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Real Men’s Journal Part 9

~December 11th~

The boy has returned to consciousness. As suspected, he was not pleased and proved to be rather disoriented. He appears to be far more susceptible to the subconscious commands we implanted now and is following the schedule fairly well. After a shower routine, he left in a dazed state to join the rest of his class at the mess hall. Coach Stone had a bit of fun with the subject after letting him meet with his former leader, Number 100. Files show his former name was Christopher Paulini. He now calls himself 100, or 100% Muscle. After he gave in, Number 100 progressed to be one of our best and “brightest” for his sheer will to obey and not think beyond our parameters. He has made a permanent home with us, here on the base, and is one of Coach Stone’s new favorites. The interaction and tests Coach Stone used were most enlightening, revealing that there must indeed be something unusual in the boy’s chemistry to allow him to resist, as shown by the return of subject’s genetalia to practically the same size. I will admit, the test was quite … provocative. I will discuss details with Coach Stone over recreation time at the staff gym. Perhaps during a treadmill run. I simply must get out there. If we can’t overcome the boy’s resistance, he may very well become immune before The Process is complete. Or perhaps I’m being paranoid. Either way, I need to de-stress. I will continue this log at a later time.

 ~December 12th~

Number 56 has fallen into trance again and is working out more regularly. As instructed, he listens to his files with his earbuds in and then returns to the gym to work out with support from 100 and 56’s hologram trainer, which has shifted to Coach Stone’s version. On top of being extremely fit, Coach Stone is also a surprisingly good programmer. He wrote the whole file for the boy’s personal use. I have recommended authorization to activate his other training components. Coach Stone said to wait a while longer. I attempted to disagree, but he convinced me. Coach Stone knows what he’s doing. I trust him.

 ~December 15th~

56 has woken up again and Coach Stone has deemed him ready for the measures I suggested. It appears he still faces trancing in the stalls of the bathroom and has even had a positive effect on some of the other trainees. Hopefully it’s only a matter of time now. Stone tells me he plans to earn the boy’s trust. How he plans to do so, I have no clue, but if he could convince me to let him take control, I’m sure he can convince 56 to trust him, too.

On a more personal note, I have filed a complaint with the head office, but still received no response. I have grown more used to the flickering buzz that comes from the lights, but it is still somewhat distracting to my work. I feel like I’m walking through a strobe-light sometimes. Coach Stone laughs and tells me the drones would love that. It’d be like a magazine photoshoot: perfect to pose in a frame by frame setting. Perhaps I should test that some time. They do listen to superiors and I am technically a superior. I never considered analyzing behavior after the changes were complete. Perhaps this might assist me in developing a method for those who demonstrate resistance like 56. I will consider this after my run with Coach Stone. We’re pushing three miles today.

 ~December 20th~

Subject 56 continues to resist, but it appears that he is weakening further. He has befriended three new recruits, the sons of the businessmen from our Industrial Retreat Program. We made them into industrial grade manual laborers and helped them to retreat from their worries and cares. Permanently. The results were quite interesting, to say the least. See files I.R.-666 through I.R.-668 for details.

56’s safeguards seem to be kicking in now. Based on the latest journal entry data, his subconscious is now blocking any attempts to delve too deeply into the idea of rebellion or the project itself. This has led to a certain amount of depression on his part, which has been made manifest in his video recordings, but he appears to still be keeping to regimen. We may very well break him soon. Excellent. Hopefully I’ll be able to break my own record for sit-ups today, too. Coach Stone bet me $200 dollars I’d fail. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when those bills enter my wallet.

 ~December 30th~

Number 56 is well on his way now. Even his dreams are working against him, or so his entries tell us. I must admit, the details he described would probably be arousing to many more if they read his narration. Watching and listening to him by night also shows he is falling into place. He listens to his recordings, repeats the trigger phrases regularly; all in all, I think my work here is done. Coach Stone has requested that I stay a while longer to see things through to the end, and if nothing else, then to give him a chance to win back his money. I admit, it pains me to leave. I’ve grown to like it here, and the atmosphere with these men is rather contagious. I still feel rather tired at times, but it’s a good kind of tired after a long day’s work. These coaches are almost as religious about their workouts as the drones are.

Speaking of coaches and drones, I notice that Coach Abrams seems to have gone missing. I hardly see him anymore. Anytime I try to say hello, he just grunts and continues on his way. What a curious alteration in behavior. He also appears to have packed on a few more pounds. I caught him once or twice measuring himself in front of a mirror. Coach Stone told me not to worry about it too much and that he’d take care of it. I trust Stone, so I’ll leave it in his hands.

 ~Personal Log: December 31st~

It appears I will be staying to the end after all. I just received orders from my superiors. They want me to make absolutely certain the boy, Subject 56, is completely converted to his new life before I return. I suppose I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve here with the coaches and other staff. For my resolution, I’ve been thinking of turning over a new leaf with my fitness. Having all this muscle around has made me want to build some of my own. Not that I haven’t made some gains over the last couple of months, but it never hurts to get better. I’ll discuss it with Coach Stone over drinks tonight at the party. He makes a mean cup of coffee, so I can’t wait to see what he can do with the other drinks.

 ~Personal Log: January 1st, 2017~

Oh, my aching head. Coach Stone really knows how to brew. I hardly remember what happened last night. We were laughing, I got a few solid thumps on the back. I … think I passed out or something. And Coach Abrams carried me in his arms. I think Coach Stone was with him. He said something, but I can’t remember what. Just a deep voice. Deep. And soft. I need a drink. These lights are doing a number on my skull right now. Maybe I’ll go on a run afterwards. Sweat off this hangover. Yeah. I should do that. 56 can wait. Stone says he’s almost won the boy’s trust, and I can’t work with this headache. I can work out though. Maybe just an hour.

 ~Doctor’s Log: January 10th, 2017~

Coach Stone has succeeded. And then some. The boy has begun to show signs of mental degradation, including memory loss and a more submissive and obedient nature. His last entry leaves me wondering where Coach Abrams may have gone, though. I haven’t seen him at all lately. Not even in the gym. I miss his presence. He helped me with my form on the weight bench. Coach Stone says not to worry and I’ll see Abrams again soon. I hope so. I liked watching him work out. Funny … I think I remember him in spandex? But coaches don’t wear spandex. Spandex is for the drones. It accents their muscles and stimulates further growth and circulation to their groin, causing their manhood to swell into a truly massive, manly bulge. There’s no going back after that. The subject is completely gone. But at least he’s happy by then.

 ~January 11th~

Number 56 is guzzling down protein shake after protein shake. He appears more dedicated to his work now and is starting to manifest more of a crude nature. It’s only a matter of time. Speaking of time, it’s time to meet Coach Stone in the gym again. Will report when new developments arise.

 ~January 13th~

Number 56 has begun the narcissus stage. He is looking at himself in mirrors and has begun to flex. At the end of his most recent entry, he has begun to use more crude language and focus on increasing size, especially his bulge. Subconscious commands alongside binaural sleep tracks are causing it to slowly grow larger each day. Soon the haze will begin to set in, followed by the euphoria. Coach Stone tells me he has a plan of some kind to determine how far their I.Q.s have dropped, but he wants to wait to put it into effect until later. He says he wants me to participate as well. I am most intrigued. Perhaps he will tell me more after our workout today. I always find myself in a better mood after a session with Coach Stone.

 ~January 18th~

Number 56 has made quite a bit of growth lately. He’s torn through his old set of clothing and was given a new set courtesy of Number 100. While it does cause the boy to appear smaller, he is merely entering a second stage in growth. The cursing is coming more naturally now, and he is beginning to find true pleasure in his increasing size. The haze has definitely come. He spoke specifically of fuzziness in his head. With the increase in muscle and testosterone has also come an increase in virility and a desire for dominance. He has grown more cocky and has developed a desire to show off, along with a persona that is slowly manifesting in the form of a cocky jock. The last portion of his entry left me rather … let’s just say it encourages a certain type of reaction in my system that I’m not entire certain that I like. It’s rather uncomfortable walking the halls and having everyone in the facility look at me with knowing smiles. It’s as if they’re all in on some joke while I’m stuck on the outside, and it makes me so angry!

Look, I need to work some of this aggression off. Before I hurt someone. I’ll be back later. After I work out.

 ~January 25th~

56 is obsessed with his size now and is taking actions to obey and follow orders. He is being rewarded accordingly by his body. The three other subjects he befriended are slowly joining him, well two of them were. The third required more pressing. We placed him in advanced conversion. Now he’s larger than 56 and obsessed with eating and muscle. His language centers have been heavily impacted, but the team mentality seems to have led to almost a pack type of situation where his fellows identify with how he feels and act accordingly. How curious.

56 will doubtless be ready for his test soon. Coach Stone tells me I’ve made great progress over the last month as well. It makes me glad to know I’ve found a place in this facility with people who are willing to talk with me and not judge when I’m dealing with man problems, you know? Though I admit I’m getting jealous of these kids. They’re growing so easily and I have to struggle for every inch I make. Perhaps I can work on a compound that doesn’t take away peoples’ brains. After I finish my workout with Stone though. Have to report to him.

 ~January 31st~

The boy is completely focused on obedience to his coach now. He didn’t even flinch after he made the connection to his last blackout, just that his coach needed him. And he’s right. His coach did. His coach will need him again before his changes are through. Need him to grow bigger. I wonder just how huge 56 will become. His resistance initially may well lead to him becoming one of the largest of all our candidates in the end. If his bulge is any indication, he’ll be a true giant. A pity he’ll have to become such an arrogant dick to go with it.

 ~February 5th~

Coach Stone has asked me to focus a little more on our workouts and dedicate further time to them. As fun as that may sound, I still have a duty to chart 56’s progress. Until his metamorphosis is complete, I have to chart every detail, every gain, every curl, every pump, every exercise. All of it. I have to do it. Just do it.  I have to do it. Do it. For my work(out).

Patient appears to be experiencing adverse effects as the enforcement triggers set in. When he thinks too much about what’s happening and his suspicion begins to grow, he experiences a mental block in the form of headaches and pain. 56 is growing much more compliant now. Soon he won’t be able to question orders at all, or anything for that matter. I’ll include an order to continue working out as much as he can in his recordings tonight, linking muscle mass and manhood size to the mental drain. Powerful subliminals.

Coach Stone and I have managed to create the ideal binaural for the boy. We tested it to be on the safe side. The effects were so potent, even Coach Stone and I felt dazed when we played it back. 56 won’t know what hit him. Instead, he’ll be hitting the weights himself like a man possessed. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Stone is expecting me. Today we focus on squats and chin-ups. You know, where you pull up on the bar, strain the muscles, and build your upper body. Then after the workout, I have a date tonight with a lovely lady on the staff. The way things have been going for me lately, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. A guy can dream.

 ~February 8th~

The date was amazing. We ate at a famous health restaurant she knows. The food was great, the music was relaxing, and the woman was beautiful. I can’t really remember what we talked about, but I know it was good. I woke up this morning and I still felt the buzz in my head. What a woman. Just thinking about her makes me dizzy … and I’ll admit a little aroused. Coach Stone just laughed and said he was glad I had it in me. Told me it’s good to just let things go sometimes. I’ll admit, a pleasant feeling does seem to be filling up my crotch this way. Coach Stone laughed at that too and simply said “welcome to manhood, rookie.” You know, I think I rather like the nickname.

ACCESSING SUBJECT #56 JOURNAL

~DAY???~

Posed in front of the mirror today. Damn I look good. Stripped down to my JOCK and just sorta let it flow, ya know? The more I FLEX, the BIGGER I feel. My muscles feel like a fucking powerhouse. The more I think about it, the better I feel and the easier it is just to BLANK OUT. Big muscles, big body, big dick, big bulge. Life’s good. And every time I show off, more people go to the bathroom. The more they go in there, the more they start to sound like me. And the more they sound like me, the better I feel. Like a real role model, ya know?

Coach says he’s proud of me. That makes me smile. Makes me feel like a man. He calls me Ky instead of Kyle, but I don’t mind too much. Kyle was for the old me, anyways. I’m bigger now. Better. Bigger is better. Buffer is tougher. I’m actually looking forward to working out now. I still think about home, but it’s not so bad as it used to be. I don’t worry too much about school anymore. I mean, I was kidnapped, right? So when they find me, they won’t try to make me do all that work at once, right? Right? I’ll just pick up on school after I finish here. No big deal. Well, I guess it is a BIG deal. For me. I stay. Listen to coach. Obey coach. Get HUGE!

Little Clark’s been gettin’ into it, too, ever since I hauled his ass to the showers. Little pansy stopped wearing his glasses, started acting like a REAL man. Turning into a real Super Man. See what I did there? Earned his JOCK strap today. The clothes make the man. That’s what coach says. And a fucking massive JOCK strap makes for a fucking massive, manly bulge. Huhuh, got so excited I shredded my sleeve. Gonna have to put a silencer on these guns. Voice has been cracking a lot, but Coach says by tonight it’ll be nice n’ deep, just the way I like it. So I can grunt like a real man as I PUSH my muscles to the max. Just gotta plug in my headphones and LISTEN to COACH. Sleep and LISTEN. OBEY.

SCAN. OBEY.

FLEX. OBEY.

LIFT. OBEY.

GROW. OBEY.

CONFORM. OBEY.

I LISTEN. I OBEY.

Yes, COACH.

BRAWN. OBEY.

BIGGER MUSCLE.

MUSCLE IN MY HEAD.

Yes, sir, COACH.

56. PUMP MUSCLE in my HEAD.

I OBEY. 56 OBEYS.

MUSCLE in HEAD.

Just MUSCLE.

MUSCLE HEAD.

YES, SIR. Just a MUSCLEHEAD.

BIG. DUMB. MUSCLE. OBEY. JOCK. FLEX. BRAWN. OBEY. MASSIVE. MANLY. BULGE. OBEY. MUSCLE is MEAT. MUSCLEHEAD is MEATHEAD. I’m a MUSCLEHEAD. So I’m a MEATHEAD. I OBEY. Yes, sir, COACH. Want to be a JOCK. Your JOCK. OBEY. I OBEY. BIG JOCK. DUMB JOCK. FOOTBALL JOCK … football jock? Wait … what’m I …?  Dude, what the hell? Coach? I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU, MAN! Well, FUCK YOU!

Fuck, why’d I have to be so damned stupid?

So stupid. Head’s all fuzzy. I … I gotta sleep. Sleep this off. Yeah. See you later.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 1

“You’re sure this gig is worth it, Harry?” you ask as you look over the contract. “Of course it is, kiddo. These kinds of commercials pay boku bucks. And besides that, it’ll show your versatility as an actor.” “But I just get one line.” “That’s the beauty of it. Simplicity is the very essence of great acting. Trust me on this. You’re going to go places you never dreamed of with this gig.” You sigh. “We’ve been down this path before, Henry. But, I suppose as long as the pay is good, we might as well. I need to pay the rent.” “Atta boy!” He smacks you on the back. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.” “If this is another porn gig, you’re fired,” you warn.

“Kid, it’s a commercial, as in broadcast to families across the world. Do you really think they’d try putting you in that kind of situation with millions of children watching?” “Good,” you harrumph. “I’m not about to deal with that crap again.” “There will need to be a certain amount of preparation, though. They love your face, but your body’s a little too underdeveloped for them.” You look down at your well-toned frame in surprise. “Underdeveloped?” “Their words, not mine, kid.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a training room set aside for you, complete with trainer and vocal coach to help prepare you for the part.” “A vocal coach?”

“What can I say? These guys are serious about helping you succeed. And they’re paying you on top of it all.” “They’re not taking it out of my paycheck, are they?” He shakes his head. “No. I made sure of that. So, are you in?” You sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” Harry bore his teeth in a broad grin. “Trust me, you won’t regret this.” You watch as he flicks his phone open and presses his speed dial. “Yo, Vinny! Yeah, I talked with my client. He’ll take the part.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 2

The sound of clanking weights, heavy grunts, and labored breathing assaulted your ears as you stood waiting in the gym’s lobby with Harry. His scalp shone in the midwinter light streaming from the skylight above as he dabbed at it with a cloth. The outside may have been cold, but the heat had been cranked up here in the gym for maximum burn. Admittedly, you felt like combusting, yourself, at this point. The receptionist at the counter was busy staring at a screen as he typed away rhythmically at his keyboard. Considering how a set of ear buds stretched tenuously from his ears to the console, you assumed he was likely going through some form of mandatory training course. He’d been friendly enough on your arrival, with his flaming red hair and exuberant smile, but that had all faded to a look of utter concentration, after he’d paged the owner to alert him of your arrival. Now he was completely engrossed in whatever program was running behind the counter. He shuddered once, and you watched as he mouthed something, while heaving a deep sigh. He reached up to scratch at the back of his head and stretch, absently flexing his biceps and triceps. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth that soon broadened into a grin as a low, protracted, “Yeah....” filtered across the way and into your ears. Your hand clenched and unclenched around the handle of your gym bag as the textured fabric on the handles creaked and grated against each other, giving you an outlet for the knots your stomach had tied itself into. It was one thing to take on a gig. It was another to have to face a long term training commitment with an undesignated amount of compensation, not to mention the unusual behavior this worker seemed to display. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow messed up, when he claimed to have gotten in contact with the owner. You were about to approach the desk again to ask what was taking so long, when a veritable giant of a man in a bright red polo that clung to his broad shoulders and molded around thick pectorals approached. His hair was inky black and shone like a streak of oil in the sun as it jutted up in a familiar high-and-tight flat top style that hearkened back to the military. A pair of compression shorts clung to his waist and thighs, accenting each curve of powerful muscle as he strutted over in the rolling swagger only those with thick legs could manage. He stood a full two heads higher than you at a burgeoning six and a half feet. His jaw clenched in a tight smile, accentuating the square masculine features along his cheek bones. He extended a massive mitt of a hand that practically enclosed yours as he shook with you. “Name’s Hank. Welcome to my gym.” His voice was a bit on the husky side, but while it sounded gruff, there was a warmth and welcomeness to it belied by his intimidating exterior. “I’m not exactly one for small talk, so I’m just gonna cut to the chase. I’ve been hired to train you into a tower of muscle for your part. I don’t work with slackers and I don’t tolerate cheaters. I expect complete compliance and dedication to me as your coach and instructor. Follow my instructions to the letter, and we’ll succeed together. Don’t, and I kick you out.” You winced at the crushing pressure as you withdrew your hand to try to restore feeling to it. “Um ... isn’t training me for a competitor’s commercial against your personal interest?””

Hank chuckled, and his voice rumbled in an effortless cascade. “Nah. My gym caters to a different clientele. They’re targeting beginners who’re too intimidated by more experienced builders. They’ve already shown me the layout. They focus primarily on cardio and general tone building exercises. If you want to bulk up, it’ll take a lot more time there than it would here. Half these boys are part of the professional circuit,” he said, motioning behind him. “Just can’t get enough of those weights.” “Hank here’s one of the best trainers in the business,” Harry promised. “You’re in good hands.” He smiled as he smacked Hank on the back. “I’ll leave you two to your work. You know the drill, kid. Give me a call, if something goes wrong.” Hank bore his teeth in a grin. “Give me a few months, and he’ll be grunting with the best of them.” You smile nervously in response. “Don’t forget. You meet your vocal coach tomorrow, so I expect you to show up, no matter how hard you’re hurting,” Harry said. “He’ll be there,” Hank promised. “I won’t work him too hard. Yet.” He chuckled again, punctuating it with a few husky exhalations to give it a clattering staccato. You swallow tensely as you watch Harry’s retreating form, and nearly jump out of your skin as you feel Hank’s meaty palm smack against your shoulder. You look up at that same grin again as white teeth bear down on you. “Now, then, let’s see what you can do.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 3

Your first session with Hank may not have been deadly, but it was far from unpleasant. He meant it, when he said he would test your limits. He took you through the whole range of exercises from cardio to calisthenics to strength and endurance training. To establish a base line, he’d said. A part of you wondered if it was just because he took pleasure in seeing you sweat. Then again, that was kind of his job, so he probably did. A purple turtle neck clung to your upper body, helping to keep you warm as you gingerly removed your coat to hang in the closet. The workout may not have been intense, but you still felt the after-effects, and you were not looking forward to day two. It always hurt more on day two. The waiting room was a small one, but incredibly warm. Harry had said he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it yourself. It was a vocal coach, after all, and you only had to say the one line. A few sessions, and you’d have that part ready to go for the cameras. You twiddled your thumbs idly as you waited in the leather chair. Finally, a good five or so minutes later, the door opened and a tall man with dark hair and green eyes walked out with a smile across his face as he put on his glasses. “Thank you so much for the help, Miss Schroder. Your training is an absolute life saver.” “It’s no problem, I assure you,” a woman’s voice carried out from behind the man. A few moments later, you caught your first look at her. Her skin was pale and flawless as marble, and she strode out confidently in high heels. Her hair fell in rich red curling waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back like the fronds of a willow tree, and her pale blue business suit was accented by light pink lipstick. “Just make sure to remember those dialects. Just because it’s one nation doesn’t mean they won’t have different accents.” “Ah, but how could oi be forgettin’ sumpin’ so positively voital ta me craft, yer ladyship?” he asked as a sly smile pulled at his lips. Miss Schroder laughed. “Oh, stop it, you. Save it for the character.” “All right. All right,” the man acquiesced as he raised his hands in defeat. “But it is fun, you know.” “Naturally. Just make sure to be careful, Scott. I find that the roles my customers play tend to take a life all their own.” Scott laughed. “Well, I don’t think that’d hurt all that much, in my case. See you around.” He waved, nodded to you, then retrieved his coat, before making his way out the door. Then Miss Schroder turned her attention to you. She called you by name, then motioned curtly with a finger as she strode back to her office. You followed her her with little prompting. “I’ll have you know that I take my craft very seriously,” she started. “I meant what I said when I warned Scott back there. My lessons can be very much like role playing, and like all role playing, there is a chance that the character can spill over into your everyday life. I would advise you to keep things as separate as possible.” She handed a sheaf of papers to you. “Please make sure to sign these, before we continue. They’re release forms, among a few other necessary documents. By signing them, you agree that I am not to be held responsible for any changes or repercussions that should occur during your time here. You are taking my courses of your own free will, and are willing to accept the consequences of whatever may result from these courses. As a part of the process, some hypnosis may be applied. In signing these papers, you consent to allow me to hypnotize you for the sake of understanding the role you are to take. If you do not wish to be hypnotized, you may so indicate in the necessary boxes; however, it will take longer for you to accomplish your role to satisfaction this way, and the commercial will not move forward, until I give my official seal of approval.” “What?” you balk. “They trust me. I’m good at what I do. If I say someone isn’t ready, they aren’t ready. Each time I’ve warned a client, my predictions came true. After a time, people learn to listen.” She shrugged as she planted herself in a tall stool with a high back to support her lithe frame. “Now, then, assuming you’ve finished the paperwork, let’s get started.” You gulp, then sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s not like she’d be able to do much to you, anyways, even if she did manage to put you under. And you needed this part. You scrawl quickly across the necessary lines, after a swift perusal of each of the segments for any hidden language or gimmicks. “All right. Let’s get started,” you sigh. “Good.” She seized the paperwork and shoved it into a file with your name on it. “Now, then. According to the paperwork, you are to play the role of a stereotypical bodybuilder with just one thing on his mind.” “Lifting weights. Yes,” you say as you roll your eyes. “I take it you’re not too keen on the role.” You shrug. “I take what I can get.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. You’re going to be an interesting one. It’s more difficult working with a client who isn’t enthusiastic about his part. Not impossible, mind you. Just more difficult.” She perused the file once more, then pulled out her phone. “Let’s start off with various accents, shall we? I want to see what kind of range fits you best. There are a few that come more prominently to mind. You have German/Austrian, surfer beach bum, frat boy jock, and a few others. Each of them may sound similar, but there is a certain subtlety that designates each vocalization as its own unique sort of language. The only difference here is, rather than a language of words and letters, you have a language of sounds and inflections. Now then. Let’s begin.” You run through each of the various accents and styles, trying your best to replicate each. She shook her head and tutted at each separate attempt to mimic the recordings. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” she sighed. “Let’s start off with the basics.” She flicked to another track, and white noise started playing gently behind the sound of a metronome. “I want you to listen to the beat and follow it. Emphasize the key words of your line with each stroke. ‘I lift things UP and put them DOWN.’ Got it? Up,” her voice climbed higher, “and down.” Her voice glided down into the lower register.

You sigh, then set your shoulders as you listen to the recording. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say lamely. “With feeling. Emphasize. You have to draw the audience into what you’re saying. Again,” she ordered. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say. “Again. Hit the beat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Again.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Repeat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Good. Keep going.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That’s right. Follow the beat. Up. Down. Up. Down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” Click up. Click down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down. It’s so boring, but you continue to follow the pattern. “Cadence is everything. Flying high, then dropping low.”

Up. Down.

“Lower.”

“I lift things up and put them down.” Did ... your voice sound huskier? “Deeper. Don’t stop now. Repeat. Follow the rhythm.” Follow UP. Follow DOWN. Follow.... “I ... feel funny....” “Relax. You were just starting to get it right. Try again,” she urged gently. “You want to nail this part, don’t you? So you have to try again. Relax. Try again. Listen. Try again. Follow the beat. Try again.” Her tone was so soft, so low. You had to strain to hear. Had to listen. ... Had to try again. “I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down....”

“That’s right.” You feel something in your hand. A ... paperweight, maybe? “You lift things up and put them down. Up. Down. Up. Down.” And suddenly your arm is moving. Up and down. Up and down. You lift things up. You put them down. Lift up. Put down. Up. ... Down. “Good boy.” Then everything went dark.

From DreadZone to Dread Drone

The inspiration for this story came from a piece of artwork I stumbled across on Furaffinity.net. Ratchet and Clank happens to be a favorite game series of mine for its great characters and awesome weapon choices to balance the serious with the zany humor that makes it such a lovable classic. The particular focus of this piece lies with Ratchet from the game Ratchet and Clank: Deadlocked, just after Ratchet defeated Ace Hardlight in the arena. Now his captor is trying to convince him to join DreadZone as a top exterminator to get lots of money for the both of them. Those of you who know Ratchet, know what his response would have been. That’s where this story breaks from the video game. I hope you all enjoy. :D

Inspiration Picture: 

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24311628/

Author’s Note: Regrettably, all the extra effects I placed in the original document can’t carry over into tumblr posts. If you want to see the PDF version with all the text effects, such as changig font size, etc. for a better experience, you can find it here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24484279/

Ratchet glared defiantly up into the shark alien’s face as Gleeman Vox panted to catch his breath. For the last several months, the Lombax had been battered; beaten; shocked; stunned; shot at; sniped; attacked by zombie robots; nearly eviscerated by a homicidal alien bug; bored practically to death by a nuclear robot with image issues and only half a brain; and bombarded by a walking, talking arsenal with a thick accent; along with too many other death traps to name. And that was before he had to face off against that disgrace of a hero, Ace Hardlight. All with the barrel of a gun stuck to his head, or to be more precise, the trigger of a bomb that was currently strapped around his neck. He waved his hand in front of his nose to disperse the disgusting smell that was Gleeman Vox’s breath, before responding.

“No deal, Vox,” he said calmly.

“What did you say?” Vox rose to his full height, and furrowed his brows together in an angry scowl. His chin barely stuck out from the rest of his rubbery muscled neck, and his angular cheek bones and protruding brow cast a menacing shadow over his eyes. His flashy red business suit coat with orange accents strained against his broad, muscular chest. The flash of a gold collar shone underneath, revealing the expensive undershirt. Ratchet wouldn’t have been surprised if that really was actual gold lining.

“I’m not your puppet, Vox,” Ratchet said defiantly as he pointed a made a swatting motion with his hand, as if to smack the idea across the room. “You actually think I’d kill other heroes to get rich? You’re not just corrupt. You’re stupid.”

“Why you little–!” Vox made a series of choking sounds as he struggled between the warring desires to strangle the Lombax or to keep him alive. Finally, he regained his composure. “You just signed your own death warrant,” he threatened.

“So, we’re done, then,” Ratchet said as he continued to glare at the shark-morph. When he was certain he’d made the proper statement, he turned towards the guard bots that had escorted him so forcefully into Vox’s office. They refused to move aside.

“Oh, we’re far from done, Ratchet,” Vox purred. “The old show’s over, but we’re just getting started.”

“I said I’m not helping you, Vox. How many times do I have to repeat myself before you get that through your thick skull?”

Vox just sneered as he pushed a button on his remote. Suddenly, Ratchet’s helmet re-engaged, locking itself in place on his head with a heavy click.

“Hey! What the–?” Ratchet swore as he tried to disengage the mechanism, only to find that his release button wasn’t functioning.

Vox pushed another button, and Ratchet heard the comms system cut off in his helmet. “Restrain him,” Vox ordered.

Before Ratchet could make a move, he felt the mechanical hands Clench onto his shoulders, followed by extreme pressure that forced him to kneel as the robots held his arms behind him with his back arched. His armor took the brunt of the force, but that didn’t mean it could keep him from feeling pain. A little more pressure, and he knew his shoulders would be out of their sockets in no time.

Vox pushed another button, and suddenly Ratchet’s HUD began pulsing alongside his chest piece. The Lombax groaned as a sudden wave of pleasure washed over his body.

“You see, Ratchet, my boy, I’m not really as dumb as I look.” The shark approached, and circled the suited figure. “My people have been around a very, very long time.” He chuckled maliciously. “Some of us turned pirate, some marauders, some crime bosses. The thing about us Chondrichthians[1], though, we’re very good at getting what we want. Sure, a lot of my cousins from Galea are a bit more straightforward. They smash, then take what they want. Me? I’m not like that. I take the smarter approach.

“Wh-what is this?” Ratchet growled. The speakers in his helmet sparked to life as static played in short, dramatic bursts, whirring from ear to ear.

“You’re the smart one, Lombax. Figure it out,” Vox taunted as he circled the back of Ratchet’s suit. “Ease up a little, boys, but not too much. Remember, we don’t want to hurt the merchandise.”

“Screw you, Vox!” Ratchet spat through his speech processor. Though, admittedly, he couldn’t help but allow himself a mental sigh of relief. He could take torture. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Ah, yes. Now there’s that fighting spirit DreadZone fans have come to love so much. Such a ruthless edge. The way you dispatch your enemies is absolutely inspired, Ratchet. Your fans love it. And I’d be a fool not to admit it impressed me, too. If there’s one thing our people respect, it’s strength and ruthlessness. You have both in spades. Why a few more feet in height, a couple hundred pounds of muscle, and you could fit right in.” He leaned in to whisper at the side of the helmet. “I’ve seen how you react, Ratchet. You were born for this life. You loved taking down those enemies. Admit it.”

“Of course I did,” Ratchet grunted as he squirmed uncomfortably in the robots’ grip. “I wasn’t about to let them kill any more heroes.” Even as he said it, still shots of his battles in the arena and against the enforcers flashed across his HUD, almost faster than his eye could track. It wasn’t enough to obscure his vision, but it was a bit of a distraction. His heartrate began to pick up, and his muscles tensed as the rush of adrenaline surged through his system, alongside the endorphins.

“Ah, yes. The old altruistic hero excuse. You know, Ace was the same way when he first came to my office. So certain of himself, so assertive in the righteousness of his cause. You wana know my secret, Lombax?” Vox asked as he drew back from the suit. “You wanna know how I managed to turn the legendary Ace Hardlight into a coldblooded killer?”

Ratchet grunted angrily as the squirming intensified.

“Something the matter, boy?” Vox sneered.

“What … did you do to me?” Ratchet panted as the blood surged through his head. Or was that just the speakers? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. All he knew was the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks, and a second stirring down below that had grown extremely uncomfortable.

“What did I do to you? Nothing, really. I’ve just made you famous is all. I’ve seen the security feeds, you know. I know you always wanted to be a combatant. What were your words again? Ah yes, ‘… the fame, the money, the babes.’ That ring a bell?”

Fame, money, babes.

Want it..

Fame, money, babes.

Need it.

Fame, money, babes.

Obey.

FAME, MONEY, BABES.

Listen to Vox.

It repeated over and over at various speeds and frequencies, overlaying the static as magazine covers with his face on them, rivers of bolts, and various attractive females joined with the combat. But … was it really a recording, or was he just remembering? He shook his head. It didn’t matter right now. He had to focus on Vox. Better to make him prattle on, listen to what he had to say. Yeah, just … just listen. He might let something slip.

“Y-yeah, but … but that doesn’t mean I … not like this!” Ratchet insisted. “Come on, Ratchet. What’s the matter with you? You’re usually sharper than this,” he thought to himself, even as the light continued to flash, and the core unit on his suit pulsed in time. “Definitely sharper in the battlefield,” he thought bitterly. “If I just had my weapons….” Another bout of pleasure shot through him as he thought of his battle wrench, pounding those enemies, showing them what it meant to mess with him. Stupid rookies. Another image of an attractive alien woman with a perfect hourglass figure and beautiful lips strobed across his visor. “Then again, they’re not the only things I’d like to pound.” He gasped as the pleasure shot through his body again, harder and faster than before. He shook his head to clear it once more. That … that wasn’t him. He didn’t really think that way … did he? He growled internally. Why was the combat suit so tight? His tail was begging for release, and the soreness was killing his rear.

“This coming from the Lombax who chastised his robot buddy for cramping his style in the victory lap.” Gleeman clicked another button on the remote, and the feed for Ratchet’s discussion with Clank after taking out his first exterminator played on Ratchet’s HUD, as well as a holo screen.

“Clank, did you see me out there against that Shellshock guy? Yeah! I was all *DOOMSH. Doo. Too Too. Hiya! Who! Hwah! Oohoom!”

Clank let out a synthetic sigh. “You worry me, Ratchet.”

The victory dance cut off, and Ratchet still looked excited as he spoke to his friend, albeit in a more controlled tone. “Come on, Clank. Can’t I just enjoy the moment?”

The feed cut off, but the parting question echoed in Ratchet’s ears with the swirling in his head. He began to roll it somewhat dizzily as he struggled to focus on his captor.

Just enjoy the moment?

Don’t think.

“But that’s not … not ….” The spinning grew faster. He was having trouble piecing the thought together. “Not … everything?”

Just enjoy the moment?

Listen to Vox.

“Of course that’s everything, my boy. That last fight with Ace must’ve knocked a screw loose. Maybe you should just … relax a little bit.”

Just enjoy the moment?

Obey.

All the tension flooded out of Ratchet in an instant. His tongue lolled in his mouth as he looked with heavy lids through his HUD to the grinning Chondrichthian. A pleasurable tingling buzz filled his body as he gazed ahead, and let the room spin. He didn’t really care about the pictures anymore. He just … couldn’t bring himself to care. But … wasn’t there something … important? But … if it was important, he’d remember it, right? Besides, if it was that important, he’d have alarms going on in his head. Yeah. He should just relax.

…

Enjoy the moment.

…

Yeahhhh….

“Admit it, Ratchet. You were made for DreadZone, and DreadZone was made for you. You want it. You want to be the king of the arena, the head honcho, the main contender. And, if you just take your time to think about it a little bit, to just relax and listen, I’m sure you’ll reach the same conclusion. You don’t care who you fight. You just fight. You fight for me. You fight for the thrill. You fight, because you love to show off your strength, your agility, your power. All for the fans. All for me. Because that one fragment, that one moment, that time when you’re in the spotlight, when you’re being admired, when you are being praised, adored, worshiped. You enjoy it. You want it. You crave it.”

Must enjoy the moment.

Don’t question.

“Yes….” Ratchet hissed. Then his eyes widened. “I-I mean n–yes.” His heartrate picked up again after he heard the sudden crack. His voice. Why had it dropped there? And more importantly, why couldn’t he object? Why did he … want to … object? Did he? Well, he had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Wh-why can’t I–?”

“That’s it, Ratchet,” Vox praised. “Just keep on listening, like a good boy. Stay, and listen. Don’t move. Don’t think. Just listen.”

Ratchet felt his muscles locking in place as another thrill of pleasure flooded his system. Vox approached, and patted the Lombax on his helmet.

“Who do you obey?” Vox asked playfully.

“Gleeman Vox.” It was out of his mouth before he could even try to stop it.

“Who owns you?”

Another burst of static. Another surge of arousal. “G-g-Gleeeeeeeman …”

Vox could practically hear Ratchet’s teeth grinding as his conscious wrestled to overcome the urge to answer. “Yes?” Vox nudged.

Now Ratchet was making the choking sounds as he tried to stave off the word. Unfortunately, that was not to be. “VOX!” he finally yelled at the top of his lungs. The color on his helmet’s HUD and the suit’s core unit switched to a flashing red, and Vox’s grin widened even further as the Lombax let loose with a primal bellow of frustration.

“Oh, good boy,” Vox praised. “So nice of you to recognize it.”

Heavy breathing was all the response Vox got.

“Who cares about friends, right? All you need is your team of exterminators and the thrill of the fight.”

“N-nnnnggghhh….”

“You can’t say no to me, you know, stupid Lombax. You might as well make this easier on you by saying yes. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

The doors slid open as Ace Hardlight lumbered through the door with heavy feet. His eyes were glazed over as he stared into his rapidly pulsing visor. “Exterminator Hardlight reporting for duty, Sir,” he droned as he dropped to his knees, and stared up at Vox. Vox ran his cybernetic three-digit hand through Ace’s hair, before connecting one of its tips to the exterminator’s receiver. The effects were nigh-instantaneous as Ace slumped forward, and began to mumble to himself. Ratchet could just catch the barest hints of what was said.

“… Obey. … Must fight … Glory hog … serve DreadZone. … Protect DreadZone … Yes, Master Vox….”

“Ace was one of our first successful candidates for a real personality alteration. We tried fixing things up directly at the brain, but more often than not, that led to exploding heads. So, we tried a few … alternate methods. I meant what I said, Ratchet. I didn’t make him do anything. He accepted this all on his own.” He shrugged. “Of course, giving him the right body, that was a bit of a challenge. He fought well, but he needed to fit the part. Kids are so enamored with the idea of a big, muscular hero to look up to. And a strong, virile male almost always draws in the ladies. So, naturally, we had to give Ace the body to match.” He walked over to Ace’s back, and pulled back the suit near his jaw to expose the thicker, rougher skin. A tinge of green showed itself beneath significantly thicker hair. “It took some doing, a little genetic splicing, but Hardlight didn’t mind. He was all for it, weren’t you, Ace?”

“Yes, Master Vox,” Ace droned.

“Why, he even signed the paperwork of his own volition. We used Blargian Snagglebeast for the base. I believe you’re familiar with the species. As you can see, the Blargian DNA does the body good.” He chuckled wickedly. “Of course, it did leave a few … side effects. A skin condition, a predatory desire to kill, the drive to be the alpha, the need to show off and be fawned over by the fairer sex. It made his hair grow out a little funny, but that was workable. Added to the roguish charm for the ladies. We managed to build his IQ back up a bit, but it took us time to get him back to proper functionality. And, of course, you can see the more protrusive canines. Personally, I think he looks better that way, but maybe that’s just the predator in me.”

“H-how?” Ratchet managed to rasp.

“How is he alive? Well, obviously, the snagglebeast DNA. Makes him tough to kill. Oh, sure, you knocked him out right enough, but beasts like him are built to survive. You will be, too, soon enough. My program already has you in the red. A little longer, and you won’t even want to think about the past, about anything, but serving me and fighting to keep DreadZone alive and well.”

Ratchet’s eyes widened behind his helmet. “No–THINKING. But … but I – MUST OBEY. Get out of my head!” his mind shrieked at the invasive thoughts.

“C-clank,” Ratchet groaned as he felt a sharp prick in his armpit, followed by the familiar cool sensation of nanites at work. The same procedure was repeated in his other armpit, and near his crotch. His heat rate quickened, and his breathing became labored.

“Of course, since then, I’ve learned how to refine the process. I’ve even gotten a few … added benefits put in. You should be feeling some of the base effects soon enough. As for this Clank, well, you must be mistaken. There is no Clank.” Vox laughed as he watched the Lombax tremble in his place. The armor creaked as the flashing light continued its work. “You must be thinking of your mission engineer, ya stupid lug. His name’s Crankshaft. He’s a ruthless tactician, and one hell of a battle droid. You two hit it off right from the get-go.”

Ratchet fought this new information as hard as he could. He remembered Clank. He was a funny little bot. They’d been through so much together. Bouncy red antenna, cute little green transmitters on the sides of his head, and the ability to morph into all sorts of assisting gear, including glide and hover modes. There was no way he was going to let that little bot get lost in whatever nefarious chemical Vox was using to drug him. Well, at least he … thought it was a drug. “Thinking. Ha! Good one, Ratchet.” The thought caught him off guard. “Excuse me, I’m a Lombax. I invent machines all the time. It’s in my f***ing blood,” he thought back, only for a throbbing ache to stab at his skull. He groaned in pain as he felt the helmet’s metal starting to press against the sides of his head. But that was impossible. Did Vox do something to the suit and its parameters?

The image of the little bot in question popped up on his visor suddenly, breaking off any train of thought he might have started. “Clank!” he shouted. “Buddy, can you hear me?” A similar display had sprouted next to Vox as he watched the Lombax’s desperation with sadistic glee.

The bot was messing with a holo display in its hand. It didn’t seem to hear Ratchet, but then it turned to face the camera. Another burst of static caused Ratchet’s vision to blur as the room spun momentarily. Despite this, he struggled to maintain his focus on the screen. He watched as the image of Clank began to change. His eyes faded from green to a blazing scarlet as his green communication nodes retracted into his head. The sound of shifting servos and cranking machinery echoed as the tiny robot’s body began to expand, first bursting outwards around the central chest piece, then the right arm, then the left as his fingers and hands grew to ten times their original size. His legs and feet shot upwards and outwards respectively, followed by expanding as heavy metal plating slotted into place with bolts at the joints to allow freedom of movement and a proper march. The clatter of a shutter sounded as thick metal armor plating flushed out in layer after layer to complete the sentry unit’s massive feet.

“No, no, no!” Ratchet screamed internally. He recognized that build. He’d seen it so many times before, back when he fought Chairman Drek. The memory of blown robot parts and showering bolts sent yet another thrill of pleasure racing through him, causing him to sway as his armor creaked. Those bolts … so shiny … like his … HUD.

…

No! Can’t get distracted. He had to focus on Clank, try to help him somehow. Since he couldn’t object verbally, he did the next best thing, try to reach his little buddy. “Clank!” He panted as the shoulder pieces pressed against his back, and the lower portions of the armor strained against his waist and legs.

“It took some searching, after we pulled him out of that scrap heap from that robot factory on Quartu, but we managed to reactivate his battle parameters. Chairman Drek didn’t know what he was throwing away, when he disposed of this little guy.” Vox sneered as the swelling robot’s tiny round head began to bow outwards. Soon the mouth became distorted, then squared out into an intimidating rectangular shape as his eyes merged together to a digital display with a single glowing red optic unit, a low-hanging metallic “brow,” and a jutting metal fin on top. As a final part of his changes, his upper body expanded to the point where he stood at an intimidating eight feet tall and four feet wide. Reinforced joints bulged with extra armor plating as his servos clinked and whirred. Holsters clanked out, revealing various weapons his body had been equipped with, including combusters, a shock cannon, blasters, and other materials. “The bot’s the perfect infiltration unit. And that titan mod you installed in him? One of a kind. He must’ve nagged you for months, before you finally agreed to it. Who knew a warbot that efficient would have image issues, eh, big guy?” Vox looked back at the screen as a camera hovered in front of his face. “Crankshaft, this is Vox. Do me a favor, and state your primary objective.”

The warbot stood rigidly as a deep, intent voice replied, “Exterminate DreadZone contestants.”

Vox chuckled. “Good warbot.”

Ratchet let out a painful grunt as he felt a building pressure in his pectorals. He panted heavily through his helmet’s filters as he slammed his hands palm-down onto the floor. Another surge of arousal ran through him, and the suit got tighter as images of over-muscled troops and aliens flickered, superimposed behind the image of the warbot. “C-clank,” Ratchet cracked as his throat tightened. He clenched his teeth, and the suit pressed in further against his shoulders and torso. A vibration started running over his pecs, and he tensed as another rush of pleasure assaulted him. “B-big?” he asked dazedly as he recalled the final portion of Vox’s question.

“That’s right, ya big lug. I said big. You’re gonna be huge! The biggest attraction DreadZone’s ever known. So big, whole galaxies will fall on their knees to worship the mighty titan of the arena, the grim giant, the brilliant brute, Ratchet the Ruinator!”

A chorus of cheering fans suddenly played over Ratchet’s speakers, whistling, hollering. It took the Lombax completely off guard. His muscles tensed, and he heard the metal of his armor creaking as his biceps and triceps were squeezed like sausages. Wait … that wasn’t right … was it? Maybe … maybe the suit wasn’t shrinking. Maybe … was he getting bigger?

The moment he thought the word, a dull roar echoed in his head as his vision clouded over. Everything blacked out for what felt like just a few seconds. When he came to, he was disgusted to find himself scratching his crotch, heedless of the sneering Vox. He hastily pulled his hand away, and wiped the smile off his face, relaxing the muscles he felt pulling at his cheek bones. He was intensely grateful Vox couldn’t see him under the helmet right now.

“Getting hard to think, Lombax? You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Vox chuckled wickedly as he pulled up a holographic display from his cybernetic hand. “Heart rate is increasing, dopamine levels are heightened, testosterone is flooding through you, and the injections are working right on schedule. At this rate, we should be about ready to activate your suit’s secondary features in the next few minutes.”

“V-vox,” Ratchet growled slowly, threateningly. He shuddered at the deeper tone that echoed inside his helmet. Was that really his voice?

“Calm down, hotshot. You’ve still got your little team. I didn’t do a thing to hurt your friends, despite what you may think to the contrary,” Vox said as he rolled his eyes. “See for yourself.” He flicked his hand outwards, and a holo-screen emerged showing the bulky warbot that certainly wasn’t Clank, and … was that…?

“A-Al? But … but they said your body was damaged beyond repair!”

Al circled around in his chair to reveal that a portion of the right side of his head had been replaced by pulsing red machinery. A mechanical eye glowed the same color as binary and other information scrolled along it. He thrust his right arm forward, revealing powerful cybernetic circuitry at the top of its class, including blade attachments, a powerful laser, and connection ports for hacking and mechanical interaction. The metal joints and skeletal frame had been surrounded by a shiny metal shell that had been carved to simulate the appearance of muscle. The barest hints of wiring could be seen at the joints in the wrist, fingers, and elbow. The sleeve of his lab coat had been torn off to make room for the additional mass at the connecting socket. “Master Vox was kind enough to give me a new one.”

“M-Master?” Ratchet balked. “Is this maniac threatening to blow you up now, if you don’t call him that, too? Where’s Clank?”

“Master Vox would never do such a thing to me. I’m a valued employee,” Al scoffed as he bore his neck to reveal that he had indeed been made collarless. “And you know that’s only Crankshaft’s codename, Ratchet. I don’t know how many times we’ve been over this now,” Al said as he rolled his good eye.

“Ratchet, are you certain that you are all right?”

The voice was still menacingly deep, but the choice of words, the difference in inflection, they were dead ringers. But … how was that possible? Did Vox make a replica, like Doctor Nefarious had? Maybe … maybe he had. “How do I know you’re really Clank, and not some bum replica like Clunk?” His head spun after he finished the question, and his nose wrinkled as he picked up the musky scent of his body armor. It had been some time since he’d been able to bathe properly, after all.

“Ratchet, this is no joking matter,” Clank, now Crankshaft countered in the same serious tone he’d always used when Ratchet had gotten out of line or lost sight of the objective, like smashing Doctor Nefarious’ biobliterator to bits. That had been fun. He liked smashing things. So easy, so simple. Cracking that bucket of bolts’ helmet to make him malfunction every time he got worked up had been an accident, but he loved the results. When the chips were down, he and his trusty power wrench always came through in the end. That’s why Vox had contacted him. He saw potential, potential that had been unlocking for quite some time. A loud crack sounded as ratchet felt the edges of his jaw rubbing against his helmet. He flinched at the pain when a rapid-fire series of images showing all manner of buxom females fawning over him flashed over his visor one after the other.

A dim smile pulled at his lips as he recalled the moments associated with those pictures. Saving two galaxies, defeating planet destroyers, neutralizing an intergalactic threat in the form of the protopet, plowing through the gladiator challenges. All these things and more had led to many a night of lovely female companionship for him and for Crankshaft-errrr … Clank. Yeah … Clank. He watched as his body gradually shifted in the images. First he was a little taller, then a little wider. He watched them stroking his ears, his shoulders, his swelling pecs. Mmm, Yeah. All that fighting did the body good. He felt his feet cramming against the boots of his armor, and let out another grunt of pain. Soon enough, the Ratchet in the pictures was holding two women between thick, burly arms. He was taller than Captain Quark, with a body that put Ace Hardlight to shame. He could almost remember those delicate fingers brushing over his fur, and a pleasurable tingling ran over his skin at the thought.

“Feeling a little snug in that armor, big boy?” Vox chuckled as he rubbed his hands together.

“Bigger … better … stronger. Big for Master Vox. Will be big for Master Vox.” Ace panted contentedly as he stared blankly ahead on his knees, the pulsing of his visor drawing him in.

Ratchet groaned as a tsunami of pleasure struck him all at once. His whole body tingled as circulation began to slow, and the sensation of cold began to stretch inwards from his outer extremities. His armor creaked in protest, groaning and popping occasionally as the light continued to pulse.

“Engage phase two,” Vox said calmly. A single chirp sounded in Ratchet’s ears from the armor’s machinery, and the pressure was suddenly gone. Blood surged through his limbs, causing the Lombax to feel every quiver, every pinprick, every curve as his muscles twitched back to life.

“My … body,” Ratchet moaned. He panted heavily as the flashing lights and static continued to pulse through his brain.

“Bigger and bigger,” Vox’s voice whispered across his coms. “And the bigger you become, the more obedient you are. The more obedient, the bigger you get. Such a big, strong, powerful gladiator.

Ratchet’s brows twitched as the words seeped into his head without his consent. “S-stop it,” he slurred. He looked down in horror as he finally got to see his arms properly. The armor’s rigid metal had shifted to some form of mesh that clung to his muscles, accenting every dip and bend. He gasped, seeing how they had swollen up to at least ten times their original size. Another loud crunch, and he felt his jaw pushing forward. Two somethings brushed against his upper lip. “My teef,” he stumbled over the now much larger canines. “My mouf!”

“You’ll get used to it, big boy, don’t worry. Besides, with the money we’ll make together, it won’t matter what your face looks like. Everyone’s going to love you.”

Ratchet growled, and was shocked just how feral he sounded as his upper torso expanded with a loud crunch, heralding the sudden and painful growth of his bones to support the rapidly swelling musculature. “No!” he snarled. He tried to move, but the material on his suit suddenly constricted over his joints, locking him in place. Despite his struggles, the mesh wouldn’t give an inch, save for the growth in his muscles as the room began to shrink.

“Say it with me now, Ratchet. Big–ger.”

Ace’s body spasmed as he panted in ecstasy. He quickly responded, “Bigger,” in a vapid tone, then chuckled.

Ratchet closed his eyes, tried to look away, but the ghostly images followed him, racing through his head over and over. People growing, people changing, bigger bodies, bigger armor, bigger plating, bigger muscles, “Bigger….” Wait, did he just say that out–? He gasped as another surge of pleasure struck, overwhelming his senses. He felt a building pressure in his crotch as the hot sensation in his cheeks flowed down, and his body began to tremble as his chest heaved. Everything was tinged with red as the lights pulsed in time to his rapidly beating heart.

“That’s right, Ratchet. Big lugs like you listen. The bigger you get, the easier it is to just stop questioning what I have to say.” Vox approached, and stroked over Ratchet’s pectorals. “Hmm. Growing in nicely, aren’t they? So big.”

Ratchet gasped, both from the pleasure and in disgust at Vox’s contact. The Chondrichthian grinned up at him.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Vox laughed as he stared into Ratchet’s pulsing visor. “You were mine the moment that suit became operational.” He snapped his robotic fingers, and the bomb collar disengaged, clattering uselessly to the ground. “You never thought it was strange, how naturally the arena came to you, how exciting the combat was, how exhilarating to wipe the floor with your opponents before you slaughter them? You were so focused on your combat, you didn’t even notice the messages we had pulsing through your ears 24/7, the nocturnal injections to prepare your body for its change. And with every assault, your confidence swelled bigger and bigger, didn’t it? If it weren’t for some … interference, we could’ve bagged you ages ago.”

Ratchet grunted as he struggled to move, struggled to think. The room swam around him as the whirring in his brain escalated to a climax.

“A curious thing, hypnosis, isn’t it? You just have to find that one chink in the armor, the thing that makes something abominable pleasurable, and then twist it, so you don’t even know the difference anymore. Then you just need a trigger, the one word that makes everything screech to a halt for the one who’s keyed it for a little programming. Why else do you think I had those twits in the announcer’s box use the word so many times?” Vox chuckled. “You’re so big now, you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

Vox snapped his fingers, and suddenly Ratchet found he could move. Nearly everything had been consumed by the red, except for Vox. He felt the rage, the anger, the hatred boiling. This scumbag needed to pay. He lunged forward, tried to punch the shark in the face. He saw the fist going, felt his muscles ripple, felt the familiar roaring in his ears. It would connect. It would hurt. It would feel so good.

…

But why hadn’t he felt anything by now?

Vox stepped aside, perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. The fist hung there, as though it had been frozen in place. “Care to try again, big boy?”

Ratchet roared as he raced forward, intent to slam the shark into a fish cake as he raised his massive arms, and locked his hands together to smash. He leapt into the air. Then a sudden sense of giddiness flooded through him. The room spun. He heard the crash of double impact, felt his knees and fists make contact. He smirked. He had to have gotten him. Vox had to be dead. He looked through his tunnel vision to see the cracks stretching from where he’d slammed the floor. Then he noticed the expensive leather shoes and gold stripes on the shiny red suit pants.

“No,” he gasped hoarsely.

“Why, Ratchet, swearing your loyalty to me already? Good boy.” Vox sneered as he stared into Ratchet’s HUD, and Ratchet stared back, stupefied. “Like I said, Ratchet, you can’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what you can do, though, big boy. You can obey me. In fact, you love to obey me. Isn’t that right?” Vox seized hold of the chin on Ratchet’s helmet, and stroked it gently. “Ya big lug.”

Ratchet tensed his muscles, struggled to move, to strike, to do anything that might manage to hurt Vox. Nothing responded. He wanted to get angry. He wanted to howl, to swipe, to smash, do something. Even a few choice swears would’ve been fine. Instead, he felt … nothing. The anger was gone. The rage had disappeared. He was just … docile.

…

Relaxed.

…

So … calm….

“That’s right, Ratchet. Just stare into your HUD. Don’t think. Don’t fight. Just listen to my voice, kid. Listen, and obey. Got it, big guy?”

Ratchet could hardly focus. His chest heaved up and down in a steady rhythm. His shoulders slumped at his sides. His expanding trapezius muscles gave him less of a neck as they merged with his back and chest, making it all seem as though it were one solid muscle. One muscle … all muscle … big … muscle ….

…

Feel’s good.

…

“Big…gerrrrr….”

Why was the recording so slow?

…

Doesn’t matter. So much pleasure. Rebounding. Like getting shocked by a tesla claw, but good instead of pain.

Vox sneered. He knew he had him. “That’s it, boy. Just listen nice and close now. Listen, sleep, and obey. Just let go. Little Lombax is gone now. Big Ratchet is smashing into the arena.”

“Big … Ratchet….” The cheering crowd played over the speakers in the helmet again, calling his name. A smile pulled at his mouth as the memory of his victories returned. He flexed his muscles, bouncing his pecs, striking poses in time to the imaginary cheers as the images of the crowd appeared. The image would glitch occasionally, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. The glitches made him feel good. He scratched absently at his crotch, this time without shame as he reveled in his growing size. After all, Big Ratchet loved being big, and that included below. The ladies loved it, too.

“Big Ratchet listens to Vox.”

Ratchet’s head twitched as Vox spoke, and the glitch flashed over the screen, followed by the pleasure.

“Big Ratchet obeys Gleeman Vox.”

Again, Ratchet twitched, this time followed by a deep-throated rumble as the metallic plating on the suit rearranged itself to forge over a rock-hard six-pack. The pulsing of the lights in Ratchet’s HUD and chest piece had slowed significantly as Ratchet’s breathing became deep and steady.

“Big Ratchet must serve and obey Gleeman Vox always.”

“Must obey,” Ace droned.

“OBEY….” Came the deep, slow bassoon.

Vox grinned as the barest flicker of blue flashed across the HUD’s visor for a matter of nanoseconds, before switching back to the pulsing red. “Now you must listen to me, Ratchet. Listen very carefully. What I’m about to say is very important, understand? You have to listen to what I am about to say, and it will become the truth for you,” Vox said as he laid both hands on either side of Ratchet’s helmet and stared into the visor. Ratchet had to lean down now, to meet Vox’s gaze, despite already kneeling. He did so without question or complaint.

Crowds cheering. Cheering him on. Cheering to listen. Cheering to obey. Ratchet could hardly see anything. All was a sea of adrenaline, testosterone, and who knew what else. It was huge, all-consuming. Lost. For the briefest of moments, he saw a face, a slim girl with dark skin and feline features. She seemed familiar somehow. She was … trying to say something. He strained to hear, but the crowd was too loud. It overwhelmed her. Then she was gone, consumed by the storm. Was she ever even there in the first place? Suddenly the storm clears, just a tiny patch. He sees a familiar face. Sharp teeth flash, a slick voice echoing across the gap. The fans drive him on. Drive him to listen. He focuses on the voice, focuses on the eyes, the sharp suit. He must speak, must answer, must acknowledge. The fans demand it. “Must … listen…. Big Ratchet … listen. Big Ratchet … obey.”

The cheering intensified, washing over him. He grinned vapidly behind his visor. He could hear them calling. The louder they cheered, the bigger he felt.

“Big m̴̵̀u҉̡̕ş̀c̕҉̕͢͠l̸҉̨e̸͘ḩ̶͡e̵a̶͏̛ḑ̕̕͡ Ratchet! Big b̀͘͏̕҉r̵̶̸á͜w̶̸͠ǹ̨̕͢y̡͟ Ratchet! Big d̶̴̡̨u̷̢ḿ̵̶͞b̴̀́͞ Ratchet! Big s̴̨̢̡҉t̡͟͝u̴̢p̶͜͝͝í͏̧d́͡͏҉́ Ratchet, o̫̖̖̪̼̱̣͑̄͒̉͞ͅb̗̻͎͉̙̩̜͂̈̽̆͜ě̵̻ͧy̶̡̮̪̏s hooray! Big v̴̕͢͞͝i̷̷̕o̵̵͘͘͞ļ̶̧e͡ń̸͝҉̨t̡̡͢҉̵ Ratchet! You’re a m҉̢͜͡͠i҉n҉̨͘ḑ͡l̶̴̨e̷̕s̸͟͝҉s̶̕ ̷̛͟͠͏ m̴̛̀͟u̷͏̸͡s̴̶͜ć̵̡̛͟l̶̴̷̷͜ę̡̀́ b̷̶̡̡e͏̛à̕͝s̡͘͡͞t̸̷̡͝ hero!”

With each glitch, the euphoria jumped, and Ratchet chuckled dimwittedly to himself as he twitched his muscles, testing how they felt. With each miniature flex, another surge of pleasure followed, and his worries diminished as he stared ahead at the pulsing light.

Then Vox’s voice cut through. “This is the truth, big guy. I, Gleeman Vox, am your beloved master. Understand? You obey me without question, serve me without question, protect me, love me unconditionally. You’re my big star player, my Big Ratchet.”

The Lombax breathed heavily. The words were so hard to understand with the cheering and the pleasure, but they slowly drifted through. He shuddered as he finally understood the command. Something didn’t sit right. His stomach tightened. He groaned as a pain began to spike in his head. It hurt to think, hurt to fight the pleasure. Why did he want to fight it? Why was it so wrong to just repeat … just listen … just … let … go….

He felt something shake his head. “Listen to me, Ratchet. Obey my order. Tell me. Who am I?”

Through the haze of the pulsing red light, he could barely make out the figure of the man who had started all this. The man who he was meant to obey. The man who had given him an order.

…

Big Ratchet must obey.

…

“Mmmmmmaasssterrrrr….” It grated out so slowly. It felt almost like pulling teeth. Ratchet shuddered as he said the word aloud.

“Again.”

“Master….” This one was slightly faster.

“Once more, with feeling.”

Ratchet shuddered. Great strangled sounds gurgled out from his speakers as all his muscles tensed, and the suit constricted. Suddenly, his head drooped forward. The tension left his body. A deep sigh carried into the room as the light on the suit and HUD stopped pulsing, burning a solid red. A single chime sounded, followed by the glowing red visor looking up to stare directly at Gleeman Vox. “Master Vox,” he droned. “Big Ratchet must listen to Master Vox. Big Ratchet must obey.”

Vox sneered as the red slowly faded to a gentle orange glow. “That’s right, big guy. You’re my head exterminator now. And once we’ve got you all trained up with Hardlight here, you’re gonna send our ratings through the roof!”

Big Ratchet grinned behind his helmet as he gazed out at the arena. The sound of his adoring fans roared through his ears from the stadiums as his combat bots, Merc and Green, hovered beside him. Towering at a full ten feet tall, Ratchet dwarfed the poor things. They barely came up to his knees, if that, so he took pity on them, and pulled them up to pose for the big screen. Gotta show he’s a team player. Boss said so, and Master Vox always knew best.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as the bots’ heads pushed against his pecs, sending waves of pleasure through him, and causing a familiar swelling below. He couldn’t wait to work that pump up in the gym. Then he had the ladies after. He always liked the ladies. They made him feel good, Master’s rewards.

F̸̕͞l̵̛ȩ҉x̢͢͟͝.̶̷̨̛̕ ̵̛̀Ś̴h̡͘̕͘͢ó̧̡w͏̵̴͝ ̷̛́͝o̵̡͘f̨́́҉̨f̨̀̕͏.͡͏̶͡ ́͏̸̧̀O̵͏b̛̕͠e҉̀ỳ͢.̛̀͢

He hardly even noticed the glitch anymore, just a bug in his screen. Master Vox said not to worry about it, so he didn’t. Instead, Big Ratchet tossed the bots into the air, and instantly fell into his flex routine. He let loose a primal roar, and the cheering intensified.

“Well, Juanita, it seems Big Ratchet here has made a big splash in his premier season as DreadZone’s top exterminator.” The annoying green man made Ratchet feel angry for some reason, but he couldn’t recall why.

…

He’d think about it later. Besides, he had fans to show off to. Had to show off.

“Yes, indeed, Dallas. In a revolutionary breakthrough with reformative technology, Gleeman Vox has singlehandedly turned this former criminal into a true hero, not to mention a real hit with the ladies. I mean, just look at those muscles….”

“Um … Juanita? Juanita? … Guys, I think her processors just froze. Can … can we get maintenance in here, please?”

Ratchet chuckled. Even the robo chick fainted when she looked at him.

“Crankshaft, ya copy?” Ratchet growled as he tapped his comms piece on his helmet, subconsciously flexing his bicep as he did so.

“I hear you, Ratchet. Well done on today’s fight.”

“Got you to thank for the strategies,” he returned. “We make a pretty good team, pal.” Ratchet’s sharp ears could just pick up the sound of Clank’s servos twitching his mouth into a hint of a smile.

“That we do, Ratchet. It is time for you to report to Director Vox. I will begin broadcasting your pre-workout track, as per Director Vox’s instructions.

Ratchet shuddered in anticipation as the sounds began to filter through his HUD, and the lights began to pulse. “You’re the best, Crankshaft.” The communication cut off, and Ratchet turned, then strode out the arena to the waiting transport ship with Green and Merc floating on either side. “Boys,” he said in a dazed voice, “activate Bigger Protocol.”

The two combat bots’ displays flashed red for the briefest moment, before they zoomed up to massage his pecs and other parts of his body. As Big Ratchet dropped into his plush reinforced seat, the autopilot engaged, and he smiled as he let the pleasure take him away into that perfect empty space in his head that he and Ace loved so much.

“DreadZone Exterminator, please identify yourself,” the feminine voice of the navigation computer asked primly.

Ratchet leaned back and stretched his tree trunk legs, patting his heavy bulge, before responding as he always had, as he always would, as he always must. “I am Big Ratchet. I obey….”

[1] Since the game never specified a species for Gleeman Vox, I decided to base the name for his race on the scientific name for shark, chondrichthyes.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 4

You start awake suddenly, your whole body jolting in its place on the seat. “Easy now. Easy,” a familiar voice says reassuringly. Your eyes dart to the side to lock on Miss Schroder as your hands clench down on the arms of your chair. Your cheeks feel flushed, and your heart is thumping in your chest. Your foot nudges against something, and you look down to discover a tiny metal five-pound dumbbell. Your eyes widen further as you become aware of the sense of fatigue in your right arm. “Wh-what did--?” “The first session is always the hardest. I just need you to breathe, okay? Take deep breaths. I just helped you to get into character is all.” “Helped...?” You rub absently at the back of your head. Your whole body feels strange, tingly, almost tight. “I ran you through some vocal exercises. You tranced about halfway through. Usually it takes me a few sessions to lead a person into full submersion, but you just dove right in.” You smack your mouth, trying to moisten the chapped surface as you grapple with this new information. Schroder offers you a bottle of water, and you quickly pop the cap, before guzzling the contents. “Hypnosis often leaves a subject feeling somewhat dehydrated afterwards, depending on the length of the session,” she explained. “I really am sorry about this. I was planning to try trancing later. Usually, that track just helps people get familiar with how I work and feel more comfortable as I coach them.” “H-how long...?” you ask as you continue to breathe deeply, struggling to get your heart rate back under control. “Forty-five minutes. Would you like to hear your progress?” She reached over to a stereo system sitting at her side. “No!” You half rise from your seat, then realize just what you were doing, and clear your throat awkwardly. “That’s ... all right,” you say in a slightly calmer tone, while you settle back down. “You don’t have to worry about falling back under, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she pointed out. “They’re just snippets.” “I ... really don’t feel too comfortable with this right now.” Miss Schroder sighed and shrugged. “Suit yourself. Your time is up for now, but I’ll be expecting you back again for the next session on time, you understand?” You gulp as a clammy chill runs down your back and you shudder. “Next time, we’ll experiment about methods to help you enter trance unassisted. I’ve been requested to compile sound files to assist you as you work towards your part. For now, here’s a list of affirmations and lines to go over to help you focus on your role. You’re not contractually obligated to use them, but I highly recommend you do so in your free time back home. They’ll offer motivation as well as context to your endeavors.” She handed you an envelope. “You’ll find signs and cue cards in there that you can post inside your home or not as you see fit. As for other motivational material, you’re on your own.” She rose to her feet and strode to the waiting room door. “I’ll see you in two days.” “Two days ... right.” The world feels like a fog as you stride out of the office. Your feet fall heavily on the hardwood floors as you lean into your stride. “Um ... goodbye,” you mumble as you pass her. It was time to go home. You had a lot to think about, and for some reason, you had a sneaking suspicion it was going to take you a while.

You look dubiously down at the thick gray slop in the mixing cup Hank had shoved into your hand. “What is this stuff?” you ask, suddenly grateful for your exceedingly strong stomach and overall constitution. “Workout shake. Special blend,” Hank said gruffly as he stared implaccably down at you. “Now drink it up. We’ve got a hard day of work ahead of us. That body isn’t going to build itself.” “But it’s so....” Hank’s gaze hardened as his stare turned into a glower. “Be grateful I gave you the small, kid,” he said, pointing over to where a titan of a man in a sleeveless muscle tee and tight compression shorts that hugged to pillar-like calves took a seat at one of the weight benches. A tall, broad bullet cup lay clenched in a meaty hand. He grinned once, exposing perfect white teeth, before he attacked the container, drinking lustily. The drink was gone in a matter of seconds, and the lifter let out a titanic belch afterwards, then shuddered and grinned as he put the now empty cup down, leaned back, and got to work. “That’s a 32-ounce. Yours is smaller. Now drink up. We’re late enough as is, thanks to your stalling.” You gulp once, then raise the plastic cup to your lips. “Drink,” Hank ordered. The texture of the swill was somewhat reminiscent of tapioca and wet cement. It weighed heavily in your mouth, and the flavor was an overpowering vanilla that was so sweet, it almost tasted bitter. Your face contorts in a mask of disgust, but before you can so much as pull the cup away, Hank is there, pressing it against your lips. “Better to do it all in one go,” he said. “You get used to it, after a while, but the first one’s always the worst.” You manage one sound of disgust, before the cup is tilted back, and you’re forced to either swallow or cough it all up. “What the hell?” you splutter as you pull away. Hank remained perfectly neutral. “I told you. I don’t have patience for you slow and steady types. We’re on a schedule and a tight deadline. I’ve been hired to push you to your limits. That includes pushing you to take your medicine, even if you don’t want to.” He turned to walk towards the gym. “If it helps, that drink’s specially designed to reduce the aching.” “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” you fumed. Hank grunted, then shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Come on.” He walked you over to a dumbbell rack, where a familiar redhead was busy grunting as he pumped away using sixty-pound weights. He grinned as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, and watched his biceps and triceps building up a pump from the exercise.

Hank patted the kid on the shoulder. “Doin’ great, Duff. Keep it up.” Duff’s smile widened. A hint of shiny gray substance on the edge of his lips hinted at what he’d drank just before his workout began. “Duff is tough. Duff is buff,” he muttered to himself in time to each curl. “What’s up with him?” you ask. Hank chuckled. “Motivation. Kid says the same thing over and over again to keep time with his reps. It’s a beginner’s trick, but it works, till the moves come more naturally.” “And the earbuds?” “Music. Or files. Who knows?” Hank shrugged. “Kid can listen to what he wants, just as long as it doesn’t bother the rest of the gym. Now come on. It’s time to pump.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 5

You look down at the bag of silver packets Hank had shoved into your hands at the end of your workout as you open your door limply. Your arms feel like they’re ready to fall off. “One cup, twice daily. No exceptions,” Hank had growled. You nearly gag at the thought of drinking that slop so often, but you’re too tired for your body to really even put the effort into the involuntary reflex in the first place. The living room is the same as it was when you left. You kick your shoes off on the small tile patch, then trudge your way over to the kitchen across the way. You pass the flat screen TV on your left with no thought of your usual entertainment. Instead, you smack the bag onto the counter and listen to the sharp retort of the thick plastic cup smacking the granite surface. Then you roll your eyes and stumble over to the drawers beneath the counter, where you keep your scissors and other miscellaneous tools and utensils. A few seconds later, you’re running the blades over the thick plastic of a packet. That overpowering aroma assaulted your nose once again as you finished cutting a neat line across, and you proceed to dump the contents of the package into the waiting cup. Next, you fill it with some milk from the fridge. You watch in disgust as undissolved clumps of the mix float to the surface and bob like chunks of decaying meat. The blade cap couldn’t go on fast enough as you twist it shut and attach the cup to your blender. A couple of minutes later, you’re forcing the swill back down your throat again. It’s still just as cloying. “Acquired taste my ass,” you mutter darkly as you take another sip. When you finally finish the cup off, you take it back to the sink and rinse it out, before leaving it to soak. You shuffle back to the door to lock it, then shut off your lights and power to the bathroom, where warm steam and soap wait to wash away the caked sweat you’ve accumulated over your skin. The water soothed your muscles, relieving the tension as it pelted against your skin in a pantomime of a massage. You sigh dreamily, spending a good forty minutes savoring the sensation of that strange in-between state when you’re not fully awake, but not fully asleep. Your hand holds loosely to the towel as you walk to the mirror and comb your hair. No need to style today, when you’re about to go to bed. You take another deep breath, and even that feels like an effort as your chest stretches against the stiffness your upper body workout has caused. You stride casually to your dresser and withdraw a clean set of boxers from your last modeling gig. It was always nice when they let you keep the clothes you liked. Free advertisement, you suppose. Then you head to your queen size bed, where your folded pajamas are waiting to be worn again. You pull on the sweat pants easily, tying the knot tight once more to ensure they don’t slip off as you dream. Finally, you pull on a long silk cotton night shirt that drapes down to your knees. A familiar manila envelope catches your eyes as you settle beneath the covers, and you reach over lazily to pull it towards you as you lay back against your pillow. Curious to see just what materials and slogans Miss Schroder prepared for you, and not quite feeling ready to drop off to sleep, you decide to take a peek. “‘Be a bro,’” you read as you pull out the first motivational card. “’Pop a flex’?” You continue to cycle through. Phrases like, Don’t think, just LIFT! and Do It mix with If the bar ain’t bending, you’re just pretending and Do you even lift? You couldn’t help but chuckle as you read, Healthy Body, Big Muscles! “So much for healthy minds. These things are crazy.” You shake your head out of mirth as you pull out the sheet she shoved in last and read a few phrases aloud. “‘I like muscles,’” you say in as close an imitation to Arnold Schwarzenegger you can manage. “‘The gym is my home.’ ‘I love to lift.’ ‘I love working out.’” The list continued for some time, and your eyes slowly drifted closed as that tiredness began to settle in, the last words painted clear in your mind: CHANGE IS GOOD.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 6

“Woah. That one was ... kind of weird, Doc.” You reach up slowly to clasp the headphones wrapped so closely around your ears and pull them off to rest on your neck. Your head is still abuzz from that strange place you went. You didn’t quite black out, per se, but at the same time, you hadn’t really been all there either. Miss Schroder had only recently explained how she had earned a doctorate in psychology and psychiatry both to help you understand her proper qualifications. The certification in hypnosis had been more of an after thought, but she had proved to be highly adept, showing multiple awards for her services and even a couple of books she’d written on the theory. She had just one warning: call her a quack, and she would make you regret it. You could live with that. Now she sat across from you holding a microphone in one hand and a laptop on her lap. A wire tied the computer to a sound machine, which in turn tied to the headphones. “Good. That means we’re getting closer to a method that works for you.” She made a few notes on her clipboard. “Now what, exactly, do you mean by weird? I need to know the specific side effects.” “Dizzy. Sort of light-headed. I could still hear your voice, but it was sort of distorted. I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying.” You put a thoughtful finger to your chin. “Well, maybe a few things,” you clarify, “mostly about listening and going deeper. It gets sort of boring after a while, though.” “And your surroundings?” “The room was spinning a little. And I thought I heard ... laughter?” Her face remained impassive as she continued to jot on the clipboard. “Describe it for me.” “What?” “The laughter. Describe it,” she clarified. “Young, old, raspy, piping. These things matter, you know.” “I don’t understand why.” “Because I’m trying to find the right combination of wavelength and frequency to compose a proper soundtrack for you. We’ve already been over this.” You feel a blush rising in your cheeks. “I just don’t see how telling you about those bits matters is all, if you’re looking to adjust the way the sound hits my ears,” you say somewhat sheepishly. “How about we just operate on a leap of faith and trust in my certifications and training on the matter,” she suggested. “Now, about that sound?” You sigh in defeat. “Kids. Definitely kids. It was faint, but it was there.” You furrow your brow. “And ... something else. I’m ... not sure. It was sort of sharp, brief, like a soda bottle, I guess.” “A ... soda bottle?” The blush intensifies. “You know, like the glass ones that you blow into to make a sound.” “I see.” She scrawled another note. “And that was it, just the soda bottle popping a note and children laughing?” “Yes,” you finish lamely. Your ears are burning now, too. She nodded and adjusted a few dials on the sound system, then stroked the keys on her keyboard and clicked the mouse a few times, before nodding in satisfaction. “All right. Let’s try again.”

“Try again,” Hank’s rumbling bass grated as he shifted the key along the weights of the leg press. “We’re going for three sets this time.” “Three?” you balk. Your legs already felt like a pair of wet noodles. “No pain, no gain,” he quoted the old adage. “Now move.” Your legs tremble as they strain against the heft of the additional weight. Your heart feels like it’s about to bash against your ribs, and the sweat from your exertions is flowing into your eyes, stinging and burning as the salt makes contact. You barely manage to cut off a curse as it rises in your throat, and settle for a few grunts of pain and frustration, instead. Across the way, you see the redhead pulling squats with a barbell resting on his back. He moves rhythmically, up and down. Up and down. Were it not for the torturous agony that was the leg press straining against your poor glutes, you might even be gaping at his efficiency. Hank chuckled wickedly. “We’ll get there soon enough, kid. After all, you’re supposed to ‘lift things up and put them down,’ remember?” You grate your teeth in frustration as your chest heaves with exertion. You have to put that anger to good use. You think of the contract and amenities involved, the payment the company offered you, the rent being paid. You signed a contract, so you have to put up with the bad just as much as you enjoy the good. You unleash your exasperation in a roar as you barely manage to push through the set. Hank smirked and nodded. “Good. Good. One down.” His smile widened into a sneer. “Now for the other two.”

Your legs felt like they were made of cement as you powered through the sluggishness. All you wanted to do was get home, shower, take that stupid shake, and get to bed. At least in sleep, you didn’t have to worry about the constant aching. Four days. That was all it had been, and already you regretted your decision. You’d nearly reached the door, when a heavy hand clapped down on your shoulder. You whipped around, smacking at the arm as your workout bag spun on its strap to smack into the stranger’s thigh, only he wasn’t a stranger. “Hey,” Duff said sort of lamely. “I, uh ... saw what you were doing out there. I just wanted to say I admire you, ya know?” His tank top still clung to him from his workout session. “Hank was hard on me when I started here, too. I know how hard it is the first couple of weeks, but he’s actually a lot nicer than he looks.” He shuffled his feet against the floor. “If, um ... you ... want to talk about it sometime, here.” He took your hand and you felt the sensation of card stock paper against your palm. You look at a heavy set of weights bending a barbell over a black background. A name and phone number shone with gold embossing. “That’s my cell. If you can’t get ahold of me that way, I’m probably here.” You couldn’t tell if he was blushing or if it was just the general flush from his workout. “I really like the gym.” He chuckled. “And, well, without Hank, I might not even be around today.” He stepped back to give you a little more space, then rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “So, uh, yeah. That’s ... sort of what I had to say. See you in a couple of days?” You look down at the card, then back at Duff, then chuckle humorlessly. “I guess so.” You shrug as you pocket the card. Duff’s face lit up with a smile as you made your way towards the doors. He waved enthusiastically as the automatic doors slid open. “See you soon!”

“I am an alpha.” You stare at yourself in the mirror. The condensation was finally clearing and you sigh as you lean onto the rough cut counter top. Its smooth laminate surface hissed as your palms rubbed against it in time to your own frustrated exhalation. You roll your eyes at your reflection and it rolls its eyes back at you. “This is so stupid,” you groan. At the same time, though, you signed a contract. You always swore to put your best into whatever part or role you were assigned. You clench your hand into a fist out of frustration, then heave another heavy sigh. “Keep going,” you tell yourself as you raise your head to face yourself once again. “I lift things up and put them down.” You lift your eyes to the sign hanging just above your head on the mirror. Its single command of FLEX bears down on you, and you sigh again. You raise your arms and perform a halfhearted flex. “I love my muscles.” Somewhere, in the back of your head, you hear Hank’s harsh bellow. ‘No, no, no. Push! Harder! I know you can do better than that.’ You wince, then pull yourself together and try again. You fix your reflection with a look of determination. “You and I both know we can do better than this,” you say to yourself. “It’s humiliating, ridiculous, asinine even.” You sigh again. “But we have to try.” You raise yourself up again and think about that last look Duff gave you as you departed the gym. That smile was enthusiastic, elated, genuine. You fuss over the mirror as you adjust your lips, doing your best to replicate that same look of sincerity. “I really like the gym.” A shudder suddenly passed through your body, and you furrowed your brow in response. “That was odd,” you mutter to yourself. A look of confusion has replaced that simple smile. “What ... was that?” You cock your head curiously, then try again. This time, you clear your throat, picturing Hank, his flinty eyes, his gravely voice, the flat line of that grim expression that seemed almost frozen there. You feel your shoulders tightening as they bunch together. You imagine someone has just insulted him, mocking his way living. You imagine yourself standing there in his place, and you feel a burning in your chest. “Bodybuilding is my life.” The growl scratched at your throat. “This gym is my life.” Both fists are clenched now as you stare into your face with a barely contained anger. “I lift things up and put them down. You got a problem with that, pipsqueak?” Your eyes widen suddenly, and you stumble back from the mirror, breathing heavily. You swallow, rubbing at your irritated throat. You close your eyes and focus on the patter of your heart beat as it gradually slows to normal. When you feel you have enough control of yourself again, you open your eyes. “Where did that come from?” you ask yourself. Afraid to look at the mirror again, you turn to look at your shower stall, instead. A laminated page stares out at you with big black letters against the pale creamy white of the stall:

YOU ARE A BEAST

Despite the shower, you suddenly don’t feel so warm anymore.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 7

I’ve got the itch to continue, so I had to try to get this part up, too. XD Guess I just couldn’t help myself with how much I’m enjoying the characters and their progress thus far. Enjoy! :D

“Perfectly natural.” “Excuse me?” you ask as you gape at the red-haired psychiatrist, hypnotist, and vocal coach. “Perfectly natural. Your reaction. It was natural. Most young men your age have passive aggressive tendencies.” Doctor Schroder shrugged as she folded one of her legs over the other. “And given what you’ve told me about how things are going with your physical training regimen, it’s natural to have to channel a certain amount of aggression. You simply touched the edge of the box where you stored it all. It’s nothing to be concerned over.” “But I don’t like it.” “You don’t have to like it. It’s just a part of you, and like any other part, you can learn to control it, if you so wish. All it takes is time, patience, and the right direction. It doesn’t have to change you, unless you let it. And if it does, you have the power to make that change for the better, rather than the worse. Like I said, it’s all up to you. Now then,” she said primly as she picked up the microphone once more and flicked the switch on the speakers. A familiar whirring and ringing washed over your ears. “Let’s try again.”

Dizzy. Everything felt so dizzy. The laughter was back again. So many children giggling and cheering. Spinning. The world was spinning around you. A blur of faces and cheers from men and women. Shouts of, “‘Attaboy!” and “be careful!” broke through the mass. “This is so much fun!” You turn your head to see a giggling little girl atop a wooden Pegasus painted cyan blue with a golden saddle and a red set of reins with a bronze bit. The familiar tooting is back again, only this time, there are many bottles, many tones, all working together to play a jaunty melody. “So very fun,” another child cheers, this one a little boy atop a black stallion. He looks at you with grave eyes, even as his little blue suit jacket and red shorts shine in the sunlight. “Don’t you agree?” “F--fun?” you ask, confused. “Riding the carousel, silly,” the little girl said. “Carousel?” You feel so strange. How did you get here? Why ... did the air smell like popcorn and cotton candy? You’re vaguely aware of how the children seem to rise up and down again and again in a strange sort of rhythm. Then you look ahead and notice a spiraling golden pole. Your hands are clasped to it, and your’re not entirely sure why. Then you look down. Two great white horns jut out to either side of the carved animal’s head staring out in front of you. You become keenly aware of how your legs are stretched out to either side, and how a gentle sort of pull seems to draw at you every time the pole gets shorter. “I’m ... on a carousel....” You look to your left, surprised to see a great series of pipes stretching up and down all along the surface of the central portion, playing its melody and harmonic accompaniment. “Up and down. Up and down,” the little girl sang. You feel your hands clenching tighter around the pole. They seem so small. “Up and down. Up and down.” This time the boy has joined the girl. The carousel builds up speed as more voices join the chorus. A strange sense of exhilaration fills you as the wind picks up, blowing through your hair. “Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.” You find yourself laughing, but you’re not sure why. You suddenly feel giddy. There’s a sense of camaraderie with these two. “Come on. It’s fun!” the little boy laughs as he smacks his heels against his charger. “Hyah, hyah! Faster, boy! Up and down. Up and down!” “I ... I don’t....” “Play with us! Come on, just pretend for a moment. Oh, won’t you please?” the little girl begged. “Even a bull can charge. Don’t you want to race us?” “Race?” “Yeah, but ya gotta follow the rules, see?” She patted the side of her Pegasus gently. “Up and down. Up and down,” she sang, and the ride began to pick up speed again as her Pegasus rose and fell at a faster rate. You marvel. You don’t know why, but you do. It seemed like they were having so much FUN. And all you had to do was play with them. You wanted to race. You wanted so badly to race. You lean down almost sheepishly to the big bull’s ears. They’re a coppery red with white splotches along his coat. You feel so awkward, but you whisper anyways. “Up and down.” The instant you do, you feel a sudden jerk, almost like a buck as the bull accelerates its rise. Why, it felt almost like it was bucking. Rather than be startled, you find yourself laughing. “See?” The boy is grinning at you now. “Told ya!” You grin back, awash with a sudden enthusiasm you thought you left behind long ago. “Let’s race!” And so the three of you sing as you bounce up and down, up and down. The spinning goes faster and faster, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to ever stop. Up and down. Up and down. The children have all become blurs on their mounts, and the spinning is so intense. They’re all lights now, and the lights are blurring together, leaving such beautiful streams behind. You giggle in delight as you look back to see your own trail. Then you look up at the roof and see the polished reflection of millions upon millions of little mirrors, all reflecting a grand spiral that spins and spins and spins. “Up and down. Up and down,” you sing. And slowly, you begin to lose hold of your bull as you float towards that spinning nebula. “Up ... n’down.... Up ... down....”

“Ten.” You raise your head suddenly, surprised. “Wh-wha--?” you ask. “What happened? Where’s the carousel?” Doctor Schroder smiled triumphantly at you. “Congratulations. We finally found the right setting.” “Right ... what?” you ask. “Setting. You know, on the sound synthesizer? I finally found the right mixture for you. The carousel wasn’t real. It was all in your head, a scenario I concocted to ensure you experienced optimal trance to aid you in your work. Now it’ll just be a matter of compiling the proper scripts and recording them for you.” “That was ... all in my head?” you ask again, surprised. “With a little figurative imagery added in on my part,” Schroder allowed. “You could say I’m like a dungeon master, if you want to put it into those kinds of terms. I help you to set the scene yourself by guiding your mind to place familiar sights, sounds, and smells, even tastes and physical sensations into a cohesive scenario that feels real. Think of it like lucid dreaming.” “And you can make me lucid dream in any scenario?” “Pretty much. It helps my clients to get into character more easily, until they don’t need that help anymore. And as I said, I can help you with motivational tracks as well. Now that I have the proper frequency set for you, I might even be able to ingrain a few subliminals in a playlist, if you would prefer that.” “Lets not be too hasty,” you say somewhat hesitantly. “This is all a bit much to digest.” “Of course.” Schroder nodded. “How about we take a break?” “Yeah, a break sounds good. You got any water handy?”

The water was cold and refreshing compared to the blistering heat the gym provided you. You stuck your head under the flow from the arc at the fountain. You didn’t care if anyone else was behind you. You needed something to cool you down. “Take these,” Duff suggested as he walked up with two fogged up bottles covered in water droplets. The initial contact with your neck made you cringe, but after that, you sighed in relief. “Don’t worry,” he assured you, “soon you won’t even need those bottles to cool down. The heat starts to feel sort of natural, after a while. Heck, I prefer it now.” He chuckled. “Suns out, guns out, am I right?” You can’t help but pull your lips into a smile at that. “Please don’t tell me you used that old cliche.” “I’m sorry, Dave. I can’t do that,” he said in a monotonic voice. “You know, if I weren’t so busy trying to keep myself from melting, I’d smack you with these things,” you grumble. “I could always take them back, if that’s you you really--.” “NO!” you shout. Then a blush rises in your cheeks as everyone in the gym stares at you. You chuckle, then raise a hand meekly. “Sorry, guys. False alarm,” you promise. The men grunt, roll their eyes, and get back to work. Duff just smirked. “Not one word.” “I didn’t say anything,” he said innocently. “You didn’t have to. You were thinking it.” Duff shrugged nonchalantly. “Guilty as charged.” “What happened to the timid Duff I saw a couple of days ago?” “That was before we became friends,” Duff pointed out. “I’m much different, once I get past that hurdle.” “And if I were to say we weren’t?” “I’d call you a liar, and probably have to take those bottles back.” You gasped. “You would blackmail me?” you cry as you raise a hand artfully to your forehead and lean backwards, as though bent with grief. “Yeah, yeah. Ham it up, why don’t ya?” a ragged voice snarled as one of the larger body builders drew near. “If you two don’t mind, I need a drink.” He shoved his way past, bending down low to get as close to the stream as possible, despite his mass. “Duff, kid, get back over here,” Hank barked. “Break’s over!” “Coming, boss,” Duff yelled. You groan as you turn away from the oasis that is the drinking fountain and return to the blistering hell that is the weight room. Your core was going to explode tomorrow, and you were just waiting for that after effect to kick you in the gut. Hank just sneered at you again. You sigh in resignation as you make your way over, followed by Duff. “Don’t worry. I can give you some extra pointers later,” he promised, before parting ways as he dropped you off. “Time for me to run some cardio.”

That night, you scoured the internet for extra material to use. You could only say your line so many times, before it became boring, after all. You found a few promising phrases and images, though you were shocked at just how large a community there was that focused around the subject of becoming the very thing you were being payed to act out. You weren’t quite sure what it was they saw in it, other than the raw sexual appeal, of course. There was no denying that would be a major draw to a lot of people who wanted to be fit. You drank your shake as you continued to scroll through the net. “Thank God for filters,” you mutter to yourself as multiple links to porn pages were blocked or led to a warning screen. You scratch an itch idly at your crotch as you finish the last of your research for the night and close down your laptop. Then you make your way to your mirror, where another sign has joined the first. The instruction, BE A BRO, now graced you with its presence. This time, you do your best to pitch your voice lower as you push more from your diaphragm and try to shove the air out your mouth. You look ahead, struggling to force all other thoughts out as you try to unfocus your eyes. ‘Remember. You’re a dumb, careless musclehead,’ you think to yourself. ‘Just an empty meathead with dumbbells for brains.’ You take a deep breath, and then you try. “Huhuhuh.” Weak. Pathetic. Far too forced. You try again, something shorter this time. “Huhuh.” You felt the corners of your mouth pull up that time, almost like you found something humorous. Good. The smile widens as you realize you’re onto something. “Huhuhuh.” Huskier. Lower. “Huhuhuh.... Uhhhh ... wut wuz I doin’ again?” You felt embarrassed. This was stupid. But ... wasn’t that kind of the point? “Huhuhuh....” you shudder as your grin grows wider. That sounded about right. Well, for what range you could manage right now. You step forward and keep up that grin as you point at your head. “Drain this,” you encourage in that same deep tone. Then you smack a hand on one of your biceps as you flex it. “Grow this,” you low. You repeat yourself a few times. Then you chuckle once more as you say your line. “I lift things up and put them down.” It sounded so funny, so dull. But ... still forced. You try again. “I lift things up and put them down.” No. Something is still missing. You furrow your brow and look around. Finally, you grab ahold of your soap dispenser and start lifting it like a dumbbell. You cast your mind back to the weight rooms, to Duff as he concentrated on his lifting, how focused he seemed, how intense of that one act alone. “You love to lift,” you tell yourself. “Lifting is incredible. You live to lift weights.” After a few more minutes of psyching yourself up, you go for it. “Huhuhuh. I put things up and put them down.” Up. Down. “I lift things up and put them down.” Up. Down. Now you’re getting into the rhythm of it. “I lift things up and put them down.” Again. “I lift things up and put them down.” Finish the rep. “I lift things up and put them down.” By the time you get yourself to bed, you’re feeling much more satisfied with yourself. It’s far from perfect, but you’re starting to make a little headway into the part. You sigh contentedly as you lay down and look up at the ceiling to read the encouraging message, and you can’t help but wonder if you agree. Perhaps a little CHANGE IS GOOD after all. “Huhuhuh. Yeah....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 8

You yawn as you wake from your sleep and smile. The weekend was here. You finally had your first day off to rest and recuperate. Your breathing hurt as the expansion of your stomach set off the warning signals in your muscles, but that was okay, because you had the day off, and it was going to be amazing. You pull of the covers on your bed and shuffle onto the carpet, letting it massage your soles as you savor your freedom yet again. You scratch at the itch along your stomach, then make your way to your kitchen for your cereal and morning shake. You found that if you added a little cinnamon to the shakes, it became more tolerable. It still felt like drinking cement, but at least it didn’t quite make you want to gag so much anymore. You finish your cereal and put your dishes into the washer to prepare this week’s load. A few dashes of detergent and you were ready to go. You take a deep breath and let out a gusty sigh, only for a sudden burst of gas to explode out your mouth in a gigantic belch. “Oh, my,” you gasp in surprise. Then you chuckle. At least you were alone here. Nobody would think any less of you for an accident like that, anyways. You make your way to the bathroom next and take care of your morning oblations. Once again you step out from the shower. Once again, you stare into the mirror. You raise your arm, flex it, and smack a hand over the bicep to feel it. Naturally, you don’t feel much difference, but it’s good practice all the same. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to pose a little. “Lookin’ good, bro,” you say. Once again, you feel ridiculous, but it was better to get used to saying those sorts of things, anyway, at least if you wanted to be able to push yourself closer to channeling the mindset you’d need for the commercial. Once you’ve gotten to your room and finished getting dressed, you check your phone for messages. Soon Duff’s voice is carrying over the speaker. “Hey, man. Just calling to see if you wanna hang out for some lunch today. I know a great place that serves some of the best food in town. Real affordable, too. Call me, if you’re interested. And ... well, call me if you’re not. I’d kinda like to know.” He chuckled. “Anyways, see ya ‘round, and hope you enjoy your weekend regardless.” You can’t help but smile and shake your head. At least he was being friendly, though you doubt he’d know a place that could possibly be better than the restaurants you’ve been to, when clients have treated you. Somehow, you don’t see Duff as the five-star gourmet type. Then again, he had been a big help with avoiding some of the bigger stumbling blocks with Hank, so you do sort of owe him. Your body probably won’t thank you for putting it through more stress, but it’s better than being cooped up all day. You sigh and hit the call back button. “Yeah, Duff? It’s me. Where’s this place you wanted to meet again?”

“Welcome to Gut Busters, home of all things healthy and/or tasty,” the perky hostess said with a smile. “Table for two?” Duff nodded. “My usual spot, April.” April winked at him. “You’ve got it.” Duff blushed. “Do I detect a hint of chemistry, Duff?” you ask. Duff blushed harder. “Sh-shut up.” “I’m sorry, Duff. I can’t do that.” “You botched the line,” he accused. “No, I just changed the name.” You shrug. “2001: a Space Odyssey was overrated, anyway.” Duff sighed. “Can’t argue with you there. Not nearly enough action.” April showed you to your chairs and passed you a menu. “Aren’t you going to give one to Duff, too?” April giggled. “Duff’s a regular. Never changes his order, no matter how many times we try to make him.” “What can I say? I love their teriyaki bowl,” Duff said with a shrug. “And besides that, it’s a lean meal with plenty of protein. I work at a gym. I do have a certain figure to maintain, you know,” he pointed out. “Now who’s hamming it up?” you accuse as April giggles yet again. “You two are just so adorable.” “And speaking of ham, I think I’ll try your country western burger. Barbeque’s always been a favorite of mine.” “Well, that was quick.” You shrug as you hand the menu back to her. “I was in the mood for something meaty, and I didn’t want to make Duff feel awkward waiting for me to order while his meal got cold.” “Anything to drink?” “Water, please,” Duff asked. “I’ll take a coke,” you order. “One coke and one water coming right up. See you gentlemen soon.” She winked at Duff again, then strutted away. “Duff, she’s all but asking you to take her out. I only just met the girl, and even I can tell how desperate she is.” Duff blushed. “It’s a bit complicated.” “Then uncomplicate it for me.” Duff fiddled his thumbs nervously. “Well, used to be she couldn’t even see me, back when I first met her. I was just some wiry kid coming in for a good meal. It didn’t exactly help that I was dealing with bullying at school. Back then, the world just sort of seemed like it had it out for me. When I saw the kind of guy she went for, well, I tried to be like that.” He motioned to himself. “You can see I got there eventually, but when I first started, it was rough. Most of the time, I got picked or laughed out of any place I tried to use. Then my parents got killed in a car crash on their way home from the airport. Drunk driver.” He shook his head as his face scrunched up in distaste. “After that, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I didn’t feel ready to live on my own yet, but I sure as hell didn’t want to go into the foster system either. I was lucky Hank found me when he did.” He sighed. “He was a hard man, but he was fair. Got me a job, helped me to get my own apartment, showed me the ropes for managing my finances and getting fit. I guess you could say he’s like a second father. Fast forward a few years, and here I am now, bigger, stronger, and more confident in my standing.” He chuckled. “Hank insisted I go to college, so I’ve been taking classes online to certify myself as a personal trainer.” You whistle in surprise. “Yup. So now I have a steady job that could eventually turn into one that’s even better paying, an awesome boss, and I get to stay in the gym, which has pretty much become one of my favorite places to be.” He shrugged and his pecs strained slightly against the front of his polo. “So yeah. It’s nice to get the attention from her, but ... after seeing how she goes after some of the other people in here, I’m not sure I want to go through with it, especially when I’m so focused on my career and my body right now.” “Well, it is your choice.” You shrug. “Personally, I’d be willing to take the risk, but then again, I’m not dealing with college, a job, and trying to build up my body simultaneously.” “Yeah, it’s kinda hard sometimes.” “But worth it?” “Oh, definitely.” He grinned. “I love that feeling when I’m pushing at the weights. The pump, the surge, the muscle. It’s amazing. I plan to be bigger than Hank one day.” “Seriously?” “Just wait and see,” he challenged as your drinks arrived. “Just wait and see.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 9

The familiar clack of weights echoes rhythmically in your ears as you pull the tethers, working at your lateral muscles. You feel your shoulders bunching and releasing as you pull down, then raise back up. The bar forces you to keep your arms apart as your neck muscles strain against the weight. “Lookin’ good, kid.” You look up in surprise. The man from the water fountain is staring at you from across the way. “Keep it up.” “Uh ... thanks?” you ask, confused at his sudden change of character. “It speaks.” He chuckles at you. “And here I thought you’d forgotten how.” “Excuse me?” “Leave him alone,” a deep baritone lowed from behind you. Heavy footfalls smack against the hardwood floor as Duff steps into view, but ... it isn’t Duff. It couldn’t be. The guy was monstrous! A massive sleeveless muscle tee barely held against the strain of his breathing. Everywhere you looked, you saw nothing but hard carved muscle. One glare from him and the other guy just scoffed and turned away, muttering under his breath as he lumbered to the fountain. “Duff?” “In the flesh, lil’bro.” He beams down at you. “Looks like you’re almost ready.” “Ready?” You furrow your brow in confusion. Duff just laughs huskily as he grabs the bar with one massive hand. “Come on. You’re done here.” He guides you to your feet and over to a floor-length mirror. What you see nearly makes your eyes pop out of your skull. A pair of compression shorts hugs tightly to calves the size of tree trunks. A hefty bulge presses comfortably against the crotch, and you gape at the size, before moving up the frame. A perfectly carved eight pack of abdominal muscles stares you in the face, followed by a set of firm, shelf-like pectorals. Your face is rigid and square, with no sign of fat to be found. The skin on your reflection glows in a golden tan that shines with sweat. Glazed-over eyes stare at you as the reflection grins. “I lift things up and put them down,” he says as he pops a flex and smacks his bicep firmly. It’s as big as a football, if not bigger. The voice was deep, distorted, and he sneered hungrily at you. You want to back away from that image as fast as you can, but you hit a solid wall and look up to see a grinning duff as he claps both hands on either of your shoulders and pushes you towards the mirror. “You lift things up and put them down,” he said. Your eyes widen, and you try to resist as your feet scrape and squeak against the hardwood floorboards. “No! I ... I’m not like that! It’s just a part!” you protest. “I lift things up and put them down.” “Please.” You feel tears streaming down your cheeks. “You lift things up and put them down,” Duff continues implacably. “We lift things up and put them down.” “We lift things up and put them down,” Hank’s gravely voice joins in. You turn in your head in surprise to see him grunting at the leg press, while lifting two massive dumbbells in either hand simultaneously. “We lift things up and put them down,” the gym goers began to join in, one after the other. Soon it was a chorus, rigid, united, almost mindlessly so. “You lift things up and put them down.” Soon you’re in front of the mirror. “I lift things up and put them down,” your reflection utters again. A warm feeling washes over your foot as it makes contact and the surface ripples as your doppelganger grins. “I lift things up and put them down,” he says more excitedly than before. You shudder as a wave of heat washes over you. “We lift things up and put them down,” Duff repeated mindlessly in your ear, “you lift things up and put them down.” “I ... I....” Your face is flushing. “Lift things up and put them down,” your doppelganger finished, even as your fingers touched the mirror and began to pass through, rippling the surface. “But....” Your breathing is coming more heavily now as your heart begins to race. You watch as the warmth spreads over your hand, and it suddenly expands before you, becoming almost half as large again. Your doppelganger looks at you with hungry eyes. “We lift things up and put them down,” the gym thundered. “We lift things up and put them down.” Over and over, the chant echoed and rebounded. You gasp as you feel a hand clasping yours through the mirror’s surface. “I lift things up and put them down,” he says, and you watch as your arm balloons with muscle, swelling to match the hand that had just grown. Your legs inflate as your feet snap and crack into gigantic plank-like things to support your growing weight. The weight of Duff’s hands suddenly leaves. The hand you’re holding isn’t pulling. You could leave. You could try to run. You should!

... But you don’t. And ... you’re not sure why you don’t. Duff has lumbered over to a weight rack, and is now pumping in time to the all-encompassing chant. He grins at you knowingly. “We lift things up and put them down,” he says simply. Then his gaze grows distant, and he seems to be more muttering it out of habit than out of any form of encouragement, so engrossed is he with the pump he’s building. “I lift things up and put them down.” You shudder as you bring your gaze back to peer into your doppelganger’s face. There is an unspoken invitation in those eyes, in that phrase. You groan as a wave of pleasure flows through your body and you feel the distinct heft of a new weight between your legs. Your breathing becomes panting, which metamorphoses into grunts. “I....” Do you ... want this? “I lift things up and put them down.” “I....” It feels so good, but ... what happens, if you accept? “We lift things up and put them down.” “I....” You don’t know. And it’s getting harder to think through the pleasure. You feel the surface of the mirror against your abs, licking away at your skin. It feels almost like a bath. Your doppelganger looks seriously at you as your shoulders jerk and crack to either side, expanding with your widening back to make room for a thicker, broader torso. Your jaw clenches as stronger muscles in the throat swell and expand to strain against your skull. You feel your adam’s apple bob as you swallow reflexively. Your other arm expands to match its mate. “I lift things up and put them down.” The mindless quality is gone. It’s like he’s taking you more seriously now. Two hands clasp two hands and both of your muscles tense at the strain, the sensation. Another wave of pleasure rides through you. You are enjoying this. “I ... how ... what...?” Your doppelganger just shakes his head. The chorus continues to ring in the air around you and through your skull. He looks at you intently, as if to command you. As if to say, Decide. “I....” Lift things up and put them down. “I....” LIFT THINGS UP AND PUT THEM DOWN. “I....” LIFT THINGS UP AND PUT THEM DOWN! You shudder. You groan. And finally, you voice your reply. “I lift things up and put them down.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as a veritable tsunami of pleasure washes over you. You hear a distinctive crack, completely oblivious to how your jaw has shifted to its new block-like appearance. You step through the mirror. You embrace your doppelganger. And damn, does it feel good. You hear the sound of shattering glass. You look around. Duff is there, proffering you his dumbbells. A smile pulls at your lips as you take them from him, and the phrase slides so naturally out your mouth. “I lift things up and put them down.” Duff grins and replies, “We lift things up and put them down.” And suddenly, that was all you wanted to do. And it was okay.

You gasp as you come awake in a cold sweat. The dream had been so vivid. You shuddered at the memory, even as you turned to look at your alarm clock. 4:00 AM You groan and turn over in your covers. Had that really been you? Did some part of you actually enjoy all of this? The dream had certainly been enough to get certain bodily functions running hot. Could it be that you actually ... wanted to build all that muscle? You shook your head. More likely than not, it was just your subconscious trying to remove the trauma you’d experienced over the last week. All the same, ... you could still feel that familiar tingle, and your breathing still felt somewhat labored. You tensed and released your muscles a few times. The soreness had mostly faded. Wet dreams aside, you felt pretty good. Maybe there was something to this regimen, after all.

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.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 11

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

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

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 15

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

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

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

~D

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

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

“You--.”

Up.

“--Are not--.”

Down.

“--Weak!”

Up.

“You’re strong!”

Down.

“Getting stronger,” you grunt.

Up.

“With every pump.”

Down.

Sweat started to soak into your good shirt.

You didn’t care.

Up.

“You are strong!”

Down.

“You are muscle!”

Up.

“You are proud of your muscle!”

Down. “Growing muscle,” you grunt.

Up. “Big.”

Down.

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

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

Faster, meathead.

You’re panting now.

Bigger, meathead.

You’re plowing through.

Stronger, meathead.

Something is starting to tear.

Stupid meathead.

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

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

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

“No matter the cost....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 16

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

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

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 21

You stare at the poster on the wall, uncertain as to which may prove the best style for you. There were so many to choose from! You knew you wanted short. That much was certain. But just what kind of short would really suit you? Did you want the high and tight, the flat top, a simple buzz cut, maybe some kind of crew cut? Whatever it was, you knew you wanted short. It was just so hard to choose with all the possibilities! The comforting buzz of electric razors at work hummed cheerfully in the background as they sawed through hair follicles to the tune of soft jazz. You could already feel a sympathetic tingling in your scalp as the sound permeated through your ears. Then came the sound of smart shoes clattering against the laminate tiles as Harry approached from behind. “So, you decide yet, kid?” he asked. You shake your head mutely. He whistled. “Sure is a lot to choose from, isn’t there?” “Don’t remind me,” you reply glumly. Your long-sleeved Underarmor shirt hugs tightly to your frame and you take a certain amount of comfort in that constant embrace. Every time you moved, it was like someone was giving you a massage, rubbing over each muscle, and it felt so very good. You couldn’t understand why you’d never had more of these shirts in your wardrobe to begin with. Harry chuckled, and the crown on his head shone as he wagged it back and forth. “You know, kid, you could always ask the barber what he thinks would look best. He is a professional, after all. The company recommended him specifically for you.” You furrow your brow a moment. “Why ... would they do that?” “Do what?” “Why would they recommend a specific barber? There are plenty of others out there. Why this one, in particular?” Harry shrugged. “He may not look it, but the guy’s trained in more than barber school. He’s a former stylist for all sorts of events. Fashion week, Couture, movies. You name it, he’s done it. The man’s a genius. He always seems to know just the right look for his clients to get into character. You sway on your feet as a bout of dizziness overwhelms you. Were it not for Harry’s swift reflexes, you probably would’ve faceplanted. You’re dimly aware of the steadying arm wrapped around your own as you’re led, stumbling, to a padded leather chair. You feel a gentle breeze on your face, and something is shoved into your moth. You clamp onto it and suck, filling your mouth with the familiar taste of vanilla and cinnamon. “Easy, kid. Easy,” Harry soothes. The dizziness subsides. “That’s it. Relax. Just relax.” You gulp heavily, until the familiar rapid staccato of air rushing with the last dregs of liquid pounds through the room. You sigh as you fall back into the chair, and are pleasantly surprised to feel a head rest cradling your neck as your shoulders slump. “What just...?” you ask slowly. “Dizzy spell. You’re all right now,” Harry promised. “Barry here’s gonna take care of you. You can’t help but chuckle. “Harry and Barry, huh?” Harry smiled. “He’s gonna be okay.” “Good. I’d hate for my client to have to run, before I even get the chance to handle him.” You feel your chair swivel, and suddenly you’re facing a veritable Adonis. His golden hair was perfectly coiffed with a natural wave that formed on his right side to jut up into the air. His skin was a healthy tan and his face was rounded, almost heart-shaped. His white teeth practically radiated confidence as he bore them in a smile. His long white sleeves are rolled up around his biceps to highlight the light dusting of golden hairs along his arms that accentuated each curve of well-toned muscle perfectly. His deep blue eyes were an incredible sight, the kind you might have killed for, back when you were more focused on your modeling career. Well, it’s not like you aren’t still focused. It’s just ... not on those aspects anymore. You’ve been too busy focusing on your body. And ... well, the results speak for themselves. You can bench a good 140 pounds now. The repetitive clank of the weights, the burn as you feel the muscles working to tear and repair over and over again. That same process over and over.... “Hello? Earth to,” Harry calls your name. You blink blearily as you turn to face him. “Huh? Oh, sorry, Harry. Was kinda lost in thought.” Well, not so much lost as visiting a happy place. You never thought you’d consider all that effort as enjoyable, but now you find yourself almost longing for those exercises. A body is a machine, and your machine was designed to LIFT. “One of those, is it?” Barry asked in a bored tone. “It is what it is,” Harry said with a shrug. “Bosses want him to look the part.” “Well, he’s certainly well on his way to acting it,” Harry mused as he stroked his smooth chin. “How long?” “He’s been training for about the last two months.” “And how much has he gained?” “See for yourself.” You watch in that twilit sort of daze as Harry passes a phone to the man. He passes his finger along the screen a few times, and Barry lets out a whistle. “He has potential.” “That’s what I told them. Kid’s a hard worker.” “What can I say? I love to work out.” You shrug your shoulders casually. Barry pursed his lips as he considered you. “I see.” He walked over and stared at you closely, occasionally cocking his head to the side. “I’m going to touch you for a moment. Please don’t get upset. I just need to check your facial structure to be sure.” “Sure?” “Of what types of styles would work best for you,” he clarified as he reached forward and started probing at your cheeks, your neck, your jaw. “Hmm ... yes, yes. I think I have it now.” He withdrew and started stroking his chin again as he paced. “You, my friend, are most definitely a square type.” “Hey!” He rolled his eyes. “Square in facial structure, not in the insulting kind of way.” “Oh.” You chuckle nervously. “Sorry.” You’re such a dumbass. That dreamy smile returns again as you think that word, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “Hmm. Yes, I think I know just the kind of cut you need,” Barry mused. “Something ... simple, low maintenance.” “I like simple.” “Of course you do,” he says offhandedly. “Um, excuse me, Barry. Can I pay up now?” A smaller, more reserved young man with black hair and a smooth part that shone with pomade looked timidly up at the man. A simple sweater vest hugged over a creamy white long-sleeved shirt. “Oh, but of course, Alexander. Forgive me. I completely forgot.” “N-no problem, really. I don’t mind waiting, if you need me to,” the boy said hastily. Barry’s smile widened. “Nonsense. A good young man like you deserves to be treated fairly, after that terrible ordeal in juvie. You’re a proper reformed citizen now, aren’t you?” “Yes,” Alexander said dreamily. “A proper reformed citizen.” He held out a twenty dollar bill, which Barry was only too happy to pocket.  “And do try to remember to stay with the right sort of people this time, won’t you?” Barry asked. “Of course, Sir.” Alexander’s smile widened into a dopey grin as he clicked his polished leather boots together and gave a smart salute. Barry chuckled. “Off you go now, my boy. I’m certain your parents must be anxious to see you again.” “Oh, right. Thanks again, Barry!” Alexander waved happily as he snatched his jacket off the coat rack and made his way out the door into the snowdrifts to a waiting sheriff's car. Barry sighed happily. “Ah, youth. I love seeing them make the right sort of choices again.” Then he turned back to you. “Now, then, let’s get started on your haircut, shall we?” He clicked a button on a remote and the lights dimmed as a familiar whirring began to play over the speakers. The buzzing of the razor left you feeling loopy as the vibrations carried from the first contact, seeping deep into the nerves along your scalp and neck. You roll your eyes back in delight as the room starts to spin. “In the professional circuit, we like to call this style the induction cut. Why don’t you just lean back, relax, and I’ll tell you all about it....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 33

“‘Sup, Harry?” you greeted your agent casually as he drove up in his convertible. The sun was already starting to beat down, and your muscles tingled in anticipation under the exposure. It took every ounce of will power you had not to pop a flex at the man on instinct. Your skin glistened from the preparations you had made the previous night, following the instructions Harry had sent over to the letter. After all, you had to, in order to fit your role. “Oh, the usual,” Harry replied casually. “Making deals, helping clients, getting paid, taking you places.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I feel almost like a chauffeur.” “You know, you don’t always have to drive me, if you don’t want to.” “Oh, but I do want to. After all, somebody’s got to make sure you get where you’re supposed to go on time. Knowing you, you’d probably get distracted along the way, maybe go through a posing session for some ladies, or just get lost in the warmth on your muscles as you stretch.” You chuckle and reach your hand back to rub up and down against the stubble at the back of your neck, causing your black tanktop to ride up over your pectorals. “You see right through me, don’t you?” “Bit hard to do that with a big guy like you. Come on, and get in. We’ve got a ways to go.” And just like that, you’re in the passenger’s seat, resting your heavily sculpted arm on the window port as you watch the world pass by. Harry passed a few sidelong glances your way as you approached an intersection and waited for the light to turn. “You know, you’ve changed a lot, since this all started.” You shrug. “Change is good,” you reply simply, almost automatically. Your motivational poster flashed through your head with that big, dopey smile on that bodybuilder’s face, and your own face pulls into an almost exact replica. “I enjoy my changes.” “And you don’t miss anything?” You turn to look at the smaller man and frown. “Should I?” Harry shrugged. “That’s not my place to say, kid. I’m just your agent, remember?” He chuckled then as the light turned green, and the trip resumed. That statement did leave you wondering, however. If it wasn’t Harry’s place to say, .... Whose place was it?

The tanning salon was a broad building in the bustling city, not unlike a small warehouse. The parking lot was loaded with expensive-looking cars alongside a few dustier used ones. Harry slipped right into the reserved section and pulled out a little plastic hanger to place over his rear view mirror. A shining sun with a single palm tree stared back at you, along with the words PREFERRED CUSTOMER. “What’s that for?” you ask, pointing to the hook. “We got you the deluxe package,” Harry explained. “You can’t get a full tan just by going once. You have to come back. This here hook gives us good parking and all the benefits you need during your sessions. “So, it’s kinda like when I went with the doc before?” “Yup, except your sessions here will be shorter.” “How short are we talking?” “Somewhere a little under ten minutes.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take much with these machines.” “I see.” “Which means you’ll have plenty of time to get back to the gym.” You can’t help but grin at that. “I thought you might like that part of it,” Harry smirked. “Come on. Let’s get you ready.” The aides were quick to put you through your tests to check your skin type. Then you got your special goggles to protect your eyes and were instructed to strip down to the bare minimum. A towel was also provided for decency’s sake, when it was time to enter the main floor. “And don’t forget to use this,” one of the ladies said. She handed you a tube of what looked almost like sun block. “Apply it all over your skin. We have a brush over there to aid you with your back. If you prefer, we can have someone help apply it for you, instead. Just say the word.” You nod gratefully as you’re led to a private room and quickly follow the attendant’s instructions to the letter. You opt for the second of the two options you were offered, and smile as you feel delicate hands running up and down your back. “You’ll need to wait here to give the lotion time to work,” she said. “About twenty or thirty minutes. After that, you’ll be ready to tan.” You nod absently, enjoying the sensation of the rubbing too much to really give a full acknowledgement. “We’ll play something for you, while you wait, so you won’t get bored.” Again, you nod. “Thanks,” you manage to say. And suddenly, you find yourself alone in that state of suspended pleasure. Music begins to filter through the speakers, followed by a low, deep voice. “Hello, muscleman.” Your response is automatic. “Hello, Sir....”

The tanning bed was warm and inviting. You couldn’t help but smile as you listened to the calming music flooding through the chamber. The urge to flex had been muted in favor of the overriding need to achieve the perfect tan. For that, you had to relax. “A tan muscleman is a good muscleman is a proud muscleman....” you murmur to yourself as the words reverberate through your skull from your time in the prep room.  Your muscles glisten, and the longer you bathe in the light, the more pleasure you experience. You make sure to keep your arms above your head, so you can get a proper full body tan, just like you were instructed by the employees. The lamps are hot, but not entirely unpleasant. It’s more like when you’re on a run, after a workout and go bare-chested, instead of the usual means. When the time is up, you get out and look almost disappointed at the sight of your skin. “It’s not tan....” “It takes a day or two for the melanin in your skin to react,” the attendant explained. “You should notice a difference, by the time you come back, assuming you follow all the instructions right.” You chuckle. “No problems there. Uh, thanks, Miss...?” “Call me Jessica,” the girl said with a smile. “We’ll see you again in a couple of days, won’t we?” “You will,” you promise as you stomp your way towards the door, while the attendant begins cleaning the bed. You smile and pop a flex briefly, imagining just how much better it’ll look, when that skin is a healthy gold. “I can hardly wait,” you mutter.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 34

“Hey, kid. I’ve got another gig for you, if you’re interested,” Harry’s voice carried over your new bluetooth phone accessory into your ears. Hank suggested the twin earpieces the moment you talked about how Harry’s calls were messing up your workouts. The little devices were an absolute miracle. “It’s for a new brand of sports gear coming out,” Harry continued. “Jock straps, cleats, socks, shorts, uniforms, football, baseball, you name it.” You pump your dumbbells casually, admiring the healthy gold that’s replaced your once pale white skin as you mull the offer over. “How long?” you finally ask. “It’ll take about a week or two.” “Local?” “Out of state, but they’re willing to add housing expenses.” You mull that over again slowly as you continue to pump rhythmically. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Finally, you nod and speak. “I’ll need a gym. High quality, full spread, full access. It’s not home without a gym,” you say, “and I need to keep up my workout schedule.” “Of course. I already explained the details of your other contract to them. They agreed a muscleman like you is perfect for the job.” The world came to a halt as your weights dropped to the padded flooring. “A muscleman like me is perfect for the job,” you repeat in a dull monotone. “Because proud musclemen love to show off, and what is modeling, but a chance to show off those muscles?” “I am a proud muscleman. I love to show off.” “That’s right,” Harry said. “Show off for the cameras.” “I show off for the cameras.” “You will pose as you are ordered, during your photo sessions, because proud musclemen don’t think. You remember that, don’t you, muscleman? Musclemen don’t think.” “Our muscles think for us,” you return. “My muscle drives my body.” “Just a big, dumb muscleman growing bigger and dumber, bigger and dumber every time you lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down,” you slur in a deep, bovid voice. “That’s right, Djur. Lifting and growing and dumbing, until there’s nothing but a bulky, brawny brute of a body builder. Because that is what you are becoming. That is where you want to be, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Good muscleman. Now, when I say the word congratulations, you are going to wake back up out of this trance with no memory of this exchange. You will remember agreeing to the contract and feel enthusiastic about the modeling to come, because musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand. You know this from the compression gear you take with you to the gym every day.” “Yes,” you agree. “And you will wear whatever they ask you to without complaint, because...?” “Musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand.” “That’s right. You’re a good muscleman.” “I am a good muscleman.” “Now pick up your weights and resume your exercises.” You quickly move to do so, pumping mindlessly as you listen to the voice that has held your attention so raptly. Harry’s chuckle carried over into your ears. “Congratulations, kid. You’ve got the contract.” You blink blearily for a moment. “S-sorry, Harry,” you low slowly. “I ... didn’t get all that. I think you broke up a bit.” You shake your head to try to clear the fog. “I said you got the contract, kid. I’ll send the travel arrangements your way, once I’ve got them booked. A big grin spread over your face as your heart rate picked up. “Awesome! Thanks, Harry!” Harry chuckled. “No problem, kid. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work.” “I will,” you promise as you stare into your mirror and smile at the way your muscles ripple and shift under your skin as you work them. “I will,” you repeat in a dreamier tone as the buds pick up on your MP3 player and the familiar tracks filter through your ears.

Harry panted to himself as he laid a hand against his chest to get his heart rate under control. An exultant surge pulsed through his brain as the flood of adrenaline merged with a hint of arousal. His cheeks flushed and his bald spot shone with sweat as he reached for a tissue and dabbed the droplets away. Once he’d regained enough control of himself, he pulled out his cell phone and clicked the redial button. A few rings later, and he heard the familiar voice of his client on the other end. “How did it go?” the deep voice asked. “Surprisingly well,” Harry said. “I ... I’ve never done something like that before.” The man on the other end chuckled. “You enjoyed it.” It wasn’t a question. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mister Harrison.” The flush in Harry’s cheeks deepened. “Please, call me Sir. I find that much more informal than ‘Mister Harrison.’” “I, uh ... don’t know if I feel all that comfortable calling you that, ... Sir.” Harrison chortled. “I’ve already sent the payment, along with a little ... let’s call it a bonus, a reward, if you will, for excellent service.” Harry’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I ... I always aim to please, Sir.” “Of course you do. You have talent, Harry. You don’t mind, if I call you Harry, do you? After all, we’ve been working together for so long.” Harry gulped. “O-of course not, Sir.” “Good. Good. You see, Harry, when I find talent, real potential, I like to make use of it, polish it until it shines so perfectly, so emptily, that I can see my own reflection.” “Um ... is this going anywhere, Sir?” Harry’s voice cracked, and he swallowed to alleviate the dryness, then fumbled for his coffee mug and took a sip. His hand trembled as he returned the mug to its place on his desk. “To put it simply, Harry, I see that glimmer in you. I see the talent, the spark. You, sir, have the soul of a conditioner, a manager, if you will, not unlike Fängsla.” Harry chuckled nervously. “Um, thank ... you?” “Which is why I’m going to start polishing you now.” “Excuse m--?” “Report, candidate.” Harry shot bolt-upright in his chair. His eyes stared unseeingly at the door to his office. “Yes, Sir.” His chair scraped back against the hardwood floor as he reached over to grab his phone and keys, then made his way to the office door. He stopped only long enough to lock it behind him and tell the secretary to hold his calls and cancel his appointments, followed by the assurance he’d be in contact soon and handing her the key to the main office. “Lock up. Take care of the place. There’s a bonus in it for you, if you do well,” he promised. And then, just like that, he was out the door walking at a brisk pace to reach his car. He had to report.

Desserts

Hey, guys. This here is a quick story I came up with on the fly for a story exchange between a user named Casualpatrolperfection and myself. I refined the content a little from the initial draft that I wrote in our chat room and am now ready to transfer it on to here for others to read. I hope you all enjoy it!

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. One minute, you were cringing back from some douchebag bullies. The next, Devon Capernick, Cap for short, was sitting next to you at the principal's office, while the bullies were being treated at the nurse's office. The Senior towered over you as he smiled reassuringly. The chair creaked under his weight, and you could practically hear the thick wooden arms splintering against his broad frame. 

"It's all good," he assured you. "Everything'll be fine." His face darkened. "And if they come after you again...." You could practically hear the splinters crying in pain as he clenched the edges. "I hate bullies."

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. You're sitting at the jocks' table, surrounded by behemoths of muscle chowing and joking with each other, even wrestling from time to time. Nothing serious enough to get in trouble with the aides, but enough for them to get their messages across. You note how they all keep smirking or grinning, despite the pain or humiliation that might be involved.

 Devon is smiling down at you as he watches his friends and cheers them on. He takes the time to introduce you to everyone on the team, tells them you'll be hanging with them for lunch from now on. You half expected them to want to pummel you. Instead, they grin and welcome you with hearty smacks to the back that almost burst your chest.

 You want to object to the treatment, say you're not worth it. Devon won't hear of it. He won't even let you address him formally.

 "It's Cap, bro." He huffed a deep guffaw of a chuckle. "Just think like you're calling me your captain, all right?"

 It wasn't like you could argue with him, so you did.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your gym teacher stared across at you from his desk. Cap is grinning as he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder from his place next to you.

 "You're sure about this, Devon?"

 "You bet, Coach. Lil'bro's got spark, and he's super smart."

 "I'll have to set it up with the rest of the school, but I don't see why he can't tutor you boys, if you need it." He smiled. "And maybe you can teach him a thing or two, while you're at it."

 "That's the plan." He laughed again.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Hard music thumped over the speakers of the weight room. While the rest of the football team worked on their exercises, you worked with each of them on the bits of homework they didn't understand on shifts.

 Breakthroughs were heralded with, "Oh, now I get it," or, "Dude, that's so fuckin' simple. Why didn't I see that?"

 Their enthusiastic thanks and effusive praises left you feeling warm and happy. Sure, they had a few problems with school work, but they weren't the jerks the stereotype made them out to be. They were almost like a family. It was ... nice, to be able to see that, and experience maybe just a little part of it.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Sweat beaded your brow, and your lungs felt like they were ready to explode. Everything felt so heavy and swollen. Your arms trembled as you struggled to hold them in place. Cap beamed encouragingly at you from above.

 "C'mon, lil'bro. You can do it." His strong hands grasped the bar that hovered dangerously over your chest. Together, you lifted it. He didn't make it easy, but he made it bearable. Cap, ... really was a great guy.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Practice was over, like usual. Since the team had to perform outdoor exercises, you cycled through teammates as they finished a certain number of practice runs. On scrimmages, you watched them scramble and play against each other, hard walls of muscle colliding like savage beasts.

 Now you found yourself surrounded by your friends as Cap wrapped a sweaty arm around your shoulders. You enter the locker room and pass the lockers in favor of the door marked STRATEGY.

 The chairs are soft and form-fitting. You try to decline, but Cap pushes you down into the chair.

 "You helped us with school, so I figure you can help us here, too."

 You couldn't resist his grin, even if you could break out of his grip. Still, the room struck you as oddly equipped for a strategy debriefing. Why make it so comfortable? Why the soundproofing boards? Why stack the chairs with adjustable controls to ensure everyone could see the front?

 Coach gave his usual spiel of the need to pay attention and focus on the video. Then he stepped aside and a familiar whirring sounded. Someone must have been adjusting their chair.

 Images flashed over the screen. The whirring became more pronounced. You felt a little dizzy, sort of like the room was moving. But ... no, not the room. You were. Up and down and side to side and spinning and SIDESTEP! DASH! CATCH! RECEIVE! RUN! TOUCHDOWN!

 "Fuck yeah!" the room screams. You're panting in the rollercoaster, the heady excitement of it all. What … what just...?

 And then you feel a familiar hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. "Just watch, lil'bro." He grins. That same grin. And then that chuckle. The whole room is filled with it.

 And suddenly, you're laughing, too. And it feels ... good. Words like BIG, BUFF, MUSCLE, SWOLE, and GROW, echo over the whirling sea. The churning increases, and you find it harder to focus.

 "Just a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK. Want to be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach. Gonna be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach."

 The words are like a mantra. You hear the familiar husky chuckle, and something inside just ... sort of snaps. Your mouth widens into a grin. Your teeth are bared. You laugh as everything fades into the darkness, and Cap is laughing right beside you. And it's RIGHT.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. The crowd roared around you as you hunched down and called out the secret code every quarterback seemed to know for their teammates to notify the play and run down the clock at the same time. Besides, sometimes, the lugs had to be reminded.

 You take the snap. You spot the opening. The receiver is open! You crank your arm back and throw for all it's worth. The ball hurls like a bullet. You know immediately that he's caught it. He's running. Nobody can touch him. Dodge. Sidestep. Lunge. Dash. TOUCHDOWN!

 You roar with your fellow teammates, and rush up to join your bros at the end zone. You all just scored the game-winning touchdown. Chestbumps, shoulder smacks, dances, everything breaks out in the pandemonium that follows. You turn and see Cap's familiar grin through the face guard of your helmet. He's standing on the sidelines next to coach, cheering you on. Sucked you couldn't play with him in his last season, but at least he came to cheer his lil'bro on. That's what mattered.

 Yeah....

 And you were a good lil'bro.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your thick muscular frame towers as you pose in front of the mirror. Your slab-like pecs glisten with the sweat from your hard-earned victory. You gape at it, almost in awe, but ... that's not quite the right word.

 ...

 Whatever. S'not important. Your compression pants hug tightly to the thick pistons that your legs have become through had work and intense sessions with your teammates. Big bro helped a lot with that. Then your eyes rest on the bulge at your crotch, and your gaping turns to a cocky sneer. Big bro had nothin' to do with that, though.

 You turn to the side and flex one of your pythons. You watch the bicep swell into a thick, powerful globe of solid muscle. You whisper a dull, "Fuck, yeah," at the rush of endorphins and adrenaline from the victory. A low echo reverberates through the locker room as your teammates follow the ritual in front of their own mirrors. Doesn't matter if it's creepy. You're a team. Teammates act as one unit. 'Course you're gonna do the same stuff. Your bleached hair shines in the dim lights. Your new short style helps to accent the edges of your masculine square jaw as glassy eyes stare dully back at you.

They are empty, unthinking. Just as they should be.

 “Just a big, dumb meathead,” you mutter to yourself. You chuckle and flex again. “And proud of it.”

 You grin and turn to the scrawny form of the new freshman water boy. You wrap your arm around him the same way your big bro did for you. "C'mon, lil'bro. Time to listen to Coach." The numbness in your head increases as the room starts to spin and you swagger along to compensate, like a good DUMB JOCK. Because that is what you are now. You weren't sure what you did to deserve this, but as you settle into Cap’s old chair and the STRATEGY room starts to dim, a last thought plays over your head. You’re a BIG DUMB JOCK BRO now. And even if you could, you wouldn't change a thing.

Ringing Out the old Ringing in the New

Augh. Where am I? “Jim, allow me to introduce Christopher Williams, one of our most successful beta testers to the program, by far. Christopher, why don’t you say hello?” “’Sup, bro?” Wait, did I just say that? “James, are you insane? This man is clearly engaged! We told you, no outside attachments!” “And there are none, if you would just let me explain. The ring is a symbol of being bound to one’s love, essentially making the connection to a particular entity more permanent, yes?” “Obviously.” “Good. Now watch. Christopher, could you tell me who your first love is?” “Uh, the gym? Is this like a trick question or something, Prof.?” The hell...? What am I doing here? Why am I sitting in front of these men? And ... why are my clothes feeling so tight? “And why are you wearing that ring?” “Guys and girls keep askin’ me out. It’s kinda annoying.” “And why is it annoying?” “’Cause I love the gym. Pumping reps, breaking goals, making gains. It feels so fuckin’ good.” Am I ...? Oh no. Please don’t ask me to stand up. Actually, please just pinch me or something. Wake me up! “Thank you, Christopher.” “Uh, Prof., can we just drop it to Chris?” Excuse me? “If that’s what you want.” “I do. Can I go back to the gym now? I was in the middle of a set, when you called me here.” Gym? What’s he ... I ... talking about? I only just started the program. “Not yet, Chris. Jim needs a demonstration of your progress.” Why am I smiling? “Wadaya need?” “Could you perhaps give us a bit of a show?” “Huhuhuh... Brought me to show off, huh? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” What’s happening? Am I...? HOLY CRAP! Is that me? What the hell? Well, I guess that explains the clamminess in my armpits, but ... whoa. I look like a freaking bodybuilder! I ... I can see my fucking pectorals! ... wait. Fucking? “Fuck, that feels good.” “As you can see, the subject takes immense pleasure in the current state of his body. Put him in front of a mirror and his sense of vanity will reinforce the positive effects of his changes.” “How do you like this, Prof.?” Holy--! My arms look like a soccer ball and a softball had babies! I’m-- “I’m ripped.” “Yes, Chris, you are.” Ohhhhh ... fuck, why does it feel so good to flex? “You’ve been ripping for a while now, haven’t you?” “Uhuh....” “Getting shredded.” “Yuh....” “Shredding and repairing, tearing and rearranging.” “Fuckin’ ace. Huhuhuh....” What’s huhuhappening? “What are you, Chris?” “A gym-obsessed musclehead, sir.” I’m a what now? “And what do you do?” “I flex and I grow. It feels so fuckin’ good to work out. I wanna be bigger.” “And nothing else?” “Uh ... what else is there?” Try reading a ... Um ... Okay, how about ...? Will you just--?! O-oh.... ohhhhh... do that again.... “Then you’ll keep going to the gym, even after this trial is complete?” “Uh, ... yeah. Why shouldn’t I?” Fitness is good, but ... Mmm ... what was I ...? I was saying ... Fitness is good. Yeah. And then ... uh ... uh ... Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... “Fitness is good.” “That’s right, Chris. Fitness is good.” “The subject appears to have difficulty holding sophisticated discussion, James.” “Better that than dealing with being obese.” Fitness is good. Flexing is good. Muscle is good. So ... so fuckin’ good... Good to... I need to... Can’t... Must--! “Uh ... can I go back to the gym now? I need to work out.” “The drain in IQ is a bit much, isn’t it?” “I think he’ll do fine.” “Is there any way we can lessen it?” “Not at this time. That being said, he’s been the most diligent of all our subjects. Perhaps we simply need to reduce exposure.” Flex. Grow. Muscle. Flex. Pump. Flex. Lift. Lift. LIFT! “Chris, what are you doing?” “Gotta lift, Prof. Huhuh. And you make a perfect dumbbell. Huhuhuhuhuhuh...” Huhuhuhuhuhuh.... “... Perhaps I gave him a little too much love of the gym.” “No, you think?”