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Real Men’s Journal Part 10

DOCTOR’S LOG

~February 28th~

It’s been nearly a month. Subject 56 has changed drastically. He’s grown in size and mass to the point of being truly “swole.” He’s been positively stacked with muscle and his penis has grown to the point where it’s remarkable he can manage to put together so much as a sentence. The boy is constantly swearing and cursing up a storm, repeating the words “Fuck” and “Damn” over and over again. Every time he speaks a trigger word, the easier it is for him to fall into trance. He’ll be lost soon enough and then I can move on.

Statistics as of last scan:

Height:  5’9

Weight:  290 lbs

Subject Response Rate:  90%

Subject Rank:  Advanced

Recommended Course of Action:  Advance to next level. Transfer to intermediary.

As for me, I’ve made some serious gains over the last month, and Coach Stone has encouraged me every step of the way. I’m grateful for the lights now. They help me to focus. I doubt I’d be able to get my work done if they were fixed. Viewing the statistics, watching 56 transform and convert, it’s been very … informative. I believe I have a better understanding of the language our subjects use now and occasionally, I use it around my colleagues as a joke. A few of them laugh, but the only one who really seems to get the humor is Coach Stone. We continue to meet on a regular basis for three hours a day at the gym while I work out. My musculature has improved vastly and my dates have been through the roof. I guess it’s true what they say. Working out is an excellent way to improve testosterone production. My sex life has been nothing but aces since I started. I’ve never felt better, and I’ve never been bigger. I am loving the new me. Goodbye, Doctor Seroyan. Say hello to Big Rookie.

 ~March 30th~

56 continues to grow. He’s gotten so huge. I’ve made it a habit to review his journals every day now. The way he slowly changes is so captivating. He started off so small, so out of shape. Now he’s essentially a god. Cocky, confident, boastful, and slowly becoming obsessed with sports, physical fitness, muscles, and of course, his bulge. Watching his hologram progress projections in sync to his entries as well as seeing the videos from security footage and the recorder in his tablet have become my new hobby. That, and spending some more time with Stone.

My own personal clothing has grown rather snug with the gains I’ve been making. Since the lab coats are specially tailored, along with my other garments for work, I have little choice but to shift to my work out gear when I can. I doubt it will go unnoticed, but I don’t have much choice. I have to go. It’s time for my work out again. Coach Stone and I have agreed we’re going to try to extend a little longer. I can see why our subjects love the gym so much. The rush of endorphins is incredibly pleasurable. So much so sometimes that I even find myself dreaming of the gym, working out, and continuing to grow. The ladies love my new muscles and increased masculinity.

…

So do I.

 ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Phase 2. Entered. Hard to think. People posing so much. FLEXing. I feel so small compared to them. I want to join them, but I can’t. Not after what COACH did. They’re trying to wear me down. I … can’t let them. Have to remember. Have to … think back. Back home. School. Classes. Man, they were so boring. And I was so weak. A fucking pussy. But … I liked being like that, didn’t I? Did I? It’s been so long. Can’t even count the days anymore. Who has time though? Got so much work to do. Worked so hard at school. Worked like a fucking dog. Worked and worked and worked out. Felt so good. Feels so good. Working out is good.

Damn that hissing! I’m not one of them! I won’t give in. Won’t let myself get SWOLE. Even if I am a fucking stud. Hell, I’m hung like a horse. Like a fucking bull. Feels so fuckin good with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. People coming up to me. Callin’ me bro. Yeah … lil’bro. We’re bros …

Damn it, we’re not!

… But we are. I’m so confused. It hurts my head. But I can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop touching myself. I’m fucking ripped. Look at me. Look at us. So HUGE. So SWOLE. FLEXing. Posing. So good. But … I was … thinking about … something …

…

Game time. Report. Go to showers. 56 Reporting. Must March. Must Report. Yes, sir.

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~April 12th~

I’ve been having such strange dreams lately. I don’t remember them well. Something about pushing. I remember a heavy weight. Grunts. A sense of satisfaction. I felt … almost mindless. I think there was a voice of some kind in the back pressing me on. I … I don’t know.

For reasons they won’t tell me, my superiors have had me confined to the base. I am having great difficulty dealing with that since my romantic life was doing so well, and it helped to relieve certain urges that are now building up in my system without release. I’ve lodged a complaint, but have yet to receive a response. The only things I can do now are observe 56’s progress and work out.

I’ve taken to referring to Coach Stone by his title, much like the other test subjects. My reasoning behind it, however, is a bit more logical. Since he has decided to dub me “Rookie,” it seems only fair that I call him “Coach,” much like the relationship between a boy and his trainer. I’m rather glad to report I took him by surprise when I said it. We both had a good laugh over it as I got to work on my routine. It’s a great joke: a nickname for a nickname. I’m up to five hours now in the gym. Time goes by so fast. It’s hard to stop. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to.

I think I’ll see about extending my hours again.

56 has been upgraded to Phase Two in The Process. “Coach” made the unfortunate miscalculation of starting into the desire to be a football jock too soon. He neglected to look into the boy’s, well, I guess I can’t call him a boy anymore. Let’s go with strapping young man’s history. It would appear that before he was recommended and brought into the program, Number 1 and Number 5 decided to act on the bullying program instilled in their subconscious as football jocks, which we use as standard cover for our operatives to fit in. The High Schools are so judgmental and cliquey that a living stereotype blends perfectly. Unfortunately, this bullying has led to a great aversion to the sport in the subject at a subconscious level. It will take some time before the desire to play takes root, I fear, though being around fellow members appears to be helping him in the long run.

The close proximity to greater muscle excites the subject and pulls him into a hypnotic stupor which allows the subliminals we play on the speakers every day to have greater effect. That combined with the trigger words we’ve installed in him will soon have him towing the line again. He’s already adopted the others in his new barracks as “bros,” and they have adopted him in kind. The command to watch sports and follow reinforcement protocol is also intact and he has followed it militantly with his brothers. Even as he fell in line, I watched as he gained an extra two inches in height while matching stride. His pre-programmed arousal only added to his euphoria and sense of displacement from his former self. Even if he claims otherwise, the subconscious desire to conform, to fit in, to be the same, to belong, is strong in every high school student. It is strong in him. I watched as his genitals expanded, while they marched in unison. While he is not yet at their level, he will soon catch up. Soon he will match in hair style, in weight count, in competitive nature, in muscle mass, and, of course, in I.Q.

Here is a recording of their transcript. Watching them as they filed in was quite the experience. Of course, I did make sure to include filters in the cameras to preserve dignity. It’s part of company policy.

ACCESSING PHASE 2 CONFORMITY CAMP CAMERAS

A group of boys line up in files and prepare to make their way to the showers. One is shorter than the rest with shaggy dark brown hair. As each file forward, they approach the camera and a light blue light surrounds them as they are scanned. A door opens, and they pass through. Eventually, this shorter boy walks up and stands inside as the entrance seals shut. His jaw is square and his eyes are open, staring obediently ahead as he spreads his legs, exposing his erection while he stands at attention.

“Identification?” a female voice inquires.

“Kyle Matthews,” the boy replies.

“Identification?”

“Kyle Matthews.”

“Please state registered identification.”

“Ky–”

“Please state registered identification.”

“… Number 56.”

“Voice identification imprint confirmed. Initiating scan.” The light blue light flashes up and down over the boy as he stands there, unblinking. His pupils contract as his erection presses further against his pants. His brow grows slightly more prominent as the hair along the ridges becomes bushier. “Confirmed. Player Number 56. On track.”

“Player Number 56. On track,” he mumbled back and shuddered as a smile crossed his face. A new door hissed open as he passed into the locker room and the camera angle shifts to the inside. He approaches a locker where another scanner waits. The shower room is cavernous and from the upper vantage point, multiple men stand side by side as they look into the digital eyes on the metal surfaces. No benches are anywhere in sight. The room slowly becomes more filled as the systematic hissing of the entry doors repeat rhythmically. More men march into the room at a measured pace. No one speaks. No one interacts. They just file and wait in front of the lockers. When everyone has arrived, the men turn as one body to the red lenses that stare back at them from the seamless metal before them. A large, bold number identifies which portion they are meant to stand before.

“Welcome, subject players. Identify.” As one, the men stare at the lens and announce their numbers simultaneously.

“56.” He flexes in front of the lens as others perform similar actions. A red beam fires into his eyes, scanning his retinas as his pupils dilate, then contract to pinpricks. “Gotta get swole. Massive, manly bulge,” he says in unison with the others. The beam disengages as a musical chirp sounds, followed by a loud clunk as the lock is undone on the locker unit and the metal hisses open. Unabashed, the subject proceeds to disrobe with the other men as he stows his clothing in the locker and takes the towel, shampoo, and soap provided. As one man, they turn and file towards the stalls with only their jockstraps left.

“Gotta catch the game. Can’t miss. Too important.” These and other snatches are caught on the camera being muttered by various men as they continue to file toward their stalls. A clouded glass door descends over their stall entrances after they disrobe and casually toss their jock straps to the side.

The sound of flickering screens turning on is heard as the sound of static surges through the air. It soon clears to a more bell-like tone. A calm, deep, smooth voice is heard.

“I want you to relax. Just sit down, and relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. So deep. So smooth, so relaxing. Just listen … and sit … and relax.” The silent whirr of machinery is heard as several dark shapes rise slowly behind the clouded glass. As one, the sound of shifting weight and slapping feet is heard. Flashes between cameras show the distorted shapes of the hulking men sitting on the shadowy shapes that rose. The camera then returns to stall 56. This distorted shape is still standing.

“I … don’t understand. Where is the game?”

“So calm. So relaxed. Just happy to sit … and listen … and relax as my voice takes you deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Until you are fully seated. Fully relaxed.”

“But … the game …” The form is trembling where he stands.

“Your legs are feeling heavy. So very … very tired. Even now, they want to rest. Want to relax. Just as you want to relax. Relax and listen. Listen and relax. As my voice grows stronger, clearer. It’s all you want to listen to. All you want to hear. Everything else grows less and falls away. Falling away. Just as you are falling. Falling into your chair. Falling into relaxation. Falling into peace. Falling into a warm, happy place. Falling and letting go as you sit. Falling into trance.” A chorus of mumbles echo around the showers, responding to the promptings, affirming them.

“I … I feel … heavy … so heavy … legs … tired …”

“And as you sit, and rest, you feel perfectly at peace. So glad to just listen and rest. To sit and rest. To listen and sit. To sit feels good. To listen feels good. So good, so restful, so peaceful. Just listening to my voice and letting go. Listen and sit. Listen and rest. Listen and sit and obey. Falling deeper and deeper. Listening more and more. You want to listen. You want to obey. To obey your legs as they say to sit. To obey the voice that makes you aware of what your body wants. Of what you want. And you know it’s the truth. You know that you want it. So sit. And listen. And obey.”

The figure in stall 56 has entered into a crouch and is trembling above the shadow. “S—so tired. I … I can’t. Can’t … have to …” A heavy thud is heard as the shape falls onto the shadowy chair. “I listen … feels good to listen. Sit. Listen. Relax. I follow. Yes …”

END TRANSMISSION

What follows is a series of continuous hypnotic dialogue as they are slowly converted to match the personality and body type we wish them to take. In that session alone, Number 56 grew to a full six foot three. He also consented to a haircut, calling the “fucking mop on my fuckin head a fucking disgrace.” Subject has clearly reached mesomorph status and is still growing. Body fat content has dropped to eight percent. His muscle has grown at an astounding rate since the treatment took place. The boys chant and sing together on a regular basis about their “MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.”

Odd … why did I use all caps? Perhaps a computer error? I mean, they are BIGGER. There it goes again. Why must I emphasize with capitals like that? The only time I see that is in the boys’ journals. But I’m clean. My scan said so. It must be the computer’s fault somehow. I’ll make a call in to the I.T. people tomorrow about it. After my workout with COACH.

Mmmm … Can’t wait to get my PUMP on. It just feels so right in the gym. Helps me work off some of that tension from being stuck on base, too. COACH just makes it all go away when I LISTEN. When I LISTEN to him, I can just let it all go. I LISTEN to COACH and just let it all GROW. Mmmm … flickering lights. Love em. Going off. Making me feel BIG. BIGGER is better. BUFFER is TOUGHER. COACH is calling. Time to work out. Gotta get SWOLE. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

 ACCESSING NUMBER 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Been a week now … I think?

Music. Pounding in my head. Crashing. Thrashing. Bashing. Tackling. Grunting.

So much fighting. Wrestling. …I want to join. But not ready yet.

Feeling so big. SWOLE. Not enough though. Still smaller. Too small.

Been eatin’ a lot. Workin out a lot. Just workin’ ya know?

Easy to let go that way. Easier to listen. Easier to get SWOLE.

Big and SWOLE MUSCLE bro. Just like 100, ya know?

Just like him.

All MUSCLE.

All BRAWN.

Want that. Don’t I? So hard to think.

Why think?

I … don’t know.

Maybe I … shouldn’t?

So fucking horny. I … gotta go. Time to report.

Report my GROWTH.

My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

GROWing MUSCLE in my head.

Other stuff goes to my dick instead.

BIG MUSCLES.

MASSIVE BULGE.

So much pleasure.

Can’t stop. Don’t wanna. Can’t stop.

Report. Train. Gotta train.

Bulk up the BRAWN.

Dim … dim … can’t think of the word. Can’t spell it.

Something about my brain? Forgetting?

I … I am forgetting.

Oh god, I’m forgetting.

What’s happening to me?

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~May 12th~

Doctor Seroyan

Big Rookie

56 is almost done. Soon he’ll be part of the TEAM. Just like the rest. COACH says it’s time to test him. Dunno how we’re gonna do it. COACH says he wants me to take the test, too. Be a sort of spy for him to see things up close and personal. He says I’m BIG enough.

I asked about the head honchos. The BIG guys. Not MUSCLE BIG, but the in charge kinda BIG. They said I couldn’t go in before. Said it was a bad idea. COACH just looked at me. I never felt so bad. If COACH says it’ll happen, it’ll happen. I have to listen to COACH. Trust him. The more I LISTEN, the more I OBEY, the better I feel. The BIGGER I become. Become. Yes. Become what COACH wants me to become.

Yes, sir, COACH. I’m listening. Spy is just like the others. Avoids suspicion. Acts just like them. I’ll spy for you. Be just like them. Yes. BIGGER. BUFFER. STRONGER. Make me fucking MASSIVE!

Um … yeah. Excuse me. I um … have to go now. Have to get ready. Ready to GROW—uhhh … I mean go. Besides, it’s gym time. Have to get used to their schedule if I’m gonna fit in. Gotta get SWOLE, right? And GROW my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Yeah. I’ll fit right in.

…

Real Men’s Journal Part 12

Here it is, folks, the final chapter in our great meathead odyssey. It’s been quite the ride, and I’m glad to have shared this piece with you, grammatically flawed though it is (I was too lazy to go back and edit, after I’d learned how. :P). So, I hope you all enjoyed the characters. And don’t worry. Coach Stone will be back soon enough, with a new bevy of obedient meatheads at his beck and call. You’re not gonna want to miss it. ;)

MASSIVE MANLY BRO LOG

BIG FUCKING ROOKIE

~July 15th~

Bin workin’ hard every day. Wurkin’ for COACH. He put me with 56. Super Ky. He’s the fucking best partner a guy culd ask for when he LIFTS his WEIGHTS. COACH asks ‘bout 56 all the time in the showurs. I LISTEN to him there. Sit back. Report. OBEY. COACH sez higher-ups want me 2 stay. Keep watching 56. Keep working with him. Watch him GROW. GROWING’s gud. GROWING BIG. GROWING BRAWN. GROWING BUFF. GROWING BULGE. GROWING SWOLE. GROW 2 fit his DUMB JOCK role. They say I can leave after. I’m … not sure I want 2.

I luk at 56 and I feel … jelus. He’s so BIG. BIGgur than me. And I can’t stop listening 2 him. Evry1 calls him Q.B., so I do, 2. Cuz, U no. Spy. But … it feels gud when I say it. Lyk when I say I LISTEN to COACH. Makes me feel kinda fuzzee up top. Makes me smyl. The guys LISTEN to him lyk COACH. Lyk we’re a TEAM. Gess the brainwash WURKs. Not on me tho. I’m a spy. I act lyk the rest cuz I have 2. 2 blend. Fit in, ya no? Talk lyk them. Rite lyk them. LIFT lyk them. Act lyk them. Just like COACH sed. Then I report. Report in the showurs. I don’t remember much, but I don’t worry cuz COACH sez not to. Cuz I’m his ROOKIE. He’s my COACH. And ROOKIEs LISTEN to COACH. ROOKIEs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

I OBEY.

 ~July 30th~

DUDE! 56 is so fucking ripped! He just shredded his fucking clothes today, man! COACH had to give him new stuff. Sumpthin’ like a … suit of some kind? All black. Two piece. Shorts and top. Looked fam--uh … lyk I seen it B4, ya no? But … can’t think where. Can’t think. Head … 2 fuzzee. I … why? Supposed 2 B spy. But … don’t feel like 1. Feel lyk 1 of the guys. Wut wuz I saying again? So hard 2 think. Gear’s 2 tite. So fucking horny. Can’t concentr8. Feel so hevy. My BULGE … it’s GROWing. I … must record … sounds. COACH sez. … Rite wut I say … GROAN … COACH … wut’s happening 2 me?

Abrams … COACH Abrams … he … he wuz wearing … wut 56 is wearing. They … used 2 be … difrent. More smart. … I used 2 be more smarter 2. GROAN so fucking horny. Can’t think. But … have 2. Sumthin’ about … hypnosis. A … program? Some kinda … trigurr? Oh god it hurts to think. Hurts my dick. My huge … fucking dick. So huge … so DUMB … I … no. Have 2 focus. Sumpthin’ 2 do with my JOCK strap. My … BULGING … straining … BIG DUMB JOCK strap. For BIG DUMB JOCKs. JOCKs lyk 56. JOCKs lyk 28. JOCKs lyk me. Redy 2 snap. … snap. Snap? I … think (god that hurt to rite) has 2 do with snap. Sumpthin’ bout … uh … bout … no turnin’ back. Lyk uh … That’s it! Snap the strap n’ subjects furget! Makes em focus more. Snap the JOCK, unlock the JOCK. Become more JOCK. … Reinforce training. … Uh-oh … Shit, someone must’ve falsi … fals … fal … FUCKING FAKED MY RESULTS! But … who? Why? I wuz a gud JOCK … gud JOCK … SHIT! Didn’t mean 2 rite that.

Gud … gud … so fucking gud. BULGING. GROWING. STRAINING. I feel it. So close. Gonna BUST my fucking JOCK. Be a DUM JOCK. Gud DUM JOCK 4 COACH. Cuz that’s wut I am. All I am. BIG 4 COACH. FLEX 4 COACH. DUM 4 COACH. JOCK 4 COACH. Gud JOCK.

NO!

Can’t break my fucking JOCK if I take it off. Gotta hurry. Can’t let it …

…

…

…

REMOTE ACCESS INITIATED

SYSTEM OVERRIDE AUTHORIZATION CODE ACCEPTED

SYSTEM COMMAND: ACTIVATE RECORDING SYSTEMS

ACTIVATING RECORDING SYSTEMS

“Coach, wut’re you GROAN doin’ here? I … I gotta do something. Please. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, Rookie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Coach. Please.” The voice catches.

“Just relax, Rookie. I’m right here. Calm down. We’ll work through this together, just like we always have.”

“No, coach, we can’t. I can’t let what happened to Abrams happen to me. I won’t. I can … can still … think. GROAN.”

Easy, Rookie. Let’s not be hasty here.”

“Coach, I’m almost out of time. I have to do this. If I don’t, I’ll … I’ll ...”

“Turn into a muscle head? Grow into a jock? Didn’t you want those things?”

“You knew? You knew what was happening to me?”

“Of course I know. You wanted it to happen. You told me so in our meetings. Don’t you remember?”

“M—meetings …”

“Yes. Our sessions. It was all you could talk about. Growing, getting bigger muscles, your bigger ‘equipment,’ all of it. And you sure as hell loved your new sex life.”

“I’d never … I … I wouldn’t …”

“You would. You did. Hell, you spent half a workout bragging about your conquests. I have your paperwork right here. You signed on to become a part of this program. You wanted this.”

“That’s a lie!”

“That’s the honest to god truth, Rookie. Look at you. Look how you’ve changed. The Process regenerated you. Rejuvenated you. You’re young. And thanks to your latent desires, you’ve unlocked your hidden genetic potential. You’re a perfect physical specimen. A teenager who has yet to hit his peak. Just like you wanted. If you don’t believe me, then read the papers yourself. I have them right here.”

“Why … can’t I remember?”

“Plausible deniability.”

“… What?”

“You volunteered for a new form of the process, a different formula. But you wanted to keep working, too, helping 56 progress. We agreed so long as you could remain professional. But the organization needed to be able to deny any charges you might make while you forgot. And it needed to be able to observe each stage as if you didn’t know about it. So we wiped your memory and left the subconscious commands intact. … I see you still don’t get it. Damn, that stuff works good. Basically, it was so we could say we didn’t do anything bad to you and had no idea what was happening.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because it acts as a distraction.”

“Distract—oh crap! Let go of me!”

“Sorry, Rookie, I can’t do that. Not until you’ve finished this phase.”

“Coach, stop!”

“Just let it happen, Rookie. Stop struggling. I know how badly you want this. How much you need this!”

“I need to stop this! I never wanted this! Let go! I don’t wanna be like them! You’re lying, you have to be!”

“Listen to me, Rookie! We know that’s not what you really want. What you need. You need muscle, power, strength. You need to be a jock. Cocky. Powerful. A man. A real man. A massive man with a massive bulge. Can’t you feel that? Feel it straining. Growing. Swelling. Just like your body. You reek testosterone. Why? Because you’re a jock!”

“St—stop it!”

“A huge jock.”

“Coach …”

“A massive, brawny, meathead obsessed with weights.”

“No…”

“You might as well let it happen, Rookie. It’s too late to turn back. You’re my Rookie and I’m your Coach, remember? And a Rookie always listens to his coach.”

“…”

“So listen to me now.”

“… Coach …”

“Just relax and listen to my voice, Rookie. Let it go.”

“Coach …”

“Let it go.”

“… Let it … go …”

“Relax.”

“Y-yes … sir.”

“Good boy.”

“…”

“Can you hear me, Rookie?”

“… Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“… Coach.”

“Do you know who you are?”

A breathy sigh is heard. “Rookie.”

“That’s right. You’re my Rookie.”

“Your Rookie.”

“And Rookies listen to their coach, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie is listening.”

“Good boy. Everything I say is truth. Understand, Rookie?”

“Yes.”

“You will accept everything I say without question.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.”

“And you’ll obey everything I tell you to do, right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie listens to Coach. Rookie obeys Coach.”

“Good boy. I’m going to get off of you now. I want you to stand up slowly and not run or do anything else. You’re just going to stand there and listen.”

“… Yes, sir.” There is the sound of shifting bodies and the heavy tromp of cleats on cement.

“That’s a good boy. Now, Rookie, tell me, do you like your muscles? Do you like how much you’ve grown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like how easy it is to lift?”

“Yes.”

“And you like watching those muscles grow in the mirror.”

“Yes.”

“You think about weights a lot, don’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“What do you think about most?”

“… Lifting. Getting swole. Muscles. Chicks. My dick. Fuck, It’s so massive. So tight. So … bulgy. Like me. Growing. So big. Fucking huge.”

“*Whistle* That thing is growing pretty fast, isn’t it?”

“*Grunt*”

“Now listen to me, Rookie. You want it to grow. You want to keep growing. Just like your training said.”

“… Yes, sir, Coach.”

“You love your size. You love your body. You love what you’ve become.”

“Love my size … love my body … love what I’ve become.”

“Good boy. Tell me, what is the square root of 81?”

“Uh … Give me a sec.”

“Take your time.”

“I … I know this. I … know … this … *Groan* … god, I can’t think!”

“Relax, Rookie. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s … not?”

“That was a test. You passed. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I … wasn’t?”

“You don’t care about math, remember? The only time you use it is when you’re focusing on your stats.”

“… Yes. That’s right … I … I don’t care about math. Don’t care …”

“Math is stupid. You said so yourself.”

“Course it’s stupid. Math’s for nerds.”

“That’s right, Rookie. And you’re not much of a nerd anymore now, are you?”

“Fuck no … I mean … maybe a little.”

“*Chuckling* Don’t worry, that won’t last long. All you want is to keep growing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Growing boy. Growing body. Growing bulge. Growing brawn.”

“Yessssss …”

“Remember what happens the bigger you get?”

“Dumber I get.”

“That’s right. And you want to be big, so …?”

“I wanna be dumb.”

“That’s right. You want to be dumb. You were tired of being smart.”

“Tired of bein’ smart.”

“No room for smarts anymore. All that brain’s being filled with pure muscle. Pure brawn.”

“All muscle. All brawn.”

“That’s right. All those smarts are going to your manhood. Everything. Make you a massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge.”

“*Groan* Massive, manly man … Massive … manly … bulge …” There is the sound of straining fabric.

“That’s right. You love this feeling. You love being big. And you want more. You always want more.”

“*Grunt* More massive … *Groan* More manly … *Grunt* More bulge.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 28.”

“… Just like 28.”

“Just like Abrams.”

“… Just … like … Abrams.”

“Just like a jock.”

“… Just like a jock.”

“Because that’s what you’re becoming: a big, dumb jock. My big dumb jock. And you want that.”

“… Becoming a jock. A big, dumb jock. Want to be a big, dumb jock. … Your big dumb jock, sir.”

“That’s right. Good jock boy.”

“*Groan* Rookie is your jock boy, sir.” A sudden echoing snap breaks across the recording, followed by a deep, dull laughter. “Wanna be a big, dumb jock. Rookie will be Coach’s big, dumb jock. Getting’ buff n’ getting’ swole. I’m big fucking Rookie!” The sound of shredding fabric is heard.

“Big Rookie is right.” The coach’s voice echoes as he laughs. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for phase three in no time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get you dressed, Rookie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spandex, I think. Something tight to show off your body. Is that alright with you?”

“Fuck yeah. Who wouldn’t wanna see this jock bod?”

“Good jock.”

“Yes, sir, coach. Rookie listens. Rookie obeys.”

END TRANSMISSION

 ~August 30th~

Been LIFTING like a fucking BEAST, like COACH told me 2.

I see COACH in the showurs. Evury day.

COACH sez I’m speshul.

COACH sez see him 3 tymes a day.

ROOKIES LISTEN 2 COACH.

ROOKIES OBEY COACH.

So I OBEY.

COACH gives me special proteen. Sez it’ll make me SWOLE. I lyk SWOLE. WURKS OUT. I’m Fucking HUGE. BIGGur than 56.

BROS don’t talk much eneemore. Don’t need 2. We LISTEN. We OBEY. We LIFT. We GROW. We SWOLE.

Sum talk, but we GROW ther BULGE. Make them MASSIVE lyk us. They fall in lyn. They JOCK out lyk us. Don’t talk much after that. It’s bettur that way. Easyer 2 LISTEN 2 COACH. Easy 2 OBEY.

56 left. Coach sez he went 2 faze 3.

I’m in charj now.

New clothes feel so fucking gud. Wear em all the time.

Shows off all my MUSCLE.

I am MUSCLE.

MUSCLES do what they’re told.

MUSCLES OBEY commands.

I OBEY.

MUSCLES don’t think.

I don’t think.

MUSCLES GROW wen they WURK OUT.

I GROW wen I WURK OUT.

ROOKIE is MUSCLE.

MUSCLE is ROOKIE.

COACH gave ROOKIE a new name.

ROOKIE is Number O-000.

ROOKIE is Zero becuz ROOKIE is nothing.

Nothing but a JOCK.

A BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is COACH’s BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE OBEYS COACH.

ROOKIE GROWS wen he OBEYS.

GROWS BIG. GROWS DUMB.

ROOKIE is STRONG wen he OBEYS.

ROOKIE OBEYS wen he is STRONG.

ROOKIE OBEYS.

Zero OBEYS.

I OBEY.

OBEY.

OBEY.

…

 ~September 5th~

Yes, sir, COACH.

ROOKIE is 0

0 OBEYS COACH.

0 does not think.

0 is DUMB.

0 has 0 brains.

0 is DUMB.

0 OBEYS.

0 is MUSCLE.

0 FLEXES.

0 OBEYS.

0 LIFTS.

0 OBEYS.

0 is SWOLE.

0 OBEYS.

0 is BIG.

0 OBEYS.

0 is JOCK.

0 is COACH’s JOCK.

0 is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

0 OBEYS.

0 GROWS.

0 is MASSIVE MANLY MAN with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 is just like the TEAM.

0 is 1 with TEAM.

Yes, COACH. 0 will go.

0 OBEYS.

0 will go to faze 3.

0 is redee for faze 3.

ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 FILES

~DAY???~

LIFTING gud.

Thinking bad.

56 wants to LIFT.

COACH sez 56 shuld rite tho.

56 OBEYS.

56 LIFTS with the TEAM.

56 rites with the TEAM.

56 chants with TEAM.

56 is 1 with TEAM.

28 WEIGHTed for 56.

28 and 56 were happee.

TEAM wuz happee.

Now 56 is just lyk 28.

56 and 28 R BROS.

Fucking HUGE.

GROW for COACH.

OBEY COACH.

LIFT.

DUMB.

LIFT.

BIG.

LIFT.

JOCK.

56 doesn’t need recordings.

56 heres COACH all the tym.

56 is part of TEAM.

56 OBEYS with TEAM.

56 doesn’t think.

COACH thinks 4 56.

COACH thinks 4 TEAM.

Yes, sir, COACH. 56 heres.

56 OBEYS.

I am 56.

56 is drone.

56 will GROW TEAM.

JOCK now. JOCK 4ever.

MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

56 will chant with TEAM.

TEAM is home.

Home is TEAM.

56 is home.

Lyk … wut’s the play, COACH?

SUBJECT O-000

~September 30th~

0 is part of TEAM.

0 WURKS OUT 4 COACH.

0 GROWS 4 COACH.

0 is COACH’S JOCK.

0 is BIG DUMB JOCK with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 knows his place.

0 is OFFENSE.

0 FIGHTS.

0 makes BROS.

0 OBEYS.

0 will make JOCK BROS.

0 will GROW the TEAM.

0 will be COACH’s point guard.

0 will be assistant COACH.

0 OBEYS.

END TRANSMISSION

RESEARCH NOTES: OMEGA PROJECT FORMULA

C.E.O. SIGN IN: VICTOR STONE

The program has been hitting some snags of late. Those with a high enough I.Q. have been able to resist The Process to the point where some have been able to hold on for several months to their original psyches. This was unacceptable. So, of course, I had to fix it.

Number 56, formerly known as Kyle Matthews was the last straw. Abrams had been failing for too long. He was too sympathetic, too gentle. I fixed that. Now he’s the most aggressive offensive lineman you’ll ever meet. As for 56, well, I simply pushed him in the right direction. Even with my skills though, the boy was still surprisingly resilient. It took me too long to break him for comfort. I immediately authorized initialization for The Omega Project.

This new and improved formula for The Process is specially designed for the higher I.Q. It drops the test subject down to a basic grunt. I called in Doctor Seroyan for testing and gave him his own office. Little did he realize the special ingredients I included in his food and drink. He didn’t take long to show signs of change. Within the month, he was already beginning to crack. The subliminals from the lights helped of course, but a lot of it had to come from the treatment itself. Notes from my other workers revealed similar results in isolated test subjects throughout the compounds.

I got him hooked on working out and the rest was history. I kept conditioning him alongside 56 so they could interact when the time came. I wanted to see if I could incorporate him into the system without him knowing. After all, that’s the whole point of the Omega Formula. That, and of course, it breeds a stronger, more obedient jock drone. Best of all, it’s completely undetectable. Seroyan became my subject zero. And he’s perfectly happy fitting his new role as my personal assistant. I’ve given him free reign over 56’s team while I’m away and designated a new coach to keep tabs on him while I’m gone. I’ve given specific orders not to interfere, though. Omega Zero has potential to be a great coach once I’ve taught him how. Until then, I’m having him run over exercises with the team as they practice and play their programmed sport. More than a few of them are going to enter the N.F.L., that’s for sure. I love seeing my boys making me money.

We’ve come such a long way from when my project first began. I’m so glad I blew up my lab all those years ago. Hell, the results were definitely worth it. I still haven’t been able to fully replicate the accident that made me this way, but that doesn’t matter much. I like being the alpha. And once I got our investors to try my … unique product, they were happy to fall in line. They signed over ownership to me, obviously, and pursued their own careers in their respective muscular fields. I still get a monthly check from them after they’ve won a big competition or something along those lines.

Next phase will be accelerating the process. I want to have nigh instant results. When I’m not working as a personal coach for my jock force, I get back to the lab to work with the boys on progression. Now that we’ve found a compound that breaks past the I.Q. barrier, it’s only a matter of time. Soon enough, I’ll be everybody’s coach in a perfectly healthy, masculine muscleman society. I can’t wait.

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.”

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 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 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 29

You continue to pump your weights, heedless of the movers as they tromped into your apartment hauling boxes and bits and pieces of furniture. A few of the laborers look almost familiar to you, somehow. Maybe ... you saw them at the gym? You ... can’t ... quite seem to ... focus on it.... Then your eyes fall on your hulking torso in the mirror and you let that thought drop. The hairs on your chest have spread out in a perfect triangle that’s just the right thickness to accentuate the muscle, without obscuring it. You grin at the sight of your broad shoulders and perfectly sculpted abdomen. The veins standing on your arms only serve to better accentuate the pistons you’ve worked so hard to build and maintain. The rhythmic pulse of screwdrivers deepens your trance as you sink into that familiar emptiness and smile. You’re not sure how long you’ve been pumping, when you feel a firm tap on your shoulder. You turn to look into the mover’s murky brown eyes. “Job’s finished,” he rumbled. “Good,” you grunt. You look around the room briefly, eyeing the new surround sound speakers, the motivational posters, the new bench press, the pull-up bar, the squat rack, and so many weights. One of the men is busy organizing your DVDs and Blu-rays on the shelf. The screen of your new massive television pulses a myriad of patterns and images. “Welcome to your new and improved home.” It was like something set a switch off in your brain. The response was automatic. “The gym is my home.” The man nodded. “That is right.” They each file past you, one at a time, laying a meaty hand over your shoulder as they make their way out. When the workers had gone, a single figure remained at the doorway. He’s short, kinda on the scrawny side. Could use a good bulking, you think absently as you look at him. He swayed briefly, then stepped inside, looking about in confusion. His hair was tied back in a long black ponytail and his sneakers scuffed against the floor as he shuffled in. One word clicks in your mind. Landlord. “Wh-what ... did you just do?” He blinked rapidly and shook his head, as if trying to shake off sleep. “These renovations. I ... I never gave--.” You tromp over to him with an easy gait and, pausing only to squat down and pick up a set of lighter dumbbells from your new coffee table on your way to the door, you finish your advance. You press them into the man’s chest and he grabs the handles out of reflex. He stares down at them, dumbfounded, as they drop to his sides. You shake your head in disgust. “What’re you standing there for? You gotta lift ‘em, like this, bro.” You clasp your meaty mitts around his pale skinny fingers and get behind him to manipulate his arms. You show him the form, just like Hank and Duff showed you. “Up and down. Up and down.” “This ... this isn’t--.” You shush him quickly. “Gotta focus to lift,” you say gruffly as you fold your arms and glower down at him. “Focus and listen.” “Wh--wha--?” You tromp over to the TV and access the first beginner workout DVD you see. Curiously enough, it’s the only one of its kind sitting at eye level. You let that pass, however. It’s not for you to think about. All you think about is growing your muscle. You pop the disc into the player and back up as your speakers blare into the room. “Now, let me show you how to lift....”

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.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 37

You smile as you arrive at the gym. The sun is setting, painting the stone along the building’s outside a fiery orange, and that only makes you feel more fired up for the reunion and workout to come. You open the glass door, gym bag in hand, heedless of the fact the sign has been flicked to closed and the illuminated one turned off. It’s not your first time arriving close to closing. You smile as the familiar clank of the weight machines in full swing rings through your ears. Hank must’ve decided to get in a little pump of his own, after shutting things up for the night. After all, people knew better than to try to break into a gym frequented by bodybuilders and run by one of the greatest personal trainers the circuit has ever seen. You make your way easily to your usual locker and quickly pull out your combination lock. After you grab what you need from the bag, you stow it in the locker and click the lock shut. You drape your hand towel over your shoulder and start to guzzle your protein shake you prepped before coming down. You already feel the familiar tension in your muscles as the surge of your heartbeat rages in your ears. That same dimwitted smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you passed through the locker room door and back into the entry point. You flip the cap shut on your mixing cup and strike into that double bicep pose you’ve been practicing as you let that smile pull into a confident grin and step onto the main floor. “Yo, Hank, I’m--.” Hank wasn’t on the floor, but the gym was packed with some of the most chiseled and buff men you’ve ever laid eyes on. Barbells bent with the sheer weight some of these men were repping with as rippling muscles strained against their singlets. “--back,” you finished lamely. Nobody responded. Nobody stopped. You strode into the fray, watching as the builders and lifters pushed in eerie silence. No cursing, no growling, no roars of rage or triumph. You felt almost like a ghost as you passed through their ranks. Those who weren’t at the machines stood in a perfect line in front of the floor-length mirrors. Their bronze skins shone slickly under the lights, whether from sweat or those oils you’d heard Duff gushing about, you weren’t sure, but the sheer synchronization of their movements was incredible. They switched as one man, fluidly, from pose to pose. It was almost like a dance, pure poetry in motion. You couldn’t help but give a sympathetic flex of your own at the sight. This. This was the ideal. This was what you were training to become. Perfect strength. Perfect symmetry. Poetry in motion. Over at the drink bar, a familiar flash of red drew your attention. Stocky builders would walk to the counter and grab the cups lying in wait along the counter’s surface. You approached and smiled at the familiar face of your lifting buddy. “Yo, Duff. What’s up?” Duff continued about his business as if he hadn’t heard you. He mixed the powders with the proper fluids, then closed the lids and started the blenders, before turning back to you again. When he noticed you hadn’t moved, he strode over, picked up a cup, and shoved it at your chest. “Please drink and return to your workout,” he said in a peremptory tone, not unlike those robo recordings you used to have to deal with when you had to call about your banking and stuff. Man, were you glad you didn’t have to worry so much about those things anymore. “Duff? Big bro? Anybody home?” you asked as you waved a hand in front of his face. He didn’t have the chance to respond as a group of the hulking giants came over and shoved you aside to drink lustily from the cups. Once again, Duff sounded the refrain. “Please drink and return to your workout.” When the drinks were finished, they slammed the cups down on the countertop and rose from their chairs. “We have finished our drinks,” their voices echoed in unison. “We are returning to our workouts.” And that was it. Duff took the dirty cups to the wash station and cleaned them up, without saying a word, while the men returned to the main floor. Then he dried and refilled the cups to place on the counter top again. “Uh ... okay, then. Guess I’ll catch you later,” you say lamely as you lumber away from the bar. This wasn’t exactly the welcome back you were expecting. Practically all the weights and equipment are being hogged by the titans, and there’s still no sign of Hank in sight, so there’s nothing you can do about it. You sigh and decide to poke around a bit. Maybe some of the equipment will get freed up in the meanwhile. It was worth a shot. You’d hate to waste the trip, especially after that letdown with Duff. You wander over to the door marked STAFF ONLY. Maybe Hank is back there. You test the door and find it unlocked, so you pass through into a long, broad hallway. A series of doors stand on either side, just waiting to be explored. A smile pulls at your lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted trip to the gym, after all. And if you did get into trouble, well, you were just looking for Hank, after all. Surely, he could forgive you for that. You pick a door at random and test the knob. Much to your pleasant surprise, it’s unlocked. The room inside is dark, so you flick a switch to get a better idea of what’s inside. A series of speakers have been mounted on all sides of the space, while a single large monitor sits atop a desk. A mounted camera in the corner stares sightlessly at the opposite side, clearly inactive. You shrug and withdraw, making your way to the next door. You continued your search, finding more of the same. After the tenth one of its kind, you were getting exceptionally bored. You decide to try one last door, before you turn back. The handle shifted as easily as the others had, but when you cracked the door, this time, you saw something different. The light was dim as you stepped through, save for the glow on the monitor highlighting the familiar face of your landlord. A sandy shirt clung tightly to his frame, highlighting the beginnings of a perk in his pectorals that you knew only too well from when you first started your journey of growth. His eyes were completely locked on the screen, his pupils wide as the light flickered over his face. A thick set of headphones had been mounted over his ears and as you drew nearer, you could just make out the familiar camouflage pattern of military style fatigues and the heavy duty boots that lay beneath them.  “Collin?” you ask. He doesn’t answer. You walk around behind him to see the rapidly flashing images of tanks, missiles, heavy duty weapons, marching soldiers, men saluting, ancient soldiers fighting in their armor, battle scenes, all superimposed over a flickering spiral and words that flit in and out along the screen at random points. Finally, he lets out a sigh, followed by a, “Sir, yes, Sir.” Since when had he gotten all gung-ho about the military? You get closer and pull one of the earphones off slightly, leaning in close to pick up on whatever is playing. “That is good. You’ve identified your commanding officer. And you will listen to your commanding officer at all times, won’t you, soldier?” “Sir, yes, Sir,” Collin said dully. You reel back from the headphone as it plops back into place. That voice. That was Harry’s voice. “What the hell...?” That was when the door came open and a heavily breathing Hank stared at you. “Hank, what’s going--?” “Sleep, muscleman,” he ordered. And suddenly, everything went dark.

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?”

“Don’t look me in the eyes! Please. I don’t ... I don’t want to ... want ... I ... have to ... no....” “Are you okay?” You approach the man as he stumbles back. His hands are resting easily behind his back, his powerful frame tensing with his titanic exertion. His torso is thick and well carved with powerful muscle. A chiseled six pack sits under two slab-like pectorals. The moment you touch his arm in concern, he strikes. Suddenly, your wrist is seized in an iron grip and you feel yourself being pulled against that torso to be held in a crushing embrace as he stares down at you with ... what the...? You see no pupils, only two sets of spirals, constantly spinning deeper and deeper. “Unclaimed target identified. Initiating recruitment protocols.” You’re suddenly starting to feel very warm as the spirals continue to swirl. You pant as sweat begins to form on your brow, chest and stomach. The man’s torso burns hotter and hotter against you as he continues to glare you down. “This gym is for muscleheads only, by order of Coach. You will comply to Coach’s will. It is good to comply with Coach’s will. It is good to conform to Coach’s will. Conforming is complying. Complying is obeying. Obeying is pleasure.” The spirals continued to spin and the behemoth of a man narrates in a low, dull monotone that gradually lulls you as he runs through his script and you watch on helplessly. By now, your shirt is thoroughly coated in sweat and it clings to your body like a second skin. You feel the tension of his biceps pressing against your triceps to pin you against his torso. His muscular torso. Such ... beautiful ... muscles.... “You cannot look away. But that is all right. There is no need to look away. Because muscle is good. Coach is good. Coach helps us grow muscle. We must obey to grow muscle. We must conform to grow muscle. Muscle must think for us. Muscle must act for us. Muscleheads do not think. You will not think.” But ,... you.... “Thoughts are slowing now. Slowing as you go deeper, deeper into my eyes. Deeper into the spirals. Deeper into trance. Deeper and slower. Deeper and slower... Slower and dumber....” That’s ... that’s not... uh.... that’s....  You blink, and suddenly he’s jumped tracks. How long has it been? Does it ... matter? You ... you should listen. Yes. Listen. “Muscle is meat. Your meat must grow. Your muscles must grow. Grow to conform. Grow to obey. Grow to be a musclehead, because Muscleheads obey Coach, and Muscleheads are dumb. And you are dumb, because you cannot think. So slow, so dull, so deep in trance as all your thoughts drain into the spiral, into your muscles, into your meat.” MEAT. You groan as you feel the heat build yet again. Your shirt grows tighter still and your legs part as you feel a greater mass and heft swelling between them. You heave deep breaths as your pectorals and shoulders take on more definition. Your jaw thickens as the fat recedes to reveal a powerful masculine square. A loud rip sounds as you continue to follow those eyes. You don’t even notice the fact you are nearly level with them now. You cannot marvel at the sudden surge of growth or the cool air that dances over your sweaty torso, carving new furlows that rapidly develop into well defined valleys along your abdominals. “Our goal, our life, our purpose is to be mindless muscleheads for Coach. You will be a mindless musclehead for coach.” The grip around you feels so tight now. It’s like he’s straining to contain you. But ... that’s not right ... is it? You breathe heavily as a dull tingle spreads down your thighs and through your arms, causing them to inflate and swell to match your captor. ... No, not captor. Trainer. He is your trainer and recruiter. You blink again. Cold air brushes over your recently trimmed hair. You feel new baggy sweatpants that you ... had you been wearing them before? ... Coach says wear them. You must wear them. It is not for you to question when or how. Chest brushes chest. Torso touches torso. Bulge presses bulge. Your voice has deepened with your thickening neck. It matches your trainer. You feel your mouth moving in time with his. You hear your twin stereo urging to Listen, grow, obey. And then he stops. He releases you. He backs away. You blink. You turn. You stare with your legs parted and your vascular arms behind in a parade rest. Your body is massive, each curve and ridge a testament to bodybuilding, to muscle, to your meat. “To coach....” you whisper. “What is your purpose?” your trainer asks. You don’t miss a beat. “To be a perfect obedient musclehead for Coach. I am a good musclehead. I obey.” You shudder as you peer into your own new and improved swirling eyes. You have inherited the spiral, the constant drain designed to ensure you never think too much again. Every time you look in a mirror, every time you pass a reflective surface, those eyes will pull you back. those eyes will keep you a proper mindless musclehead. You feel a heavy hand on your shoulder as your new musclehead brother turns you around. “Come on. Coach says it’s time to work out.” You are a musclehead. You obey. Time to grow some meat.

THE BOX

“Something wrong, Mark?”

“Uh, ... Idunno, Coach. It was ... something. Something important, but ... I can’t really think of it. Can ... can we maybe turn down the music? Just for a sec?” “You know we can’t do that, Mark. Music keeps you pumped. Music helps you keep time and rhythm. Music is supposed to keep playing in your head to push you, to remind you.” “But ... but I’m so close....” “Yes, you are. You’re nearly ready to graduate. And you have to graduate my program to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?” “Well, yeah, Coach, but--” “No buts.” “I just ... I feel so different, y’know? Like ... Like I’m not even ... not even.... Augh. Fuck, I can’t think with those drums beating in my head.” “Mark, we’ve been over this. The drums are there to help you, not hurt you.” “But Coach, I ... I’m not ... I’m not who I ... used to be? Is ... does that make sense?” “Of course you’re not who you used to be anymore. Marcus was small, weak, pathetic. Mark is big, strong, confident.” “But--” “Look, you want to leave, right?” “Well, yeah. That’s ... kinda what I’ve been trying to do for....” He stroked his chin as his brow furrowed. “How long has it been now?” “Since you started this program, Mark. We don’t need to worry about the numbers. Besides, you know how easy it is for you to zone out when you count.” “S’not my fault....” the big man murmured. “Of course it isn’t, Mark. Of course it isn’t. Do you really think you’re the only one who has trouble with that? All your classmates did, too.” “They ... did?” “It’s perfectly natural to fall into that drumbeat when you’re doing your reps.

“One, two, three, four.

“Counting, beating so very steadily. Steadily through your head in that tribal thrumming. 

“Five, six.

“Repping up. Pumping up. Counting up as you fall into rhythm, fall into the beat, fall into that thrumming pumping rush as the drum beats with your heart and surges through your head to cloud it, making it so easy to just ... zone out as you count.” “Seven ... Eight....” Mark breathed heavily as his mouth began to open loosely. “Zoning out all except my voice, except for your training, because my voice is part of your training, and your training is part of my voice. They are one and the same. And it’s so easy to zone out because you’re a bit of a dumbass, aren’t you, Mark?” “Nine ... Ten....” “Say it, Mark.” “Eleven.... I’m a bit of a dumbass. Twelve....” “Tell me, do you believe that, Mark?” “Thirteen ... No. Fourteen....” “How come?” Marcus continued to count between comments. “Because I used to be smart,” he droned in a deep vapid tone. “No, Mark. Marcus used to be smart. You’re not Marcus anymore. Marcus is packed away in the box. All his bad habits are packed away in The Box. All those nerves, all those fears, all those worries are packed away in the BOX.” “Yes,” Mark acknowledged. “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir ... Coach,” Mark sighed. “Suspicion, fear, and paranoia go where?” “... In the BOX.” “Questions to my authority?” “In the BOX.” “Thoughts outside the gym, weights, sports, and this program?” “In the BOX.” “That’s right. They go in the BOX. The BOX is where they belong. The BOX is for smartasses and smartass thoughts. Marcus was a wisecracking, disrespectful smartass. He didn’t understand the value of hard work and exercise. He thought it was wrong to be strong, wrong to build muscle, wrong to build your body, wrong to obey me, wrong not to think. He mocked those things. You’re not in the box with him, so you’re not a smartass, are you, Mark?” “No, Sir.” “So, since you’re not a smartass, then you must be a dumbass.” “Uhh....” The numbers had long since trailed off. “You know I’m right, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes. Coach is always right....” “That’s right. And my logic can’t be denied here. You must be a dumbass. Say it, Mark.” “I must be a dumbass.” “You are a dumbass.” “I am a dumbass...” “Just a dumbass jock.” “Yes...” “Tell me, Mark, where is the BOX?” Mark pointed down to his waist and crotch, where the word had been emblazoned in big black letters on the waistband. “That’s right. All of that goes into your body, into your muscle, into your meat.” “Yes, Coach....” “Good. Have you packed all those things away now?” “Yes, Coach.” “Is the BOX full?” “No, Coach. It can still hold more.” “And you know what goes there now, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes, Sir.” “Good. You can wake up now, Mark. And remember: What’s in the box is junk. And you have a lot of junk. Your junk is always growing, just like you. A growing, dumbass jock waiting to build more jocks for me.” Mark blinked slowly as his eyes came back into focus. “Uh, ... sorry, Coach. Must’ve zoned out. What’d you say?” The coach chuckled and flexed his massive muscles. His short blond flat cut shone in the gym’s lighting as he folded his arms over his black sleeveless shirt. “I said it’s time to get back to work, dumbass. You’ve got catching up to do if you’re gonna join your friends in the field.” Mark grinned and saluted. “Yes, Sir, Coach Stone!” “Good. Now get back to work. I want you to pose in front of a mirror like the cocky jock you are for at least five minutes before you get back to your weight routine. Am I clear?” Mark nodded and swaggered away to stand in a booth. The bright blue light of UV lamps soon buzzed to life as he continued to pose in his tight briefs and his gaze became distant again. Stone smirked as he pulled up his tablet and scrawled a few notes with his stylus. “Algorithm test successful. Median brainwave attunement achieved followed by synchronized sweeps for respective targets. Note to self: Consider investing in individual recyclable system designed for each subject....” He stroked his stubble on his block-like jaw and nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the best means to speed things along.” He walked off, leaving a command in his system to alert Mark when it was time to get out of the tanning booth and back to work.

The Itch: Part Two

Bro, I just ... can’t stop lifting, you know? It feels too good. So what if I’m a little top heavy? Just look how jacked I am! The bros offered me this old lifting belt, too. S’funny. When I told ‘em you showed me the gym, they all just sort of grinned and welcomed me in.

Dude, they know about the itch! S’fuckin’ awesome! They don’t care if I trail off on a sentence or whatever. Gotta scratch the itch, ya know? They said s’better to just go with it, so I do. Bro, I never felt better in my whole life! I’m high as a kite, but it’s all natural. Fucking rocks! Huhuhuh, yeah. People been talkin’ bout me behind my back, but I don’t care. I’m swoll. Bros say I’ll be ready to compete soon. Mmm ... feels so good when I pose in front of a mirror. Jamming my pecs together, letting that scratch grind so slow.

Fuuuuuuuck. Uhhhh ... wut were we talkin’ about again?

Well, yeah. Course I’m dumb. Why would I want to think about all that other stuff when I’ve got weights to lift and an itch to scratch?

What? You want me to pose for you? Bro, why didn’t you say so?

Huhuhuh ... ready to learn my routine....