what my muscles want, I get....” He shuddered and groaned as his legs retracted and the plates clanked against each other. “Rewarded.” His cheeks flushed as he pushed again. “I’m a slave to my own body, kid. Trust me, it’s--” His neck twitched. “It’s--” His head jerked. “No, no, no!” he snarled. “You pro--”

His mouth broadened into a grin as haunted eyes stared helplessly, pleadingly. He rose from the machine and adjusted the weight to a lighter setting. “It’s an experience you’ll learn to love.” He motioned to the chair and its plate.

The boy trembled as he approached the chair with wide eyes. He sat down. “What’s--?”

A heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, and it was like an electrical current passing through. “Welcome to your new life.”

The boy groaned as his legs pushed and a surge of pleasure rebounded through his body.

The man’s chuckle was low and deep. “We knew we were’t alone.”

What You’re Told

You stare ahead blankly with your arms at your sides. The black room’s featureless walls stared back at you. The corners had long since faded away to you. Your heart thudded steadily in your chest as the icy chill spreading through your veins was replaced with the familiar euphoric warmth. You could feel the passages expanding against your flesh as you breathed in time to the steady whirring that had bombarded your hearing for so long. You’re not even sure what day it is, let alone the week or month. Time has no meaning, when you have no means to track it.

You must wait. You know you must. You do not question why.

A deep voice sudden echoes from that seamless void. “What are you?”

Your pecs twitch as your mouth opens and you speak for what feels like the first time in centuries. “I am muscle.” A rush of pleasure cascades down your body from the top of your head to the very edges of your toes. You barely resist the urge to flex. Now is not the time. You are not sure how you know this, but you do. It is time to listen and respond. That is what you are here to do.

“And what does muscle do?”

“Muscle obeys the brain. It does as it is told.”

“That is correct. And if you are commanded to grow?”

“I am muscle. I will work. I will obey. I will grow.” You blink slowly as you feel your skin tightening, and your breathing becomes heavier, fuller.

“Muscle does not think for itself.”

“Muscle obeys,” you finish for the voice. It is a distant memory, this discussion, but it is so deeply ingrained within you that you know exactly what to say. How many times have you said it? Did it even matter? It was all Muscle memory now. You swallow as you feel your adam’s apple expanding and pushing against your throat. It bobs, while your trapezius muscles muscles expand in the slope along your shoulders and the cords along your neck thicken.

“That is good. That is right. Because you are dumb muscle.”

“Yes.” Your voice was deeper now. You could feel it rumble out from your diaphragm.

“You listen.”

“Yes.”

“You do as you are told.”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

You stare ahead blankly and do not respond. You feel the distinct pressure starting to build against your crotch, and know that you are growing as muscle should. It fills you with satisfaction.

The voice tried again. “Do you have a name?”

You feel the dull ache and hear the snaps as your feet expand. That is of no concern. No pain, no gain. A muscle must gain. Instead, you answer the voice’s question. “No.”

“That is good. That is right.”

You feel your arms rising against your will. Your expanding biceps press against your swelling sides, pushing your arms away from their resting place.

“Are you ready to obey?”

You answer without question. “I am muscle. I obey.”

Your pupils didn’t constrict when the door finally slid open to spill light over your frame. You stared ahead at the walls, where reflection upon reflection stared back at you with blank expressions. Something flickered briefly in the back of your head and in your chest. Your body tensed, but you weren’t quite sure why. Then you felt a hand on your bicep. Another figure had joined you, wrapping measuring tape around your arms and torso. He looked up at you, even as you continued to stare ahead.

“You may flex, if you wish,” he said, and the words were like a switch had been flicked. Your arms shot up in a double bicep pose. Your boulder-like shoulders bunched and tensed as the skin grew taut over your slab-like pectorals and brick-like abdominals.

The three truths echo over and over in your mind as you open your mouth to speak. “Muscle flexes. Muscle listens. Muscle obeys.”

The sneer that contorted the man’s face was irrelevant as he peered up at you. He was the voice. He was the brain. The brain commanded the muscle. The muscle obeyed.

“That is right,” he said as he patted your sleek skin, and you let him. After all, muscles must be examined. “That is right.”