Real Mens Journal: Part 2

Real Men’s Journal: Part 2

~Day 3~

Well, all I can say is I told them so. Just as I thought, this morning everyone woke up sore. Everyone who worked out anyways. On the plus side, that gave me the chance to get to the showers first. Easy in, easy out. I was ready to go before anyone else could get out of the showers. I heard a lot of sighs in those stalls. I’m not too big a fan of them myself. There’s a weird smell in there. Probably mildew or something like that. Maybe it’s B.O. Either way, I don’t like it. Though they do seem to have some type of video screen there for us to watch programs if we want. I could hear some of the static as they were flicked on. But enough of that.

So I performed “the routine” and brushed my teeth, combed my hair, ordered my drawer to open. Yet again I was met with a nice pair of shorts and a workout shirt. Augh. You can imagine my mood. I tromped my way out of the room after my “mandatory scan” and made my way for the mess hall. At least they have some decent food here. I grabbed a cinnamon roll and a glass of milk with a side of toast. Whole wheat of course. Have to keep my fiber up. Doctor’s orders.

Kevin greeted me cheerfully.

“Hey, Kyle. How’s it going?” I shrugged.

“Can’t complain. Looks like you’re not doing so well, though.” I saw how slowly he was moving his arms and legs as he ate. The kid was nice though; he bowed his head and said a prayer before he ate. You don’t see that much in today’s society.

“I’m doing alright.” He smiled at me. “The soreness is part of the change. I’ll get over it in a few days.”

“No bullies yet, right?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice. All I get is support. I even have a personal trainer on my journal to help me learn and grow.”

“Don’t you mean unlearn?” I asked, laughing. “By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be just like them.” I put on my best vacant expression and did a fake flex. “Like, gotta get swole, bro. Can’t focus on school no more. School’s for nerds!”

“Shut up!” He said, laughing as he shoved me. We both had a good laugh as we finished our breakfast and made our way to the gym. I decided to sit and watch Kevin this time as he worked out. Every once in a while his virtual trainer would chastise him for losing form, instructing him how to adjust until he got it right. Naturally, the holo-simulation showed Abrams’ lovely mug. About half way through the workout one of the thugs brought a protein shake in and handed it to Kevin.

“Thanks, 36,” he said.

“No problem, lil’bro. Just keep pumpin’ those weights,” the lug said, smiling vacantly as he flexed a bicep. “You’ll be as big as me one day.” He didn’t even bother looking at me as he walked past, his shoulder knocking me back. So much for that kindness. I rubbed my arm as I walked up to Kevin where he sat on the bench, his shirt drenched in sweat.

“Where’d you meet tall, dumb, and ruthless?”

“He’s not that bad, Kyle.”

“Maybe not to you. All these Neanderthals seem a little too eager to ignore and look down on me.”

“You’re just being paranoid. I’m sure once they get to know you it’ll be better. After all, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, but you don’t mind a guy like me. They do. You’re working out because you can. I can’t, even if I did want to.”

“Why’s that?”

“I get sick every time I try. I have asthma. If I don’t black out from exertion, I throw up on the floor because I get nauseated when I work out.”

“Oh.” Kevin took a swig of his chocolate swill and shuddered. “That does kind of make it tough, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. And all the popular kids singled me out because of it. I don’t have physical strength, so I made use of the gifts I did have and worked on the one muscle I knew wouldn’t be effected by exertion,” I said, pointing to my head. “Gossip and labeling took care of the rest. High School life. Ya gotta love it,” I said, sighing.

“That does it, then.” Kevin said, smacking his drink onto a nearby platform. “I’m going to get big and strong. And then once I do, I’m changing things at my high school. People like us deserve a chance to be treated equally. I’m going to make that happen.” With that, he slid his finger over the touch screen on his journal and stared intently at the holographic projection. “Okay, coach. Tell me what to do.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this kid’s determination. It’s one thing to say you’re going to change something, another to actually do it. Still, I wish him luck. The worst that could happen is he gets popular for being fit. I watched silently as he pushed through set after set, clacking barbells and dumbbells, doing leg-ups and crunches, whatever the program told him to do, he did. I had to grab him a few drinks from time to time, but whatever made him happy was good enough for me. Kevin’s sudden spurt caught more than a few passing eyes as meatheads and coaches alike viewed his determination.

When workout time was done Abrams came and personally congratulated Kevin, smacking him on the back. Kevin just huffed and swayed on his feet. He looked a little out of it. Must’ve been from watching that hologram for so long. I’m pretty sure having a green light glowing in my face all day shouting at me would leave me the same way.

“Thanks, Coach,” he said, smiling.

“Keep this up and you’ll be ready to advance in no time.”

“Sure thing, Coach. That’s what I’m working towards.”

“That’s the spirit!” Then Abrams smacked him in the butt. Kevin jumped, immediately reaching back to grab the point of impact while Abrams placed a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Easy there, tiger. It’s just an expression here. Means you’re doing a good job. High fives, fist bumps, chest bumps, and head butts are also common ways to express approval and friendship here. You’ll get used to the idea in time.”

“Oh. Um … okay,” Kevin said uncertainly. “Still not sure I like it though.”

“Just give it time. In the meanwhile, go hit the showers. You’ve earned yourself a big meal tonight.” Kevin’s rumbling stomach agreed heartily. The two of them laughed together, and while I did not join in, I couldn’t help but smile. This coach may not be the nicest guy in the world, but at least he was willing to help Kevin achieve his goal. Maybe I should give him a break.

 ~Day 4~

Hello, Journal. It’s me, yet again. I decided to hit the sack early last night and see if I couldn’t beat the stupid alarm clock. As it turns out, I was actually successful today. It’s a bit dark as I’m typing here, but fortunately I’m a skilled touch typist. Thank you, key strokes lab. What would I do without you?

So anyways, last night we all had a great meal and I cheered Kevin on as he ate. The accomplishments he’d managed that day were positively insane. I was shocked he hadn’t pulled a muscle or something with all the work he’d been doing, but somehow he pulled through. Our enforcers slapped him a few good times on the back, knocking his food out of his hands and making him choke once or twice. Fortunately, it wasn’t too serious. He just coughed it out. I scanned the mess hall. Most of the men in sight were beginners like us. Still, the hall was rather spacious, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they had a schedule shift for the meatheads. Maybe a different mess hall, too. Who knows what else is down there in that abyss of a gym? But I digress.

After we finished with our dinner, Kevin said he was going to take a shower. I immediately and heartily seconded the motion. We laughed as we walked back together, two kids, one broad as a barn, the other skinny as a rail. Alright, I’m exaggerating a little, so sue me. Kevin actually looked like he was starting to pack on a little muscle and I admit I was jealous. Still am, I suppose. But I’ll get over it. He took his sweet time in the stalls, though. The sound of hissing hot water saturated the locker room and slowly spread into our barracks. Hey, I call it as I see it. That’s basically what we’re living in right now.

Anyways, the others came in. A good quarter or so went straight to their beds and started fiddling with their pads, having chosen not to work out, like me, for various reasons. The rest of them shuffled into the showers like the walking dead with tired smiles. Soon a chorus of cascading jets joined Kevin’s solo, causing steam to billow out the portal and into our living quarters. I wrinkled my nose in disgust as that same odor I first smelled this morning assaulted my nostrils. Like I said, I don’t like it all that much. The collective chorus of groans and moans told me just how much these men really looked forward to their showers. I can’t really blame them, I suppose. If I were covered in sweat and grime and reeking B.O. I’d probably want a shower too. Not to mention the relief the heat would give to sore and torn muscle tissue.

Then the whole barracks turned toward the showers as an unmistakable sound assaulted our ears. Music, static, voices, car screeches, and sports commentary filtered through the mist like a forgotten dream. That’s right. They have real television here. What a novelty … in the bathroom. Idiots.

The men filed out a few at a time as showers slowly cut off and TVs died. Some smiled triumphantly. Others cried because of memories invoked either of family or their pasts before being dragged into this nightmare. Then there were those silent few who just sort of glided their way past as they made their way to bed. I saw one or two of them tap something into their pads. Next thing I knew their drawers were popping open as they pulled out a gangly pair of ear buds. They plugged them in, shoved the buds in their ears, lay down on their beds and tapped something before they lay their pads on their footlockers/dressers. I could just make out a play bar. It was probably some sort of MP.3 file, most likely to relax a person as they tried to fall asleep. Either that or it had some sort of instructions to help them improve in their workouts and they were listening to pass the time before lights out. Whatever. Anyways, I curled up in my sheets as I waited for darkness to claim me, the curious buzzing of the fluorescent lights gradually lulling me to sleep. The last thing I thought I heard was the familiar click of a dresser followed by the sound of the scanner.

Someone said “… Gotta update my stats.” Then I lost all consciousness.

I um … have to go take care of something real quick. Be right back.

There, all done. The alarm system seems to be kicking in again. But it looks like the lifts are slowing down this time. They didn’t even have to go up all the way before half the people were out of bed. I guess there are some things the body learns to adapt to quickly. Oh, gross! Some of the men here are scratching their unmentionables like it’s nothing. Actually, a lot of the guys are looking a little flushed today. They rushed over to the bathrooms faster than I’ve ever seen anyone go before. I could hear the showers running and happy sighs of relief followed by guttural grunts. Probably morning stretching to loosen everything up.

Those darn TVs are on again. Are they trying to drive us up the wall? Do they seriously think that this will make me do what they want? All I can do is pretty much walk, and even that I can’t do very well for extended periods. I wish they’d just see that already and send me home. Why the scanner didn’t pick up my asthma, I have no clue. Oy, there’s that stupid smell again. Don’t these men know how to turn on a fan?

Wow. It’s been like a half hour and they’re still going in there. Well, some at least. Guess there really is such a thing as a TV addict. I think I’m gonna go talk with Kevin. See how he’s doing. I’ll turn on the audio for this one.

ACCESSING #56 AUDIO FILE 002

“Hey, Kevin. How’s it going?”

“Huh? Oh, hey Kyle. Just booting up my schedule for the day. Wanted to see what coach had signed up for me next, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know. How’re those muscles doing today?”

“Actually, a lot better. Those protein drinks really do a great job. Missed you in the showers last night.”

“Meh, didn’t need one. I wasn’t a sweaty mess like some people in this room.” (I laughed here. Kevin knows I’m not the snobby type and he soon joined me.)

“I noticed you were in bed before lights out. You aren’t trying to earn brownie points with coach and the others are you?”

“What, are you kidding? I’m just trying to survive in this place. I’d rather not die from a broken neck after these deathtraps fling us into a wall.”

“Well, at least we’re all alive and healthy. That’s what really matters right now. Things could be a lot worse for us.”

“You always look on the bright side of things, don’t you?”

“Of course. How else do you think I have the motivation to work like this? I had to forgive coach first. Trust him. You know. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“Yeah … still not gonna do that just yet. Maybe later, if he proves himself. Maybe.”

“Well he already has to me. Hate to cut this short, but coach assigned me some recordings to listen to before I go work out. We’ll talk more at breakfast, alright?”

“Fine by me, jock boy. Just be careful.” (I winked at him as he groaned and rolled his eyes.)

END TRANSMISSION

…

I didn’t see Kevin at breakfast. He wasn’t in the gym either when I checked in. I did a slow walk on a treadmill, just to get those glaring guards off my back. I did alright. Was a little hard pressed for breath by the end, but at least I didn’t have an attack. I went over to the weights, but still didn’t see Kevin, so I went back to the barracks. I was about to scan in when the doors disengaged and out stepped the very boy I’d been looking for. He blinked a few times and swayed on his feet.

“Kevin?” I asked. “You okay?”

“Huh?” he blinked again a few times before his eyes came back into focus. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s the matter, got tired of waiting for me?”

“Well yeah, it’s been nearly three hours.”

Kevin laughed. “Three hours. That’s a good one.”

“… It would be. If I were joking. Breakfast is already way past. I even walked on the treadmill a little. You missed it.”

“What?” he exclaimed, shocked.

“Yup.”

“That’s great. Working out’s good for you.” He smiled. “You’ll be making friends out of those thugs in no time.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But seriously, what were you doing?”

“I was … um … listening to a file, I think. Then next thing I know I’m sitting all alone.” He blushed. “I um … may have taken another shower, too. And maybe watched some T.V.” He rubbed the back of his head and I was assaulted by the scent of Axe body spray. I took a step back.

“Phew, too much, Kevin. Way too much.” He blushed sheepishly.

“It was either that or let the B.O. seep through. All that sweat’s making me reek like a stale side of ham.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not that bad.”

“Look, I just need to wear it okay? So drop it.” The aggression in his voice was enough to make me back off.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” The rest of that day was all silence as he worked and worked and worked some more. A scowl stood out on his face as he pushed as hard as he could, glistening in the fluorescent lights. By the time he was finished, he stomped off, leaving me behind.

“… Sorry,” I said, paling. I looked around to the others. Weights clanked, grunts sounded, heavy breathing filled the air, and every once in a while I heard a “yes, sir, Coach.” I sighed and made my way out of the gym and back to the barracks. Not like I had much else to do with all these people glaring at me. My one friend’s too angry to speak to me now anyways. Like clockwork, the men entered the room and made for the showers. A couple of them are busy posing in front of their mirrors, flexing a bicep and grinning like idiots. Then they sit and plug in their ear buds, staring at nothing. I sighed and got ready to sleep once more as the sound of music playing combined with sports commentary drifts over from the shower room. I’m not all that hungry today. I think I’ll skip dinner and just sleep. Goodnight.

 ~Day 5~

It’s quiet this morning. A few more are wearing their headphones as they sleep. Probably some of those subliminals designed to help people focus more on their goals. Maybe they’re self-help tapes. I don’t know. I’m still not feeling any better about what’s going on after yesterday. Sleep came pretty hard for me last night with those TVs echoing from the shower stalls. I wish they had some sort of a mute button or a sound proof wall or something. It’s seriously annoying. That and the men starting to admire themselves in the mirror. I mean, seriously. I understand if it’s a teenager like me, but adults? They’re grownups for crying out loud. I thought they were supposed to be past the vanity stage. Sorry for the rant.

I’m looking over at Kevin’s bed. He’s lying flat on his back, his breathing steady as he smiles. The kid actually doesn’t look half bad. He’s been getting a little more toned over the last week. No major gains yet, obviously. That’d be ridiculous. But he is getting there. Even after the whole argument yesterday, I’m glad he still has the chance to get what he wants. I wish I could.

I’m getting up for my scan now. Might as well get it over with. That, and apparently, my “code” won’t work if I don’t check myself into the scanner at least once or twice a week. In other words, no scan, no freedom. I’m sighing now as it runs over me, typing this to pass the time. It seems to be taking longer for some reason. Probably finally picking up on my asthma, at least I hope. Maybe then I can go home and I won’t have to bother Kevin again. Feels kind of tingly.

…

What Have you Done?

I had intended that inanimate story from earlier to be a one-off piece, but after receiving a comment, I think I’ve seen an opening for it to continue, though I think I’ll shift this one to the third person perspective. Please, enjoy.

That was the cry, over and over again as the target breathed shallowly. The barrel of his gun pointed directly at the man’s head. He couldn’t have been much older than his early twenties, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Whether he was a mutant, an alien, or the result of some strange supernatural event, the agency had sent Stallone to acquire him, alongside his partner. “Briggs, you got him?” Stallone asked of his partner, never allowing his eyes to stray from the man, whose head was currently in his hands as he shook it back and forth again.

A high pitched rising glissando signaled the charging in Briggs’ taser as he raised one hand to face the target. The other held a syringe. “Keep him in your sites,” Briggs said tersely. “I know what I’m doing, Briggs.” A choking stutter of a breath rose in the target as he struggled not to sob. Tears pattered against the hard wood of his table. “What have you done?” The light from the fixture overhead shone on his thin blond hair, revealing the receding hairline and the gleaming scalp beneath. A cold winter wind blew harshly against the apartment window. He had yet to move, or even to try to resist. Stallone blinked rapidly as his eyes became irritated briefly. When he’d cleared his vision, he refocused on the target. Briggs hovered next to the man, with the needle poised for insertion. His brow furrowed in concentration as his reddish-brown beard twitched from clenching his teeth. “What are you waiting for?” Stallone growled. Briggs moved slowly, imperceptibly towards the target’s neck, yet with every passing second, the movement became slower. The man’s arm began to tremble as the needle neared the skin, and his biceps and triceps strained, as if against some invisible force. “I’m ... trying,” Briggs grunted through clenched teeth. “Oh, for %#@!’s sake,” Stallone snarled. “Give it here.” He strode over and reached to grab the needle. That was when he heard the fatal pop as the taser launched. Then all he knew was pain. His muscles twitched and spasmed as the electrical current coursed through his nervous system.

Briggs’ eyes were wide with horror. “I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this!” he protested over and over, even as his hand continued to clench the trigger firmly. So caught up in his distress was he that he didn’t even notice how the plastic seeped over his skin, spreading like molasses, and then hardening into polished black metal. When he finally did notice, he dropped the needle in shock. “What the--?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” the target said as he looked up at the pair. Tears coursed down his cheeks in rivers as he watched. The light danced over his eyes, causing the gray-blue in those orbs to brighten.

Briggs clutched the offending appendage with his free arm, even as the substance continued to spread. Fabric bulked and strained as strong, well-built muscle surged into a block-like parody. “What’s ... happening?” he cried as he strained against his arm. Soon his body began to lean as the mass continued to expand and fabric began to tear. The current continued to flow as the taser writhed like a living thing. It seeped into his hand, then crawled up, never breaking the connection to the wires as two ports suddenly opened with a mechanical whirring along his forearm. “What did you do to m--?” He cried in pain as the needle he had planned to inject in his target jammed into the muscle between his shoulder and neck. 

Stallone writhed on the floor with each new electrical pulse. It seemed to run on a timer. It would sustain itself for a few seconds, then ease, and his limbs would twitch on their own as his nervous system struggle to compensate for the sudden disruption. Then, just as he was ready to act, the current would fire again, and he would be stuck right where he had been in the beginning. With each surge, his nerves would fire off all at once. And with each easing, the frazzled system would buzz and tingle, struggling to reconnect. Eventually, things became sort of ... numb. Oh, his body would still dance, like a marionette in a toddler’s hands, but he couldn’t really feel the pain so much anymore. A strange sense of apathy descended as he watched. And much to his surprise, when he blinked at something, he seemed almost to zoom in on that spot, sort of like a camera lens. He would have chuckled, had he had control of his body, a brief, humorless thing. He felt more intrigued than concerned when he locked onto the needle and followed its flight path. Another surge of electricity, and suddenly he could picture a hundred different scenarios at once for where the needle would land. Number 56 proved correct. He suspected it might. After all, trajectory was his specialty. He blinked again, and the brief whir and click of a mechanical shutter greeted his ears as a great red targeting reticle appeared around the edges of his vision. The next current laid him out flat as a board, his face frozen into a grim-set line.

Briggs heaved as he hunched forward, resting his new titanic metal hand on the floor. His shoulders snapped and cracked as they broadened, shredding the fibers of his shirt apart to reveal the currents of energy surging under his skin like circuitry, before the soft substance hardened into a bulky carapace. The wound from the needle spurted briefly, and then the current reached it, and the needle pushed in. Briggs shuddered. Everything felt so strange. A sort of fogginess filled his brain as he clenched and unclenched that piece of him in time to ... what was it? Some sort of--EXECUTE--command? For some reason, it felt so good, when that part of him went off. Why did it ... feel good? Wasn’t he ... supposed to be ... doing ... something? COMMAND PROMPT: EXECUTE SEDATION DELIVERY DIAGNOSTIC

A slow mechanical whirr, not unlike the sound of a hydraulic cylinder, sounded in his ears. His body vibrated, and pleasure sang through his brain as he locked onto the two silos that had opened on top of his shoulders. He shuddered again as twin belts began to move in those silos, cycling the ammunition, a familiar set of needles. 1 Chunk 2 Click 3 Chunk 4 Click 5 Chunk 6 Click

... It felt so good to count them. Rigid. Orderly. All must be in order. The whirring sounded again as he turned his head to the target on the floor. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. The current went on its own. He watched, unblinking, as the power jumped through his cable delivery system. His optic units cycled as they zoomed in on the target he had snared. Stallone shuddered as his body jumped again. He heard the popping detonation as the seams burst apart on Briggs’ legs. He watched as cold, hard metal replaced weak flesh. Knees and joints were replaced with intricate metallic counterparts. Feet burst free from the confines of the changing man’s shoes, only to reveal the thick metallic boot of the mechanoid he was rapidly becoming. Briggs’ eyes flashed a bright neon blue, and the sound of mechanical servos at work filled the air as the almost-robot rose to its feet, even as the needles that had once been one single item cycled through on their ammo belts. Ammo. The energy coursed through Stallone’s body once more. This time, the power spread over his flesh, just as it had Briggs. Stallone’s body practically exploded out of his clothes as his torso expanded, forcing his back up, and up, and up. His neck was consumed by the metal as his face became a convex sphere. The harsh creak of metal sounded as he groaned into an upright position, his body gleaming a sleek silver as his arms expanded into well-armored silos. Port after port opened to reveal a legion of gun barrels. His head hunched forward as the massive mound his back had become opened to reveal a silo filled with heat-seeking and anti-tank missiles. His eyes were gradually replaced with two bright red LED units covered in a red blast-proof polymer designed to shield his ocular units from damage. His mouth became little more than a flat line that flashed with red light as his speakers came on line. He slammed his hands into the ground and began to lift himself as his legs bent into an artificial crouch. Servos zipped and whirred as his waist spun left and right, testing the new system integration, while the rest of his lower parts expanded to support the weight of his hull. He felt no regrets as his weak organic heart slowed to a crawl, shuddered weakly, and then gave up the ghost. In a matter of nanoseconds, the pathetic organ had been remade into his true heart, a power core that supplied him with the vast stores of energy he required to fulfill his function. Fulfill ... its function. QUERY: WHAT IS THIS UNIT’S FUNCTION?

The new bot rose slowly to its feet. It towered over the other unit as its scanners passed over the room. It detected no current threats. But ... threats to what? It ran its logic processors over this new query as it watched its brother unit retract its stun prongs. Then its ocular units locked onto the organic that looked on them with an expression the unit did not quite understand. The last dim spark of its fleeting humanity whispered the word, haunted.  And suddenly, the unit knew its function. “PRIMARY FUNCTION IDENTIFIED: SERVE AND PROTECT DESIGNATED USER.” The ground shook with every step the combat unit took. It watched as the red organic hair melted into shiny red metal over its brother unit’s face to add a menacing element to its appearance. The material up top rose into rigid spikes that arced with energy. The hinges on its jaw creaked as it opened to reveal a speaker with several interlocking metal pieces along the inside. A swift scan revealed their primary function was to act as an amplifier and a method to control the direction the sound would travel. The system deployed briefly, then retracted once more as the unit finally finished cycling through its silos and lowered them again to blend seamlessly into its armor. “PRIMARY FUNCTION ACKNOWLEDGED. DESIGNATED USER IDENTIFIED. STUN UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WILLBREAKER, READY TO SERVE.” It strode in a rigid march to stand before its designated user and snapped to attention, its vibrant blue ocular units flashing as it completed its action. “AWAITING ORDERS.”

The massive combat unit lumbered over, its ponderous legs smashing into the ground as it joined its brother unit. “HEAVY COMBAT UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WORLDSHAKER, READY TO SERVE.”

The man sunk to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. The two units remained silent and unmoving as their new master cried himself out. Such organic things were beyond their comprehension. His vitals were all normal, so there was no need for them to intervene. Eventually, the fit passed, and their designated user looked up into their ocular units. “Why were you trying to kidnap me?” he asked in a tired sigh as his shoulders slumped and he fished out a tissue from a pocket to clear his nasal passages. “DOES NOT COMPUTE. PRIMARY FUNCTION IS TO SERVE AND PROTECT,” the two units said together. Their user sighed. “Okay, then, let me try this another way. Where is your point of origin? Where did you come from, before you came to me?” The two units stopped for a moment. The lights that helped to make up their “faces” flashed as they processed the request. Then the lights ignited completely as the search completed itself. “POINT OF ORIGIN FOUND,” they said together. Their user stared at them with narrowed, puffy bloodshot eyes. “Take me there.”

Real Men’s Journal: Part 1

~Day 1~

What the heck is going on? I woke up this morning to a blaring alarm that literally threw me out of bed. Seriously. A hydraulics system lifted it up to the point where I was thrown off. Let me start from the beginning. I’m your average high school student. Never caused a problem, never raised a fuss, just stuck to myself. I like to write, create artwork, read, and I even dabble a little in the occasional play or musical. What I did to deserve this, I’ll never know.

The last thing I remember is Summer Vacation starting. It was the last day of school. Freshmen year was finally over and it was time to celebrate. So I got onto my computer and did a little gaming. I’d just gotten the new patch for W.o.W. so I was testing it out. After a couple hours of gaming, I got onto the chat with my friends and talked with them for a while. We wrote some stories, role played a little, the usual thing, you know? Then I just went to bed like I always do. I remember settling under my covers and blacking out. Then … I woke up in this nightmare of a place.

I looked around to see that I was in some kind of barracks. Beds lined the walls. Blaring lights gleamed down from their tracks in the ceiling, practically blinding me. I looked around to see a variety of boys and men ranging from as early as middle school to as late as mid-twenties. They all looked like they’d had a horrible night. Then again, who wouldn’t look bad if they’d just been woken violently and shoved out of bed? I probably looked just as horrible. Everyone was asking what was going on, who everyone else was, pretty much like any movie scene you’d watch portraying a kidnapping scenario. A few people even got to the point of being violent. That was when they showed up.

I swear, these guys must be taking steroids or something. They were HUGE! A whole squadron of them in dark skintight shirts and pants. A strange sort of logo stood emblazoned on their chests. The biggest one in a referee’s outfit nodded his head to the others and they immediately broke up the squabbling, shoving the contenders apart like two stubborn sheets of paper in a textbook. And the way they laughed when some of us fell down, I swear, it was like those jerks Damien and Bryan back in school. They were the gods of the football team. Don’t know what I did to deserve it, but they decided to make me their personal nerd. In short, they make fun of me, I shoot back, they beat me up, repeat. I immediately distrusted these boys.

The guy introduced himself as Coach Abrams and said we were going to be his responsibility for the duration of our stay here. Each of us had been specially chosen to go through something he called “The Process,” whatever that means. I doubt it’s anything good. We were informed that clothing would be provided for us and could be found inside of our dressers next to our beds. We were instructed to get dressed as quickly as possible and make our way to the mess hall. We would be guided by our lovely little enforcer friends to make sure everyone got there “safely.” Good way to keep us from running too. The jerks. At least the tech was cool. They run on some sort of speech recognition software. I order it to open and it listens to my voice. What I found there though … didn’t exactly make me too happy. My reaction was something along these lines.

“No. Hell no. You are not making me wear this crap.” At least that’s what I thought in my mind. The stupid drawers opened to reveal a pair of white briefs, some baggy red shorts, and a T-shirt with a number on the back and front left breast. Mine read 56. It was bad enough having to deal with this kind of stuff in school with the teachers. Now they want us to wear this gym stuff on a regular basis? Still, the imposing meathead looking at me with folded arms left me little choice. (Seriously, are those footballs he has stuffed under that muscle tee?) I slid them on, albeit reluctantly, and then ordered the footlocker beneath to open. Much like the first drawer, it verified my voice patterns and registered me as its current user. Does that mean there were others before me? What is this mysterious process?

A set of New Balance sneakers waited for me to wear with a pair of simple, unmarked white socks. At least they looked like New Balance. They didn’t have the logo though. Their design was unremarkable at best. All white. No individual flare. Seriously, these guys have no style. At least they took my wide foot size into consideration when they got these for me. Pretty high number too based on the feel of them. Designed for good support. I think they had some sort of orthotic insert or something like that. How they knew that about me though … that creeped me out a bit. They must have done some heavy duty research into us.

I looked to see everyone else wearing a set of clothes exactly like mine fit to their sizes. They were all pretty baggy. Some were pressed out loosely by heavy guts. Mine was reasonably smaller, so it didn’t push out as much, but I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stud by any means with my poor vision, asthma, and getting sick every time I try to so much as run it’s very difficult for me to try anything useful in the area of personal fitness. Still … the others are marked with numbers as well. Is that what they plan to do to us from now on? Designate us by numbers? It would seem so based on what the coach told us at the mess hall.

Once we finished getting dressed we were taken to the entrance of our little home. A large locking mechanism disengaged with a scan of some sort from the coach and his muscled followers. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be retinal or some sort of code hidden on their uniforms somewhere. Maybe it was a little bit of both? I don’t know. It will warrant further investigation later. Though based on current attempts, it appears that we won’t be able to stage a breakout any time soon. The lock seems to be on a timer for “newcomers,” or so the system computer tells me when I ask to leave “after hours.” Plus it probably registers whenever a user accesses its coding and notifies the main compound and security offices. At least that’s how I’d do it if I were to design a system like this.

Anyways, we were taken on a “grand tour” of the compound. We seem to be in some sort of secluded forest. There are several walls a good two stories high with patrols of burly meatheads just like our escorts. They wore some kind of special armor complete with high tech weaponry. Though their uniforms were more of a silvery white, rather than the dark colors our escorts wore. I had never seen anything like it before. Others held what looked like tranquilizer guns, complete with ammo belts strapped to their torsos. Fortunately, we weren’t going anywhere near the wall. I’d rather not try to test what would happen if an escape attempt were made that way. We remained compliant, though my new big muscled “friend” held on to my arm just to be on the safe side.

The doors to the mess hall require a print to open. Now I understand why our muscular friends kept such tight hold on us. It was to force those who would not comply to press forward with their registration into the system. I happened to be one of those problem children. If I wasn’t about to bow down to those two jerks at school, I wasn’t about to bow down here. The scary part is the coach actually approved. When we got into the hall he informed us the compound was inescapable and in a remote location. So even if we did somehow manage to escape, we’d starve before we could reach help. He mocked us by making air quotations as he said it, like we were a bunch of babies. Somebody really needs to put this guy in his place. But for right now, it seems that brawn rules here. We aren’t organized, we aren’t strong, and frankly, even if we were unified, I don’t think we have the numbers to pull anything off at the moment.

So after a hearty breakfast, of which the coach decided to “reward” us fighters by giving us first spots in line, we made our way to the gym. I had just finished a nice breakfast of eggs with toast and a glass of water before my overly muscled, dimwitted pal picked me up and dragged me away. I do have to admit, their fitness facilities were state of the art. The levels on the compound stretched for miles underground from what I could tell on the map at the observation desk when we checked in. It seems that here, you check in with a scan of your number on your shirt. Uniforms required. How typical. Apparently, the farther along we get in “the process,” the more levels and buildings we can access. It would seem that the upper facilities are for show. The main body of this concentration camp appears to be underground.

After the basics were finished, Abrams took us back to the barracks. My overly muscled friend “politely” escorted me to stand next to my bunk, which I now realized had been personalized with a number as well. Well, as personalized as a number can get anyways. Abrams insists that we call him coach. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Anyways, they had us stand in front of our footlockers. A giant rod with two prongs like a Forklift suddenly jutted out from slots in the floor. They sparked and a blue field sprung between. We were commanded to stand perfectly still. I did my best to resist, but once again, my escort was there to “apply a firm hand.” I had no choice in the end but to stand there and let the machine do its work. It turned out to be some sort of scanner. This kind of tech is supposed to be impossible. Life signs, bio feeds, the whole shebang appeared on a screen that jutted itself out from the wall above the drawer and footlocker. It tingled as it passed over, making me shudder.

Once the process was complete, a drawer jutted out from the dresser portion of my little footlocker and the holographic display monitor faded to become a mirror with projection functions included. Inside the drawer I found this journal. The name on the cover is a little weird though. “Real Men’s Journal: Tales of the Journey.” I thought it was some sort of book at first, but when I opened it up, the tech I found was unbelievable. I had holo-screen displays, a physical screen, a tablet mode, laptop mode, the works. This thing was, and I suppose is, state of the art. I’m using the personal journal function for now. It appears all others have been locked for the time being. I’m guessing I’ll be allowed to gain access to them the further along I go in “the process.” Cue eye roll. Like that’s ever going to happen. Anyways, I put it aside briefly so Abrams could show us the showers and changing rooms here. Hah! Changing room. That’s a good one. Try locker room. At least it doesn’t reek of B.O.

It seems our dressers have a range of options available to us. My “journal” has given me a view of the specs for what I can and cannot request. They have a variety of hygiene products including towels, deodorant, soap, whatever we may need. They even have shaving equipment for those of us who need to. Fortunately, I haven’t reached that point in my development yet. I … I’d hoped my father would be the one to teach me. Now I’m not sure if I’ll ever even get the chance to see him again.

I just got a notification here on my little tablet. It seems we have a curfew. Lights out will happen soon. I’m already dressed in bed clothes. They’re just your basic kind of wear. Sweat pants and a regular Tee. Kind of like my old ones from home. But no, they had to take those from us too while we were gone. Now my new number is labeled on my leg, my chest, and my back. Great. Based on the locked app titles I can read, it seems this place is focused on personal fitness. I have a feeling they won’t like me very much considering my health issues. Ah well. The sooner they see they can’t use me, the sooner they might send me home. Goodnight for now. I’ll write again later.

-Sincerely, Kyle Matthews

 ~Day 2~

Okay. So it turns out my journal here has both a writing function and a recording function. Heck, it even has video. I’ll probably try using a combination of the three to portray just what I’m going to be put through here. If I ever escape, I’ll need evidence of my claims to prove I’m not crazy.

So I woke up this morning with an annoying headache. Had difficulty getting up out of bed, but of course that lovely hydraulics system had no problem kicking me out on time. I seriously have to see if I can’t find a way to hack this system some time. I’m no expert, but maybe with this piece of tech I’ll stand a chance. We’ll see. For now I’m going to have to play along with my hosts.

Just got a message. Apparently, we can do that with our tablets. Some sort of schedule with information and requirements. I remember Abrams mentioning something like this about a schedule. Guess now we know what “the process” is going to be about. They want us to be stronger, grow bigger, be healthier. Not such a bad idea really if it weren’t for the fact that I bumped into one of their “successful recruits.” His number was 86. He claimed to have been brought in a while ago with a previous batch of “recruits” like us. The guy was so spacy, I could hardly hold a civilized conversation with him. Any time I asked him about what he did before, he usually avoided the subject. At least after my first go with him. He didn’t really start until that coach walked up behind us. … Strange. Still, the guy was your typical meathead. Tall, blonde hair, vacant green eyes, over six feet tall, and fairly well built. The only difference I could make out between this guy and the rest of his kind was he wasn’t so huge muscle wise. He still had some brains too. I’ve included an audio file so you can hear the conversation for yourselves when you get this. Best part though is I can include a little extra narration on a separate note display in parenthesis, so what you can’t see, I can describe to you when you view this.

ACCESSING #56 AUDIO FILE 001

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” (I could hear this guy stalking me a mile away. Seriously.)

“…”

“What? Giving me the cold shoulder?”

“…”

“Not cool, man. Not cool.” (He took a chair at this point, as you can tell with the screech you just heard. Metal legs.)

“Look, no offense, but I got kidnapped from my home, dragged into this place, and now you people are expecting me to be a perfect little peon and just do as I’m told after all that?” (Hey, I was pissed. Wouldn’t you be, if this happened to you?)

“Bro, it’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that!” (That clunking sound with a splash was my cup of water. I can’t drink juice. Makes me nauseated. But it sloshed all over my toast and my cereal. Not fun.) “Now look what you made me do.” (Naturally, I glared at this point.)

“… I’m not one of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Pshah. Could’ve fooled me.” (He frowned at this, of course.)

“Look. I was pulled into this place, just like you were, okay? I didn’t like it at first, but … well, look at me. I’m bigger and stronger than I ever thought I could be. This place made it possible.”

“And you think that should make me happy?”

“Well, … yes. It can do the same for you.”

“And what if I don’t want that?” (This was real cute. He furrowed his brow at this one, like he couldn’t wrap his head around why someone wouldn’t want to be a big thug.)

“Well … I uh … don’t know. I … ummmm …” (Here’s the weird part. Hear that? He started groaning, almost like he was struggling thinking. Can’t blame him. I doubt he had so much as one original thought in his life.)

“What did you do before you were brought here?” (He perked up after that, at least for a little bit.)

“Went to school. I was in college.”

“Sports scholarship?”

“No … yes … um … I can’t really remember, honestly. Just sort of been focusing on working out and getting bigger. I can check my journal, if you want. It’s been a while since I dusted the old girl off, but I put in my stats from when I started.” (Hear that? I spat. I was pretty disgusted at this poor attempt to befriend me. I mean, come on. How transparent can you be? The guy had to be some sort of spy or something. Still, I humored the man.)

“Don’t worry about it. What are some things you like to do?” (He really jumped on this one. You should’ve seen his face. He lit up like a firecracker on the fourth of July.)

“Bench press, cardio, squats, curls, pull ups. You know, work out stuff. I love to work out. I really love to work out.” (It was weird. When he said that, his gaze turned a little more … well, empty, I guess, almost like he was talking to someone else.) “Feeling that pump, that blood flowing through your veins and flexing … flexing and posing.”

“Okayyy. Hey. Hey, hello?”

“Mmmm … and the muscle. Massive … massive … manly … bulge … bulging …”

“Hey! Snap out of it!” (I snapped my fingers in front of his face here. That still didn’t work. It was … creepy. He stood up and started flexing his muscles while he talked, straining against his spandex uniform as best he could. I didn’t have a name to call him by, so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I threw my water at his face and shouted his number.)

“86! Wake up!” (He spluttered a little, but then he came to again.)

“What …? What was I doing?”

“Flexing and posing like a fool. You kept saying the same stuff over and over, like you were some sort of tape recorder.”

“I … I was?” (I could see fear in his eyes now. Something was definitely going on with him. He mumbled to himself, but I couldn’t hear what he had to say. Something along the lines of impossible or oh no. Like I said, couldn’t make it out. Neither could the recording. He sprung on me pretty quick though.)

“Quick. Ask me something else about before.”

“Um … okay. What were some of your favorite hobbies?”

“I … I liked to …” (He groaned for a moment. You can hear that here.) “Draw! Yes, I was an anime artist. I … I drew all kinds of artwork. Even had an internship lined up. It was … I was, like, totally stoked. Anatomy was one of my *groan* specialties. I’d draw all kinds of people. Tall, skinny, short, fat, muscled. Yeah … muscled warriors. Real men.” (He started breaking off again here, so I had to head him off.)

“Hey! The internship. Tell me more about the internship.”

“I-internship?”

“Yes. You know, for the drawing you were doing. Where were you going to work?” (He looked at me kind of funny at that point. It was like he was trying to remember, but couldn’t believe what I was asking.)

“Jackson, what’re you doing over here? Shouldn’t you be with the others at practice?” (Another burly coach walked up and patted the man on the back. When contact was made, he shuddered and relaxed. It was like all the fear just … drained away. He was so calm. Unnaturally so. His shoulders just sort of slumped and his eyes … they turned blank again, like when he was mumbling before. I shuddered at that. He smiled vacantly. Then it turned into a cocky sneer.)

“Sorry, Coach. Guess I got a little distracted with the newbie. Wanted to welcome him in, ya know?” (He flexed his muscles and the coach just smiled. But that look. It was sinister somehow.)

“Good man.” (That sound was the coach smacking Eighty Six, or Jackson as he called him, on the butt. He laughed afterwards. And … I swear I heard the spandex in 86’s suit straining, almost like he was growing. But that’s impossible. It must’ve just been his muscles shifting as he walked away. Still, his parting comment scared the crap out of me.)

“Thanks, Coach. Looking forward to seeing you on the field, lil’bro.” (He winked at me after that. And that look. It was just … well, it was cocky. Like Damien and Brian. And I mean exactly like them. What’s going on here?)

(The coach chuckled here.) “Heh, he’s one of our best recruits. Really took to the field like a champ. Started training, and he never looked back.”

“… Right. Is that what we’re supposed to become?” (The man just sneered at me and winked while he wagged a finger.)

“Now, now. That’d go and spoil the surprise. You’ve got a fun time ahead of you, kid. Enjoy it.” (He laughed before he left. The door shut behind him and I shut off the recorder.)

END TRANSMISSION

The rest of today went off pretty much without a hitch. We got changed into our clothes, checked in to the gym, and started the regiment. Some of us did anyways. I opted to walk around the facilities and watch the others working out. See if I could find any other pertinent information. Unfortunately, I had no such luck. Abrams came in with a few of his helpers and was only too happy to complement those trying. He pointed out how to improve, unlocked a trainer app to direct the process and aid when errors occurred, you know. The machines even included a mount for our journals to connect to the system and display our results. Pretty high tech stuff. I wasn’t interested, of course, but he just smiled and said I could take my time. He unlocked the apps anyway, just to give me the chance “When [I’m] ready.” As if.

I found a few like-minded individuals, but the main one I seem to have gotten a good relationship with is Kevin. Nice kid. He’s from the Middle School, about to enter his freshman year. Kind of mousy in his appearance. Wears glasses, pretty thin, you know, the bookish type like me. He has really thin messy brown hair. Just sort of lets it hang around his head. Said he was due for a haircut soon before all this happened. I believe him. You should’ve seen the way his hair stuck up this morning before he showered. Cowlick central. Of course, I doubt mine was much better. We both got a couple laughs out of it. He decided he’d give this “process” a chance though. Said he always wanted to be big and strong, just that he never had the time to work out. The way he flinched I have a pretty good idea what really kept him from trying. Still, he must have a high metabolism or something to be that thin and not have to work out much. Lucky dog. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes. He has a chance to get stronger at least. As for me … well you already know about my problems, so there’s no need to go back there again.

He was pretty tired, after all was said and done, but he seemed happy enough. I’m glad the little guy has a chance. He deserves the right to kick those bullies’ asses, so other people like him can choose their path without judgement and without the pressure. If those piles of muscle would just remember where they first started out, maybe this world wouldn’t be such a messed up place in school. Well, time for lights out again. Probably going to have another rough night tonight. Oh well. At least I won’t be sore tomorrow morning. Some of the others here are going to be in a lot of pain, I think. Night.

Sincerely, Kyle Matthews

Daddy Roo����

New Writer on the Block

Hey, all. I’m Omni, also known as Omnikitsune on Furaffinity.net. I’m a writer who’s absolutely obsessed with transformation fiction. I particularly enjoy muscle growth and hypnotic themes, but I also enjoy other types, such as animal, and am willing to experiment with new ones, like inanimate, etc. For those of you who find this blog, I hope you enjoy the work that I post. Some of it will come from previous works that I’ve written, and others will be fresh material.

That being said, I do have some little rules I’d like to go over with people.

I may be willing to take requests, but if I do, it will likely be shorter posts. I love doing a properly developed story, but I do have real life work that I need to take care of, too, after all, so I won’t always be able to be so detailed on scenery and character development, etc. Suggestions are also welcome, if people have prompts, but I don’t guarantee I’ll be able to get to them all or even be willing to do them all.

Rule one may be changed, if I get enough subscribers who wish to see me write content for them to use full time. That being said, I would require an alternate means of support. So, any donations to Ko-fi or commissions would be appreciated. I don’t use Patreon, since I don’t really have enough followers to make it worth it at the moment. Kofi link will be below. If you wish to discuss commissions with me, you can send me a private message, and I can give you a quote. http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

I do not do adult content. I will go mature, and occasionally I may use more crude or crass things as certain characters may require in my work (Perhaps push the envelope), but I will not write graphic sex scenes. Please respect this rule when you send me requests or commission me. There doesn’t have to be sex for a story to be great or fit a trope.

I may occasionally ask for some advice or help with parts of tumblr, since I’m new to this particular blogosphere. I hope you guys will understand and be patient with me as I learn. Any advice you can give would be greatly appreciated on those topics as I ask them.

Thanks for reading, and I look forward to joining the tumblr community.

~Omni

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.

I found this hilarious, especially considering how pretty much every post I’ve read from these people has been nothing but appropriate, if extremely punny/corny.

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