This Story Is A Call Back To An Old Series I Never Completed And Need To Continue, And Since I Havent

This story is a call back to an old series I never completed and need to continue, and since I haven’t done anything military in ages, and I promised a proper military story to @armybrute​ for the help he gave me. I hope that this will suffice as a good and proper story while I ponder how to move forward with Military Daze again.

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Ten Hut

“You’ve been doing such an excellent job.” You hear the voice echoing in your ear. You’ve heard it for so long now. Even when you’re not in class, it follows you. All you have to do is look into the mirror to see how much you’ve changed. Your sweat pants cling to your trim waist, while your swollen muscles press so prominently against your shirt. Army green. It’s almost as though the two were one. “Well done, Private.”

Your parents couldn’t afford to send you to the prestigious academy, but the United Armed Forces Military Academy (UAFMA) was willing to offer you a place in their new Remote Officer program. The school website had a digital library with all the materials you would need to study in order to graduate with honors. They even had audio files to listen to on the GO ARMY.

“Thank you, Sir,” you reply. CO’s voice was kinda scary at first, but once you got used to it, really accepted the fact he was your Commanding Officer, things got easier. You weren’t a troublemaker, and he knew you weren’t a troublemaker. He knew you were there to learn, to listen, to excel.

And boy did you excel.

Hours passed in front of that computer screen like minutes. Tactics, mathematics, history, science, English. Your CO was with you every step of the way. His voice. His smile. That flat buzz cut. It was deep, soft. But it rang with authority, an authority he wasn’t afraid to use if you messed up.

Your parents expressed concern over the fitness portions of your credit. Naturally, this was a military academy. They weren’t about to overlook that necessity.

Drop and give me twenty, maggot!

You could barely manage one the first time. You weren’t sure why you kept trying. Maybe you feared expulsion. Maybe you were tired. Or maybe it was something about his voice. You just had to do what he told you.

And boy was he brutal.

Any time you showed a lack of effort or improvement, he’d be on you. You learned how to explain yourself quickly and effectively. You had to. Otherwise, he’d order you to do more exercises. Debates were encouraged when appropriate. You’d just be checking,

One, two.

One, two.

CO would respond. Back and forth, back and forth.

Got kinda hard to focus sometimes, though. especially when you talked about the pros and cons of various fitness styles. Strength training, cardio, aerobics, anaerobics, diets, supplements, all that stuff for getting buff.

And damn did it feel good to be buff.

You usually lost those debates.

Actually, you hardly even ... remember ... those....

...

What were you thinking about again?

Radio ops was some of the most fun you had in the courses. Analyzing sound waves, crossing signals, identifying codes. Nothing advanced, but it was something ... stimulating. Defending your methods when they were challenged helped to sharpen your tongue, but you didn’t really have the balls to go against your CO for a while. Not till your body really started growing, anyway.

And people noticed.

Old school bullies tried to intimidate you, but they were nothing compared to your CO. Took a good beating for that little adventure when you told them as much. That was when your curriculum changed. Nobody beats up a member of UAFMA and gets away with it.

CO had you in the gym every day. You’d lift weights, jog, squat, do burpies, whatever he wanted. And the whole while, you’d be following along. Sir, yes, Sir. Three square meals a day. Four upstart teens to teach respect. Five sets in every exercise.

Tic toc. Tic toc.

It became easier and easier to keep up the pace. 

Order and discipline became your creed. Follow the program, get the results. It’s that simple. Always is in life. Constant study made finding answers simple. You retained the pertinent tactical data. You hadn’t used your X-bo in months. You had a schedule to keep, after all. You had to build, had to defend the honor of your school.

Honor. Integrity.

Service. Duty.

Obedience. Sacrifice.

Stick to the mission. Stick to the mission.

And you had.Your six-pack was harder than steel, your biceps sculpted pistons, your chest a mighty bellows, your shoulders broader than mountains.

Combat training came at the dojo. CO would arrive personally to ensure you knew how to handle yourself. And you followed his commands to the letter.

“Ours is not to reason why....”

You straightened your shoulders in response and snapped to attention. “Ours is just to do and die.”

You do. You do. You do.

You do your exercises. You do the work. You do the planning. You do the learning. You do the following. You do the obeying.

Don’t blink. Don’t think.

Do.

Do.

DO AS YOU’RE TOLD.

“Yes, Sir,” you say in your deep, deep voice. Deep, like your CO. Deeper and deeper every day. That’s what he’d said. And it happened. Because a good soldier obeys. A good soldier does as he’s told.

Seventy times seven, the bible says. Your study in numerology taught you that was meant to mean perfection. And you had to be perfect for this op. Seven times, you practiced. Seven hundred. Seven thousand.

Study. Train. Prepare. Repeat.

Eight months you worked. Eight months you slaved. Eight months, you grew into the stud you see before you now. You’re fit for service. Fit to dispense a little justice, and a little lesson in discipline.

“Are you ready, Private?” Your CO is asking you a question, and you feel the growl rising in your throat.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

The buds are already cupped in one hand, the players in your pocket. All you need is the command.

“Report for the op.”

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The squad was professional and focused. Your fellow cadets fell in line for debriefing, which you presented flawlessly. There was no room for weakness or fear in the academy. Courage would win that battle time and again.

The fight had been a short one, in a secluded corner of town where there wouldn’t be any witnesses and no cameras to record the incident.

Nine squad members marched onto the lot. Eight cut off the exits. Seven seconds passed to get the offenders’ attention. Six more to explain the retribution to come. Five combatants stood off against each other. Four juvenile delinquents were easily defeated. Three were tied up and plugged into the players. Two leaders faced off, until one was restrained.

You watched with a cold satisfaction as the manic light fled from their gazes. Their shoulders relaxed. Their breathing deepened and steadied. Finally, they slumped forward with gaping mouths and hooded lids. A curt order had them released them from their bonds. You smiled briefly as you looked to your men and they to you. These boys were in for a rude awakening, and you were going to give them hell as their CO. You braced yourself, took a deep breath, puffed up your chest, then roared at the top of your lungs.

“TEN HUT!”

Twelve fell into line as your CO drove up in the unmarked van. You salute him and grin. A massive hand claps you on the shoulder.

“Good job, Soldier.”

The pleasure and pride were overwhelming as you straightened and clacked your heels together. “Sir, thank you, Sir!”

He chuckled, then looked at the former bullies with a wicked sneer. “Let’s get these recruits oriented. You’re about to get some new classmates.”

Totally taking this for reference. Thank you for this goldmine of information about a faith I know little about. :D

more on writing muslim characters from a hijabi muslim girl

- hijabis get really excited over pretty scarves - they also like to collect pins and brooches - we get asked a lot of questions and it can be annoying or it can be amusing, just depends on our mood and personality and how the question is phrased - common questions include: - “not even water?” (referring to fasting) - hijabis hear a lot of “do you sleep in that?” (we don’t) and “where is your hair?” (in a bun or a braid, usually) - “is it mooze-slim or mozzlem?” (the answer is neither, it’s muslim, with a soft s and accent on the first syllable) - “ee-slam or iz-lamb?” (it’s iss-laam, accent on the first syllable) - “hee-job?” (heh-jahb, accent on the second syllable)

- “kor-an?” (no. quran. say it like koor-annn, accent on the second syllable) - people tend to mess up our names really badly and you just get a sigh and a resigned nod or an awkward smile, maybe a nickname instead - long hair is easy to hide, short hair is harder to wrap up - hijab isn’t just covering hair, it’s also showing as little skin as possible with the exception of face, hands, and feet, and not wearing tight/sheer clothing - that applies to men too, people just don’t like to mention it ( i wonder why) - henna/mehendi isn’t just for special occasions, you’ll see people wearing it for fun - henna/mehendi isn’t just for muslims, either, it’s not a religious thing - henna/mehendi is not just for women, men also wear it, especially on their weddings - there are big mehendi parties in the couple of nights before eid where people (usually just women and kids) gather and do each other’s mehendi, usually just hands and feet - five daily prayers - most muslim kids can stutter through a couple verses of quran in the original arabic text by the age of seven or eight, it does not matter where they live or where they’re from or what language they speak natively - muslim families tend to have multiple copies of the quran - there are no “versions” of the quran, there has only ever been one. all muslims follow the exact same book - muslims have no concept of taking God’s name in vain, we call on God at every little inconvenience - don’t use islamic phrases if you don’t know what they mean or how to use them. we use them often, inside and outside of religious settings. in islam, it is encouraged to mention God often and we say these things very casually, but we take them very seriously - Allahu Akbar means “God is Greatest” (often said when something shocks or surprises us, or if we’re scared or daunted, or when something amazing happens, whether it be good or bad; it’s like saying “oh my god”) - Subhan Allah means “Glory be to God” (i say subhan Allah at the sky, at babies, at trees, whatever strikes me as pleasant, especially if it’s in nature) - Bismillah means “in the name of God” and it’s just something you say before you start something like eating or doing your homework - In Shaa Allah means “if God wills” (example: you’ll be famous, in shaa Allah) (it’s a reminder that the future is in God’s hands, so be humble and be hopeful)

- Astaghfirullah means “i seek forgiveness from Allah” and it’s like “god forgive me” - Alhamdulillah means “all thanks and praise belong to God” and it’s just a little bit more serious than saying “thank god” (example: i passed my exams, alhamdulillah; i made it home okay, alhamdulillah) - when i say we use them casually, i really mean it - teacher forgot to assign homework? Alhamdulillah - our version of “amen” is “ameen” - muslims greet each other with “assalamu alaikum” which just means “peace be on you” and it’s like saying hi - the proper response is “walaikum assalam” which means “and on you be peace” and it’s like saying “you too”

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Undo

Richard tapped frantically at the keys on his laptop. The apartment was calm and quiet. His roommates were out partying up at a D&D session, so he wouldn't have to worry about any interruptions for the next few hours. It had been like this for the last couple of weeks now. He’d either retreat to his room or work in the living room. Occasionally, he’d sneak to one of the school’s recording studios after hours. A procedure like this needed all the finesse he could conjure. Fortunately, nobody seemed to question him.

The device chirped as he slammed the enter key and ran the newest soundbite through his program to check for any errors before adding it to the track’s layers. His head whipped back around his shoulders for what had to be the thirtieth time as he turned to face the hall door behind his desk. A subtle creak of the floorboards, the heavy thump of footsteps in the apartment above, any number of noises had set him off. This time was no different. The portal yawned into the dark stillness beyond. Once again, no one was there.

It still didn’t make him feel any better. “Almost over,” he breathed in a low whisper. He shook his head and grit his teeth. “How could I be so stupid?” He reached for his water bottle and squeezed a stream of liquid down his throat. Adrenaline had dried the passage, and he found it needed almost constant lubrication if he breathed through his mouth. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself in this state. Pressure never was his thing. He gasped after satisfying his craving and worked to moderate his breathing in an attempt to calm his heart. “Just a little longer and it’ll all be over. Then you can fix this mess, undo what you did, and everything will be back the way it was.”

Richard stiffened when he felt a sudden weight clap down on his shoulders. Thick veiny hands stretched on either side of him. His throat closed to the barest hint of a passage. The lubrication he had only just applied vanished.

“Watcha workin’ on, bro?” The deep voice resonated through Richard’s chest as thick sculpted arms freshly pumped from a workout bent on either side of him. He could hear the heavy breath, smell the overpowering scent of Old Spice body wash mixed with AXE body spray. They gripped tighter than the hands and left Richard’s head spinning.

“Dick, ... I wasn’t expecting you,” he croaked, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It’s been awhile. We hardly see each other anymore. I’m always working out, and you’re always nerding it up. Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to be with the guys tonight, roomie?” A heavy hand slammed a music player on the table, then raised itself slowly to clap the shoulder again, this time in a companionable pat. 

“Special assignment,” Richard muttered. He eyed the player on the desk. “You been, uh, listening to your tracks?”

“On loop, bro! I can’t get enough of ‘em!” Dick’s diaphragm heaved with a deep dull laugh that left Richard’s frame bouncing like a pogo stick.

“You mean you don’t take any breaks?” Richard squeaked.

“Just when I sleep. Why should I, little bro? You know what that chick said in Hair Spray (though I think Hair Gel would’ve been a better name). You can’t stop the beat. Those tracks just leave me so fuckin’ pumped! I mean, sure, it was kinda weird at first, but now I don’t know what I’d do without ‘em! I mean, look at these guns!”

“I’m looking,” Richard said weakly. His face had gone pale.

“Seriously, though, thanks for making so many for me. I know you said it could bruise my brain and all that if the same stuff kept going all the time, so having all these different things to listen to really helps. And, I mean, variety is the spice of life, am I right?” Again, he chuckled.

Richard hunched and waited for the storm to pass. “Right....”

“So, what’s this one about?”

“I ... guess you could call it a biography of sorts? It’s a track that’s supposed to cement an identity, you know?”

“Bro, you wanna clone yourself? That’s sick! Who’s gonna be the subject?”

“I don’t know about cloning, exactly, but ... yeah, I suppose it might have a similar effect. Cementing a mind doesn’t necessarily have to involve turning it into something else, though. It could also be used to fortify a person’s subconscious and make them more confident in their current state. Think of it like an armor of sorts.”

“So, you mean like football pads?”

“Exactly. They shield a person from an opponent trying to tackle their subconscious into submission. Do it right, and it can even reverse the effects of previous trances.”

“Damn. You’re smart, little bro.”

Richard’s shoulders started to ache. “I try. Did, uh ... you want to listen to some of what I’ve got so far?”

Dick peered at the file and whistled. “That’s a lot of layers, bro.”

“I wanted to make it iron clad. I’m not gonna make you sit through the whole thing, but here.” Richard highlighted a clip and clicked the play button, and the recording began to play over the speakers.

I am Richard. My name is Richard. Richard is my name. Richard is smart. You are smart. Richard loves hypnosis. You love hypnosis. ... Love recording ... Listen ... Deep down ... Study ... Sleep ... Repeat ...

The snippets flowed like a babbling brook with the tones that Richard had chosen, leaving only fragments, but the few that could be made out pressed a shudder through Dick that forced Richard to vibrate with him.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” Dick swore.

“You’re biased. You’ve already heard my voice. It’s easier to drop you in trance with it.”

“So? Bro, you were able to put me in trance, me. I mean, sure, it’s easy now, but you and I both know the first time took, like, what, uh.....?”

“Three months, approximately,” Richard supplied quickly. The soreness was spreading into his neck and a little down his biceps now. He rolled them uncomfortably. “Uh, do you mind?”

“Oh, sorry, bro. Had a killer workout. Hardly even feel anything now, ya know? I just ... lift. It’s what I do.” The weight lightened as Dick adjusted his stance and he sighed. An odd tingling spread over Richard’s shoulders as Dick’s fingers started kneading the flesh.

Richard shuddered in response. “How are you doing that?”

Dick huffed that same chuckle again. “Been taking a few classes on the side. Figured if I’ve got the bod for it, might as well learn how to use it and take care of it, right?”

Richard moaned. “Massage therapy?”

“Yup. Clients are butter in my hands.”

“I ... I really shouldn’t.”

“Relax, bro. You earned it.”

Richard’s eyes rolled as his muscles went limp. He didn’t even notice the computer chime. He smiled as he came out of the treatment to behold a snarl of anger that practically jerked him from his chair before a hand forced him back down. And then he heard it:

You are not dumb ... Work your brain ... Brawn to brain ... Nerdy Dick ... You are not a jock ... Not a dick ... Wake up ... Go back ... Go back....

Richard swallowed as the deep bass reverberated, until a heavy finger clicked forcefully on the mouse to pause the track.

“I trusted you,” Dick said in a husky voice.

“This isn’t the real you, Dick,” Richard objected.

“And whose fault was that, I wonder?” Dick roared. The wood on the desk creaked under the force of his fingers as they clenched the edge. “I gave up my friends, my major, my life for this. And just when I’m finally settling down, when I’m enjoying myself more than ever, when I’m happier than I’ve ever been, built a new life with new friends, you go and decide you can play god and tear it all down again?”

“It’s not real,” Richard said weakly.

“It is to me!” The desk leg creaked ominously under Dick’s heavy blow. “You think getting my head shaved was a dream? You think Duke isn’t real, that Travis is some kinda mirage, that Coach Sorensen didn’t offer me a place on the team? I fucking brought them to the apartment, introduced them to the guys, went out and got fucking drunk with them! Those happened. Those are real. My time in the gym was real!” He flexed his bicep and smacked the dense mound that had risen out of veiny flesh. “And this,” he said as he struck it again for emphasis, “is real.”

Richard shrank into his chair as best he could.

“You said I would have the power. You said that I would get to choose. You promised.” He jabbed his finger into Richard’s chest. “Well, I decided, bro.”

“Dick.” Richard’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Please.”

“Nah, bro. I’m in charge now. You’re done.”

Richard panted in the still air. Something was pushing against his chest. It felt so tight. “N-no,” he rasped. His voice cracked.

Dick shook his head. “Say it with me, little bro. ‘Nah, bro.’”

“N-nnnnnnnahhhh....”

Richard clenched his teeth. The room spun. His shoulders felt cold. Something brushed his scalp.

“You’re just a big Dick,” the deep bass said in a cocky tone of smug superiority.

The retort rose hotly in his chest, before he had time to stop it. It blew out from his diaphragm with the force of a conflagration, but it flowed smoothly, naturally from his lips, as if he’d been saying it for years. “Nah, bro.”

A vapid grin pulled at his lips as he opened his eyes. The small chair creaked under its owner’s bulk. That dull, familiar ache coursed like a drug through his arms, chest, and sides. Today was upper body training, and it had felt so good. He took a shuddering breath and moaned at the feeling of fabric brushing up a perfect set of well-carved abdominals. The tight hug of his black tank top complemented the familiar brush of rough fabric from his snapback. Thick arms as broad if not larger than footballs rested lightly on the wooden desk. He took his time to admire the masculine appendages, the huge mitts that his hands had become, the prominence of his veins against the muscle he’d worked so long and hard to grow beneath.

“I’m me.” He laughed exultantly. “I’m fucking me!” He whooped as if he’d just seen the school team score the winning touchdown. “I’m big fucking Dick!” He pumped his arm and danced in the chair. Then the computer monitor caught his eye. The program was still open. He reached for the lid and rested his massive palm on the now-familiar indent where he had laid it so many times before during his transformation. He loved sports. He loved weights. And he loved dominance. And now he’d just come off the ultimate domination by asserting himself against his old personality. He could leave it at that, delete the file, close the program, never think of it again.

“Or....” A smirk pulled at his lips as he looked over the laptop’s files. He still had the old copies of the recordings from his metamorphosis. It wouldn’t be that hard to record over the pieces that needed changing, and the walls were thin. He should be able to mix a few tracks. After all, even jocks and meatheads had fun with programs like garage band. The smirk turned into a sneer as he pulled out the mic and finished recording the beginnings of a new track. “Wuddup, Bro? Welcome to Jock School, where meatheads rule and bein’ a jock is fuckin’ cool. Huhuhuhuh....”

The Clothes

The clothes make the man, or so they say. Lance had been wearing the same shirt to his workout for years. He’d used the gorilla as his standard, his ideal. He was FOCUSED. He was DRIVEN. He was a BEAST.

And he was alone.

He sighed to himself as he stared into the mirror. The veins and striations stood out in sharp contrast with help from the single emergency light that flickered behind him. Yes, he had worked hard to get where he was, to earn his place as the top dog in the gym, to start his own business.

He loved his muscles, and was grateful for them. But that didn’t make him an invincible giant, despite what the size of his biceps and traps might say to the contrary. And words have the power to strike in places where one is still weak, even after making everything else strong.

Fuck you, man. At least I actually have a life. The only thing you have is your stupid weights. It’s people like you that give gym goers a bad name. You’re just a stupid fucking gorilla! Get your head out of the weight room and get a life, then talk to me about goals. I’m done with this.

“Is that ... really all I am?” He stared at his face intently. The bright red beard helped to accentuate the defined square aesthetic that he had worked so hard to develop. He could feel the weight of his muscle rising and falling with every breath. The tanktop straps stretched over his broad shoulders and brushed against the boulders his pectorals had become. His hands clenched on the edges of the dumbbells that rested on their rack in front of the mirror. “Am I just some ... dumb animal?”

The light flickered and he grunted as the shadows licked over his face, obscuring his eyes and casting them in darkness, so only the barest glint of light shone through. His brow furrowed as he felt the phantom tingling of a thousand tiny hands massaging, kneading, pricking.

He hunched forward as his traps tensed and he grit his teeth. “Am I really just a gym gorilla? Is that all there is to me?”

His ears tingled. His toes flexed in time with his clenching hands. His calves felt engorged, both from the workout he’d just finished and the tension that now held him captive.

The light flickered again. He leaned forward to get a better look at himself. His gym shorts hugged tightly against his glutes as he bore his sharpened canines. Sure, they were bigger than the average human,but was that really justification for such an insult? He’d worked so hard to get where he was. He should be proud. Why didn’t he feel proud? Why didn’t he feel angry?

He grunted as he light flickered again and reached up with a thick finger to scratch at the higher skull ridge. He’d heard it all his life.

Neanderthal, missing link, cave man.

It wasn’t his fault.

His unibrow bunched up in front of his flattening forehead. “I can’t help what I am,” he rumbled as his thick neck vibrated with his chest. He struck against the chest with a fist as tears blurred his vision. “Why can’t they just see me?”

He roared as the light flickered again. His dark leathery skin shone dully as a hooting sob faded and he regained control. A thick coat of fiery red hair had consumed his shoulders and chest to meet the beard and spread in a carpet over the rest of his body.

“You try supporting a body this big some time, kid. Tell me what free time you have.”

The gym rang with the sound of shattering metal, and he looked down to see the chunk he’d broken off the dumbbell.

“Damn it,” he growled. “Not another one.” He grunted his frustration as the lights flickered again and dropped to his knuckles. “That’s coming out of your deposit, you speciesist scumbag.” He lumbered away on all fours past a number of awards and certificates that seemed to appear with every flickering step. He burst into his office, where custom furniture designed for a big ‘rilla like him could take the brunt of his anger.

He yanked his phone from its receiver and jabbed the sticky-note-sized buttons angrily as he held up a card to his flickering desk lamp.

Simian and Jackman, Attorneys at Law.

“Call me a dumb animal, will you?” He reached down and withdrew a jumbo sized strawberry-banana smoothie from his cooler as the proud logo of Gorilla Wear clung tightly to his massive furry frame. “Let’s see how you feel after I haul your ass to court.”

Beautiful. Totally worth the reblog.

I have been working on this comic “Undergrowth” for the past month and I’m so happy to finally be able to share it with you!! This is the reason I haven’t been posting as much art on tumblr. I was very inspired by people who depict personal growth as a potted plant, and I wanted to do my own take on that idea: I think of it more as an entire forest or ecosystem within a person.

I hope reading this will inspire you to keep improving as a person even though it’s a process that is so difficult and convoluted.

[commission] [ko-fi] [Please do not repost my work!]

Champ

You know, it’s funny. I should be freaking out over all this, but I still feel absolutely calm. I have doctors looking over me while I’m typing this. Aside from having to mind how hard I type on the keys, things don’t seem to have changed all that much. Well, barring the fact I’m incredibly strong now, and I feel an intense need to lift things.

... And I have a massive increase in appetite. I suppose I should go back to the beginning. See, I’m an amateur bodybuilder looking to get into the big time. Or at least, I was. I felt like I had pretty good form and nicely sized musculature. I went to the gym on a regular basis, still do, and I made sure to maintain a proper diet for myself. When I wasn’t working on building, I would dedicate my cardio to Pokemon Go. Yes, I’m a Pokemon nerd. And there’s nothing wrong with that, no matter what other people may say. Anyway, a friend of mine knew I was about to try my first competition, so he sent me a special package with a black speedo and a very familiar belt with gold studs and a red P engraved on the top of the buckle at the front. Found this at a weird store. Made me think of you. Good luck, man. Don’t machoke on me, all right?

~Felix

I rolled my eyes at the pun, but it really was thoughtful of him to send me something that reminded me so much of my favorite pokemon. I chuckled and tried it on immediately, of course. The material hugged closely to my frame, and I smiled as I showed off the veins and striations I’d developed in my thighs, torso, and glutes. No matter the angle I took, the underwear fit perfectly. I smirked and struck a pose in front of the mirror, hunching forward as I ground my pectorals together and flexed.

“I’m not a choke. I’m a champ,” I said. I remember that well. I also remember the giddy rush I felt after the fact. I chuckled again and growled out a gravelly, “Chaaaaaaamp,” for extra measure. The belt warmed quickly, and I smiled at how comfortable it had become. The material was so light, it felt like I was wearing nothing at all as I stepped into the hall and progressed to check-in with my other posing straps and speedos for the competition. On top of height and weight, I also had to show them what else I might be wearing for future phases of the competition. On the plus side, the dope test had already been performed, and I passed with flying colors. I offered my CD and picked up the number to attach to my belt. The rest of the process was tedious, but worth it. The prejudging was nerve-wracking, but I think I did well. The faster my heart beat, the more exhilarated I felt. You see, bodybuilders have to keep at least semi-tensed during these examinations, because the judges are watching us the whole time. My research told me most judges choose the winner during this phase, rather than out on the live stage with the audience. I had to stand out with two other men and pose for the judges. With each successive pose, I felt the pump in my muscles growing stronger. Everything felt so taut and vibrant! I could hardly keep still, so I put that energy into maintaining the poses for as long as the judges required. The lat spreads and double bicep poses left me feeling positively euphoric. I swear, I wasn’t on drugs, but it sure felt like I was.

That night, the free-posing round left me even more hyped. My biceps looked like over-inflated footballs. My traps writhed behind my back, causing me to shudder each time I flexed or stretched them. I felt so big. And I reveled in that. My skin was smooth and glistened in the stage lights. I was positively ecstatic when I got called up for the posedown. Me, a rookie! The music faded. The crowd’s cheers faded. Honestly, those moments on the stage still feel more like a dream. I remember transitioning from archer to crab to chest to traps. Every pose, every flex, flowed one into the next. I heard a number, my number.

Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight!

It rang in my brain like some sort of chant.

And somehow, I just felt so confident, so powerful, so self-assured. I knew that I was going to win. I knew that I was a champion. That title was going to be mine, and I would always keep it, no matter what anyone else might say against me.

The sensation of a new set of arms growing out of your back is ... difficult to describe. As I said, my body was overriden with a sense of utter pleasure. It was, I guess like I was getting a massage, and every nudge and knead of growth sent surges of heat and pleasure down my shoulders and back, and into my swelling legs. 

That same kneading pulled at my skull as three great fins protruded out the top. I didn’t care. I don’t know if I even noticed. I just had to keep posing. Two hands clenched. Two arms writhed behind as new muscle groups knit together to support the structure of my new anatomy. By this time, the dull cry of the crowd had managed to permeate the fog. I thought I had won, that those screams were cheers.

I soon found out otherwise when I came out of the haze and saw the gaping judges. The music had long since stopped. The crowd stared at me. I stared back. I remember one of my fellow competitors asking me if I was all right, if I was still me. You know the cliche.

I responded in what I thought was perfect English. The step back he took from me indicated otherwise. So, I opted to give him the only sign I could, a thumbs-up.

Only, I did it with my two right hands.

I think that’s when the shock set in properly. Go on, you can say it. I know you’re thinking it. MACHAMP IS CONFUSED!

And I was. My whole body was literally coursing with power and energy, but it wasn’t my body anymore. My legs still moved fine, and I was grateful for that. But I now only had two massive toes. My feet had widened with my stance to make up for all the extra weight on my top and help carry it. I fell the first few times I tried walking. Too easy to lose my balance. But the thing is, it didn’t hurt. I mean, seriously, no pain. Not even a scratch. It was just ... I don’t know, a light tap?

Yes, I know. MACHAMP HURT ITSELF IN ITS CONFUSION. You don’t have to rub it in. Though, like I said before, my fall(s) didn’t really hurt. The audience was speechless. So was I. I mean, what do you say when you spontaneously turn into a pokemon? Other than your name, I mean, obviously. I see you trolls out there! Don’t get any ideas. This is one builder you do not want to mess with. I had to motion for pen and paper. Fortunately, my hands were still just as capable of writing. Machamp is mostly humanoid, barring the weird feet and extra arms. And the whole head fins thing.

On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about shampoo and conditioner anymore. But anyway, yeah, I wrote I was okay, still me, and requested that someone call a doctor, and maybe the police. I had to file a statement, after all, and better to get my name and face out there as soon as possible, rather than give anyone in the government the chance to hush it up and haul me off somewhere for experimentation.

I have been approached asking for consent to that effect, by the way. Being a super strong entity that has superhuman endurance and is capable of taking most any blows, which I assume would include bullets, given the fact my new species can literally take a beam of pure solar fire shot from the blossoms of plant monsters, kinda makes me a hot commodity from a military standpoint. I could be an asset, if I were to consent to serving my country.

Yes, an asset they’d send in as a tank in warfare to be blown up or watch others he cares about get blown to bits in a pointless conflict. No, thank you, Mister President or whatever shadowy aspect of the government is asking. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I could be some sort of super spy with this body and mug. I am literally one of a kind.

And if any foreign actors happen to get any ideas, they should know that I can break out of any prison they try to put me into. I am highly resistant to drugs and poisons, and I don’t give in to blackmail. In short, I’m not going to tolerate any shenanigans, but I’m not going to be a threat to anyone either, except in my capacity as being inexperienced with this body, which is why I am typing this up now as I work out my other arms under careful observation.

I didn’t agree to be the military’s property, but a coalition of biologists and scientists were very anxious to learn about what happened to cause the change, and how my genetics have been altered. They’ve been very helpful, providing me with a synthesizer I can type into to speak for me. It’s designed to fit around my wrist like a brace, and it doubles as a monitor for other readings. Yes, I am still only capable of speaking in what has been dubbed Pokespeak. It sounds normal when it comes out of my mouth, but no human can understand me.

That being said, I’ve made some demands of these scientists, as well as of the nations that are concerned about me as a potential threat. I am to be allowed to see any phase in the experiments, and we are to have round-the-clock security composed of a coalition from each of the nations who are concerned about my “welfare.” There is also going to be an interior security team composed of UN forces to keep the peace. Any blood or tissue samples are never to leave this facility, and are to be destroyed after the tests have been carried out to ensure no one can get hold of my genetic structure to attempt anything.

I’ve already broken several of their measuring machines in regards to testing the strength of my punches. And I found, much to my surprise, that I really can rain a flurry of blows at a pace that’s almost faster than the eye can see. They had to use a slow cam to show the individual strikes. So, that means I’m probably going to have to be registered as a lethal weapon and act accordingly. That’s to be expected, I suppose.

At least I still have my rights as a US citizen, and the UN has offered me proper protections with my visa as I stay here in Switzerland. Overall, it’s turned out a lot better than it could have. Naturally, as a large part of this research, I am allowed to speak with whomever I wish and text, call, video chat, etc. accordingly. It’s not like they can stop me from leaving a session, anyway, if I really want to do something else.

I’ve put in a few more failsafes, just in case anyone tries anything like falsifying videos of me or voice messages. It’s about all I can do for now. Anyway, yeah, that’s where I stand. I guess I really did become a champ, though I don’t think I’ll be able to compete in bodybuilding anymore. On the plus side, with strength like this, I can be my own moving crew or warehouse worker. Just don’t ask me to do any fine tuning. I’m still learning how to coordinate for the more delicate tasks.

The government, naturally, interviewed Felix about the mysterious store and its proprietor, but there was no sign of either. I get the feeling this is one of those things that will likely wind up in the X-files. But hey, gotta look on the bright sight, right? At least I’m still me.

And honestly, I can’t wait to get back to my normal life again.