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Transformation Part I: Mutation - Chapter Fifteen


Fulano

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First Chapter: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/1131-transformation-part-i-mutation-chapter-one/

Previous Chapter: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/12351-transformation-part-i-mutation-chapter-fourteen/

Author’s note: This is the final chapter of Part 1. Waaayyyyy late. As a reminder, the story takes place in 2011 with flashbacks to 2001.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

 

The air was thick with nervous anticipation as the rumble of the low-flying passenger jet faded. I wondered if Manhattan had ever been so quiet.

 

If it was maintaining the same direction we had observed, it flew south along Fifth Avenue. I wondered how long it would take it to reach 34th Street and then how long the sound of the feared impact would take to return to Sheep Meadow.

 

I felt Matt looking at me and turned to face him. His face was completely white. “Now,” he said without emotion … and right on cue, echoing up the canyons of Fifth and Sixth Avenues, rolled the distorted, metallic and seemingly inevitable … BOOM.

 

Cries. Shrieks. Disbelief. Confusion. Already I have failed to protect them.

 

I watched as the vast and closely packed mass of people grew restless. Some turned to me, I assumed for direction or to see how I would respond. Others were pushing toward the east, presumably to look southward on Fifth for visual confirmation of what we all feared. Matt was furiously poking at his iPhone. I still had no idea what to do and looked at Hank.

 

“If they start to panic, you gotta shut ‘em down,” he said as if sensing my need for direction.

 

“People will get trampled,” I said.

 

He nodded slowly. “You worried ‘bout that?”

 

His question almost hurt. “Of course I am,” I said defensively. “I’m probably the most compassionate person you know.”

 

“Not when that switch flips in your head.”

 

He was right but I had no answer for him. I ignored his observation and had decided to make my way over to Fifth Avenue when Matt announced what everyone had most feared. His face twisted with desperation, he held up his iPhone so that I could see the screen and looked at me. “It hit the Empire State Building.”

 

Thousands of voices filled the air as people began shoving in all directions.

 

…the air filled with screams and shrieks. A woman very near me was yelling “Oh my god! Oh my god!” repeatedly. I felt the ground vibrate and turned my head to the left in time to see the South Tower collapsing in on itself with a thunderous roar. I stared at it, eyes wide, refusing to believe what I was seeing. As it fell it transformed into an immense cloud of billowing dust and debris that expanded rapidly in our direction. I could see the leading edge of a roiling tsunami of debris rushing toward me yet I remained locked in place, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. Two people fleeing the angry cloud bumped into me before Hank seized my hand…

 

Although I wasn’t moving, I realized that I was panicking as well.

 

“Jamal,” Hank prodded. “NOW.”

 

I took a deep breath as I raised my tremendous arms toward the sky. “YOU WILL STOP AND REMAIN CALM!” I bellowed as loudly as I thought those near me could bear. Then as quickly as the cacophony of voices began, it faded. The crowd was still.

 

And the rumble of an approaching jet drifted down from the north.

 

Not fucking again.

 

“YOU WILL CALMLY RETURN TO YOUR HOMES,” I ordered before turning back to Hank and Matt. “Except you two.”

 

Once again, everyone seemed to obey me, although mindfully rather than as the zombies they had appeared to be earlier. People were again moving in all directions, but now in an orderly and deliberate manner. Despite their obedience, I was extremely frustrated.

 

“All this power and I can’t do shit to stop an airplane,” I complained.

 

“Have you tried flying?” Hank asked.

 

I scowled. “Do I look like Superman?”

 

“You look like you could totally kick his ass.”

 

“I can’t fly, Hank.”

 

I looked at Matt, whose expression became thoughtful. “Have you tried?” he asked.

 

As ridiculous as it sounded, I had to admit that I hadn’t tried, so I squatted down on the turf and extending my legs with all my might, thrust upward with the hope of launching myself into the air.

 

Instead, my feet plowed down into the earth with such force that a huge cloud of dirt and grass erupted skyward and outward. I rose maybe fifty feet into the air and then slammed into the ground again as the cloud of dirt rained down around me. I found myself face down in a crater of my own making. “I guess that settles that,” I said.

 

I pushed myself up and looked around. Both Hank and Matt were covered with dirt. The roar of the jet grew closer.

 

“What kind of god are you, anyway?” Hank asked impatiently as he brushed himself off with his uninjured hand.

 

“A god that can’t fly,” I said as I climbed to my feet.

 

The approaching jet grew louder. I looked at my loyal companions. Suddenly, I knew what to do. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” I told them.

 

“Hank needs medical attention,” Matt said. “We’ll catch up with you later.”

 

I briefly froze, ashamed and angry with myself for forgetting about Hank’s right hand. They were already turning away from me. “Wait!” I said. They turned back to face me. “If Terry is right, my cum should heal your hand.”

 

“There’s no time!” Matt called out. “Deal with that plane and we’ll meet you at home!”

 

“Let’s find Terry,” Hank suggested as they disappeared into the crowd.

 

I sprang into action. Thrusting a bit more carefully with only my left leg, I leapt toward Central Park West. If I couldn’t fly, I could at least cover the few hundred yards to the avenue very rapidly.

 

Right, left, right, left. In a matter of seconds, I reached the street, which was backed up southbound as far as I could see, and found a vehicle that would do. A heavy tow truck sat trapped in traffic in the left-hand lane. I bolted for the cab, pulled the door off and dropped it. “Sorry, I need to borrow your truck,” I said to the slack-jawed driver as I reached in and pulled him from his seat.

 

The jet roared overhead at perhaps a thousand feet as I set him down. There was no doubt. It was heading directly toward the World Trade Center. “Please stand back,” I warned as I tilted the vehicle onto its right wheels just enough to reach the undercarriage. Seizing the frame, I lifted the truck overhead and tilted it back until I could see the jet. Carefully, for I didn’t want to apply so much force to the frame that the truck would tear itself apart, I placed one foot well ahead of the other, stretched my arms back as far as I could without falling backward, and hurled it toward the rapidly disappearing jet with all my might.

 

The sound and force of the sonic boom created by the truck’s rapid acceleration took me by surprise and I instinctively winced as windows in all directions shattered. The asphalt beneath me also shattered and deformed as the power of my throw drove my bare feet several inches back and down into the pavement. I looked up and to the south to see the truck quickly overtake the jet. It slammed into the starboard engine, most of which tore free from the wing in an explosion of ignited fuel. A rain of machinery, large and small, fell across what must have been Hell’s Kitchen. What did I just do?

 

What if this was a coincidence? What if its flight path was totally innocent? The new tower isn’t even to full height yet, why would it be a target? I wished Matt were with me. Somehow, he would know.

 

The jet was beginning to veer toward the west when it disappeared behind the buildings to the south. The now familiar feeling of helplessness returned. I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea what to do next. I was in no way prepared to lead or protect anyone.

 

Car alarms were going off right and left. The wail of sirens pierced the air. I looked around. I was standing in the middle of the street, buck naked, with my flaccid penis hanging down to my knees. Even with my feet driven six or so inches into the pavement, I was at least seven feet tall and towered over most of the people who had gathered around me. To my relief, they weren’t being submissive. Though certainly in awe of me, they were also shocked and curious. It was the truck driver who spoke first.

 

“Wha … what was that?” He said.

 

 “I thought that plane was heading for the World Trade Center,” I explained. “I wanted to take it down.”

 

“You threw that tow truck like it was a baseball, man!” A teenage boy said. “You’re like Superman but super swole!”

 

I stepped out of the hole I had made in the street. Everyone backed away a few steps. A few did fall to their knees.

 

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt anyone.” At least not intentionally. “I’m here to….” I hesitated, uncertain of what to say. I’m here to rule the world? I’m here to clean up the mess we’ve made? “I’m here to protect you. Protect the Earth.”

 

“Like Superman!” The teenager said excitedly.

 

I furrowed my brow. “I can’t fly,” I said as if it were a failing.

 

The situation was very surreal. I was having an almost casual conversation with a group of strangers. No one was worshipping, as they had been only moments earlier. Most weren’t bowing down before me in deference as they had been all week. They were simply acting like … people. Although I did enjoy being worshipped, at least at times, I realized that I didn’t expect or need it. I found I liked this dynamic much better.

 

“Who are you?” A male voice asked. Then everyone was speaking, both talking amongst themselves and asking me questions.

 

“What are you?” I heard a different man ask.

 

“You’re the guy everyone has been talking about,” a woman this time. “The muscle guy on YouTube!”

 

“Damn, he’s even bigger now.”

 

“The Empire State Building has been hit by a plane!” I heard a woman scream.

 

“He keeps growing.”

 

“Check out his dick man! Talk about the dick of death!”

 

I looked around me again. So many people were talking and gathering and gawking that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. This wasn’t getting anyone anywhere. I held up my arms. “Everyone!” I said. The crowd fell silent. “I want you all to go home and wait for instructions from the city. There could be more attacks.”

 

And I’m going to do my best to stop them.

 

They may not have been worshipping me, but they were completely obedient. As the crowd dispersed, I considered running down to 34th Street to see if I could help. Then I stopped in the middle of the traffic-snarled street and looked down.

 

My massive chest filled my vision, blocking my view of the rest of me below it. My cock was soft, hanging, nestled in front of my giant quads where I couldn’t see it. I looked back up and blinked. Somehow, for the first time in a week, I felt completely at home in my radically changed body, as if I were just Jamal.

 

“One thing has ended,” I said softly. “And something new begins.”

 

 

Late afternoon had given way to evening. Hank kept hold of my hand as we continued down West Broadway toward Ground Zero. I didn’t understand why. He had never wanted to hold hands when we were together. Of course, I was holding his hand as well and I didn’t know why I was doing that either. It felt nice. I still loved him. I missed him. It was an odd form of torture.

 

I assumed that he was taking me down town to Church and Barclay, where we had first met, where we saw the south tower fall, where our journey together had begun, in some misguided attempt to observe our anniversary, such as it was.

 

I hadn’t been this close to the World Trade Center site since that day and as we approached, my anxiety grew. It was more than the location of thousands of lost and destroyed lives. It was the scar left by religious fanatics – terrorists. It was a demonstration of the danger of radicalization. It was yet another example of the horrors that we as humans are capable of.

 

We stood at the crosswalk across Chambers and waited for the light to change. I felt as if we had entered some kind of negative energy field of anger and grief, vengeance and hate, and worst of all, failure. My failure. I didn’t want to go closer. My palms grew sweaty.

 

I could feel Hank staring at me. He tapped my forehead gently. “What’s goin’ on in there?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

 

“This is really hard,” I said. “Being so close. It makes me … I don’t know … I guess I’m scared.”

 

“Scared,” he said doubtfully. “You climb around on I-beams like a monkey all day while hundreds of feet in the air and you’re scared.”

 

I didn’t reply. The light changed.

 

Hank continued holding my hand as we walked the few remaining blocks to our destination. He stopped in front of a parking garage. The parking garage. I was angry and confused. I had almost died here. Karen had died here.

 

“This is it,” he said.

 

My temper flared. “Why are we here?” I said crossly. “Why…”

 

But Hank put his finger over my mouth. “Shhhhhhhhh,” he said gently. “It’s okay. I brought you here to thank you.”

 

I looked inside the brightly lit entrance to where I had carried Karen, where we had been found. “Thank me for what?”

 

“You’re wrong, Jamal. You didn’t fail Karen. You helped her,” his voice broke and his eyes glistened with gathering tears. “You found her injured and scared and brought her here. What was the last thing she said to you?”

 

I remembered it so clearly. I felt her kiss me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper in my ear...

 

“Thank you,” I said, looking down at the sidewalk. “She said, ‘thank you.’”

 

“Yeah. Exactly. You rescued her and made her feel safe. She fell asleep and died feeling safe.” Tears were streaming down his face. I had never seen Hank cry before and I suddenly felt very selfish for blaming myself for so long. He smiled through the tears. “So I wanna thank you too,” he said as he continued looking into my eyes.

 

I was at a loss for a moment but before my throat tightened too much, I managed to croak “you’re welcome.” Then I was on all fours, draining a year’s worth of pain onto the indifferent concrete in the form of heavy tears.

 

*   *   *

 

A few hours and several drinks later, Hank and I stumbled out of an upscale bar on West Houston Street and into the night. Traffic on the one-way street was light but the sidewalks were alive with a surprising number of pedestrians. We headed back to my flat. He had his huge arm around my shoulders as we walked, oblivious to the wake we created as people were forced around us.

 

“Thanks for doing this today,” I said. “I feel a lot better.”

 

Hank smiled and looked at me. “One thing’s ended,” he slurred. “An’ somethin’ new begins.”

 

I didn’t know what the future held for us, but I was confident that we could at least be friends. Most importantly, I felt optimistic for the first time in a year.

 

 

I ran south on 10th Avenue as fast as I could without destroying everything in my path. Propelling myself down the middle of the street at highway speeds without colliding with oncoming cars or pedestrians in crosswalks was challenging, but so far, I’d managed to run several blocks without causing any serious damage. I quickly learned just how much force to apply with my legs to leap over a car versus a truck or bus.

 

Someone with a radio had reported that a plane had crash-landed near the Pier 51 playground and fallen into the river. I knew exactly where the playground was. It was only blocks from my apartment.

 

As I raced down the avenue through Hell’s Kitchen, I again second-guessed my actions. The new tower was designed and built to survive the impact of a jumbo jet. Any damage caused by ramming an airliner into the building would be limited.

 

I knew guys who were working on it. I had worked with many of them before. Some were second or third generation ironworkers whose fathers had built the Twin Towers or even whose grandfathers had built the Empire State Building. In fact, I didn’t apply to work on the project because I didn’t want to displace a man who had earned the right to place and connect those I-beams. It was sacred. And though I didn’t participate, I was familiar with its design and it would take much more than an aircraft impact to bring that building down.

 

Of course, 1WTC wasn’t the only possible target. It was certainly the most symbolic, but perhaps the terrorists had set their sights on another building. Or perhaps it was something else that I hadn’t considered. Or perhaps there wasn’t another target at all.

 

Had I saved a skyscraper from destruction at the hands of terrorists or knocked an aircraft with hundreds of innocent passengers out of the sky for no reason?

 

I raced by the location of the Hudson train yard and by the time I had left it far behind, I became convinced that I had overreacted. But then I was there. The Meatpacking District. Gansevoort Street. An American Airlines 777 that was halfway into the river nose first.

 

The pilot had tried to land on the highway, but in the process took out a few cars, traffic lights, trees, and streetlights as it slid partially into the river. Traffic was backed up in all directions and a growing crowd of people was gathering in a semi-circle starting around 100 feet away from the aircraft’s tail. No emergency vehicles had arrived yet. There probably weren’t any available.

 

I leapt over the crowd so that I was between them and the jet and turned to face the now even-more-shocked faces. “I NEED EVERYONE TO BACK AWAY,” I announced in what Matt had called my “god voice” before turning to face the jet and evaluate the situation.

 

Most of the starboard engine was missing of course, but surprisingly, at least to me, there was no fuel leaking from the wing nor was there any sign of fire. Equally strange was that all of the exit doors remained closed. The passengers weren’t being evacuated. But answers to those mysteries would have to wait until I got it out of the water.

 

The nose of the aircraft was mostly submerged, the tail far overhead and out of my reach. I needed to pull it out by the rear landing gear, preferably both sets at the same time. If only I had an extra heavy chain…

 

And there it was – to my right, along the edge of the sanitation department’s pier, was a chain of massive iron links. It was perhaps 50 yards long and threaded through a long line of steel posts. In no time I had pulled it free of the posts and snapped it in half. Wrapping one end of each segment around the two landing gear struts, I twisted the foot-long links together with my hands, essentially welding the loops closed.

 

Only a few minutes after my arrival, I had the free ends of the two chains in my hands and was pulling them taut. The aircraft groaned. The pressure of my feet against the concrete pavement caused it to fracture. I slowly pulled it backward and as the aircraft began to move, I wondered how much weight I was dealing with. Each of the two chains must have been several tons, and the aircraft itself? Hundreds of tons?

 

But its weight wasn’t important, for even as the fuselage of the jet dragged against the concrete and the nose lifted out of the water, even as the front landing strut snapped off as it encountered the edge of the embankment, I barely noticed any resistance at all. It was like pulling my little red wagon as a child when it was empty – effortless.

 

I had just sprinted a few miles in minutes. I was filled with anxiety and guilt. I should have been awash in sweat and adrenaline but was not. My heart, or whatever was pulsing in my chest, did so calmly and slowly. My body had transformed into something seemingly indestructible, but my mind was as human as ever.

 

The jet was completely out of the water. Stripped of its front landing gear, the nose of the aircraft rested on the embankment. I leapt up onto the starboard wing and sinking my fingers into the aluminum skin of the cabin, pulled one of the doors free and tossed it aside. My eyes adjusted instantly as I peered inside.

 

The aircraft was empty. There were no passengers. There were not even any seats. Instead, two rows of large unmarked boxes, each a cube perhaps 6 feet in all three dimensions, stretched down the center from front to back for roughly half the length of the fuselage. I stepped all the way in and turned to the right with the intention of checking the cockpit. What looked like four parachute packs hung in the cabin a short distance away.

 

“Freeze!” A male voice barked from behind. “Do not move!” I turned around. “I said DO NOT MOVE!”

 

There were two men in dark blue military uniforms that I didn’t recognize, each with what appeared to be an automatic weapon trained on me. They were perhaps 50 feet away and wore masks of some kind. I couldn’t see their faces, but their skin was white. I briefly wondered if their weapons could harm me but it seemed unlikely.

 

“Are you the pilots?” I said. “What’s in these…”

 

“SHUT UP!” The man on the right, presumably the one in charge, yelled. “Do not move!” he repeated.

 

I found myself wishing I knew how to control my ability to force submission but I could no more consciously turn it on as I could turn it off. I began walking toward them.

 

“FREEZE!”  The lead barked again. “One more step and I’ll fire!”

 

“No!” his companion whispered in earnest. “You’ll kill us both.” Both men sounded as American as I or Hank or Matt.

 

I paused for a moment. Something was very wrong. The aircraft was painted in the livery of American Airlines, yet the interior was completely generic. No logos, no flags, no markings of any kind.  The men’s uniforms were equally generic and devoid of insignia.

 

I listened as they continued to talk in what they believed to be tones I could not hear. If anyone else were standing at this distance they would have been correct, but I could understand them perfectly. Though impatient, I remained still as ordered.

 

 “Whoever this freak is just pulled this aircraft out of the river single-handedly,” the lead said. “We have to neutralize him or get him off this jet.”

 

“What if the bullets bounce off of him and detonate the cargo?” The other man asked.

 

Detonate the cargo?

 

The lead scoffed. “Are you an idiot?” He looked at me. “Step out onto the wing,” he ordered, but I had run out of patience.

 

“How about you put your toys down,” I said as I resumed walking toward them. The lead man immediately fired dozens of rounds from his weapon, which hit my chest and except for a few that somehow lodged in my chest hair, indeed did bounce off in various directions. As I drew nearer though, his hands began shaking and he dropped to his knees without a word. “That’s better,” I said calmly as I continued to approach. “Now tell me about your mission.”

 

Then, in a moment of unexpected self-control, he turned his gun toward one of the cargo containers to my right and fired into it. At the same time, his subordinate, who had fallen next to him, cried “NO!” as he tried to reach for the weapon. But it was too late. The echo of his plea had not even diminished when the container exploded.

 

The last thing I saw as the force of the blast propelled me toward the vaporizing fuselage and into the early afternoon sun was the detonation of the surrounding containers.

  

*  *  *

 

The sound and sensation of water flowing around me nudged me to consciousness and I opened my eyes. I was on my back in the fountain in Austin J. Tobin Plaza, gazing up at the vertically striped white towers of the World Trade Center, which soared forever upward into a deep blue sky – the South Tower to my left, the North Tower to my right. The cool water from the fountain ran gently around my shoulders and arms.

 

I remained there for some time, staring into the cloudless sky. I could hear only the wind and water, feel only the sun, breeze, and gentle current. I couldn’t remember feeling so relaxed. There were no voices, no sounds of traffic, no airplanes…

 

“Jamal!” Hank’s voice called.

 

No airplanes. I bolted upright, my heart pounding against my ribcage.

 

“Jamal!” Hank called again. “You hafta stop the plane!”

 

I leapt to my feet and quickly surveyed the plaza. It was completely empty. No one was in sight. “Hank?” I called out.

 

I felt a tap on my right shoulder and spun around to face the fountain. Hank was standing directly in front of me, looking exactly as he had when we met. The wind was at my back and blew around me, lifting his long, copper hair as if he were facing into a fan. I looked up into his eyes, which were unusually large and smoky again. “Where did you come from?” I asked, completely confused. He was his 2001 self, as was I.

 

Hank didn’t speak but instead pointed toward the sky. I looked up, following his gesture just as a white aircraft passed above the Twin Towers and exploded, generating a blinding flash of heat and light.

 

“There’s one more jet,” Hank said, as a rapidly expanding fireball enveloped the towers and raced toward us. “You have to stop it or everyone will die.”

 

“What?” I asked, even more confused.

 

“Flex, Jamal,” he said. “Flex everything! NOW!”

 

*  *  *

 

Several, perhaps dozens of tons of whatever material had been in the cargo containers, were exploding and in that instant, I realized that my sense of time had changed. Everything appeared to move in slow motion. As I drifted up and away from the rapidly evaporating jet, I could somehow see each container erupt and disintegrate, the individual blasts expand outward at enormous yet easily traceable speeds, even as I was enveloped in a maelstrom of flame and intersecting shockwaves.

 

I was perhaps 100 yards away from where I had been standing on the plane. The fireball was probably 300 yards in diameter. Flex, Hank had said. So, I did.

 

I flexed my arms and my traps and my pecs, my lats and my abs and my glutes, my quads and my hamstrings and my calves. I flexed everything, squeezing as hard as I could, for I knew why I was doing it. The only way to stop the explosion was to absorb it.

 

*  *  *

 

I felt a torrent of water gushing against my back and opened my eyes. I was on my back, looking at a partly-cloudy afternoon sky. Immediately to my right, a damaged fire hydrant lay on its side. I had landed on it and taken it out.

 

There’s one more jet. Everyone will die, Hank said.

 

I sprang to my feet and briefly surveyed my surroundings. I was again taller, which meant I was again bigger and stronger, but despite the resulting twitch of my cock I pushed that from my mind. I had something larger than my growing cock to deal with.

 

I was near Gansevoort and Tenth Avenue. Across the street toward the river, nothing remained of the aircraft. The facades of the buildings facing the Hudson were scorched, but apart from that the damage seemed limited to shattered windows. People were likely killed or injured in the blast before I was able to absorb it, but I couldn’t help them. I had to figure out how to stop another aircraft without killing more people. Somehow, I needed to reach it.

 

I could run to the West 30th Street heliport and hope that a helicopter and pilot were available, but that didn’t seem workable. At best, the jet pilot would only avoid the helicopter. If I can throw a tow truck a few thousand feet I can certainly jump high enough to reach a low-flying aircraft. That was the answer. I just needed a solid enough surface to leap from in a central location.

 

Rat Rock. I had to return to Central Park.

 

This time, I ran up Eighth Avenue, soaring between the US Post Office and Penn Station.

 

What did Hank mean, everyone will die? Everyone on the aircraft? Everyone in the target building? Everyone in lower Manhattan? I felt ineffectual, lost. I had become so accustomed to having Hank and Matt around, so dependent on their insight and advice, that I felt incomplete without them.

 

I tried not to imagine the scene at the Empire State Building. For now, I pushed my friends from my mind. It might be difficult for me to find them, but I knew how to make it easy for them to find me.

 

At roughly one block per stride, it took only a few minutes for me to cover the distance to Columbus Circle. The streets of Manhattan, at least south of the park, seemed to be gridlocked. A logjam of buses, cars, and trucks surrounded the monument to Christopher Columbus, filling the roundabout. I leapt to avoid them…

 

…and landed atop Rat Rock, a roughly circular outcropping of schist 50 or 60 feet in diameter and twice my height, shattering a thin layer of the gray stone around my feet. No one seemed to be around, and I began to scan the sky, relaxing my eyes so that I could see through the trees and surrounding buildings. The X-ray-like, false color view of the universe returned, revealing a storm of color and patterns that I had no idea how to interpret. I spent a few minutes changing the focus of my eyes, wondering if I could consciously determine which wavelengths I could detect, to see if I could filter out what I didn’t need at the moment.

 

A few objects moved in slow, steady arcs around me. Satellites, I assumed. Most everything else seemed to be stationary until an object approaching from the west caught my attention. Something that was glowing with a harsh blue-white light like the reactors at the Indian Point power plant. Was this the plane that Hank had warned me of or a missile with a nuclear warhead? I couldn’t determine its speed or distance or angle of approach, but it seemed at least a few minutes away.

 

I continued to focus on the approaching object. I tried to zoom in, Steve Austin-like, without luck. I tried examining the radiation source at varying frequencies mostly because it gave me something to do. Then something slammed into my back and exploded.

 

The force of the impact and explosion thrust me forward into a group of trees and I landed on the ground face down. As I climbed to my feet again, a projectile from the opposite direction hit my chest and exploded. And another. And another.

 

“GOD DAMMIT THIS ISN’T A GOOD TIME!” I roared.

 

The grove of trees was in flames as I stood and began searching the sky again, trying to get my bearings. There were now multiple objects moving in the afternoon sky. Several small aircraft circled my location. I could see through the trees and flames and smoke that they were unmanned drones, which might have been helpful except that they were a bit late and targeting the wrong thing. I counted four, a few hundred feet overhead. Then I found the blue-white light of the radiation source. It was close enough for me to see that it was clearly a jet aircraft.

 

I remained at the center of the fire, tracking my target as it approached. It seemed the drones couldn’t get a fix on me while I was engulfed in flames. I would wait as long as I could before I jumped back onto Rat Rock and launched myself at the air.

 

Or would the presence of the drones cause the jet to change course?

 

I hopped back onto the rock outcropping and snapped off a small boulder. The drones immediately changed their courses as I broke the boulder into smaller chunks and began hurling them at the unmanned aircraft. Four direct hits sent them falling to the ground. I felt oddly pleased with myself. At least there was no doubt about my aim.

 

I could now clearly see and hear the approaching jet. It was higher than the others, maybe at 2000 feet, and though it had begun banking to the right, would still pass close enough that I was certain I could reach it.

 

Nearby, the trees continued to burn. I wondered if I could blow them out and began to inhale. For around 30 seconds, I drew air into my lungs. When I felt like I had enough, I turned toward the trees and blew as hard as I could, as if they were candles on a birthday cake. Naturally, I flew backward off the rock and landed in the sand of the Hecksher Playground. I sighed and again climbed to my feet, but at least the fire was out.

 

You’re clumsy, but not completely useless after all, I thought to myself.

 

Nearly an hour must have passed since the Empire State Building had been hit, but other than the drone swarm, which was clearly targeting me, there had been no response from the military. What the hell is going on? Where are our fighter jets?

 

Then I heard the sound of dozens of boots approaching from multiple directions. In seconds I was surrounded by what seemed to be military troops of some kind at a distance of perhaps 50 feet. They had already taken aim.

 

“Jamal Al-Bakri,” an authoritative male voice called out. “You will surrender and come with us. Cooperate or we will fire.”

 

“What?” I said, incredulous. “We don’t have time for this. There’s a third jet…” I looked into the early afternoon sun and pointed. “RIGHT THERE! I believe this one is carrying a nuclear weapon. Now stand aside so I can stop it.” I hopped back onto Rat Rack and was squatting down when I heard the man call “fire!” and I was showered with bullets.

 

I rolled my eyes and stood. “YOU WILL CEASE FIRING.” I commanded. But incredibly, nothing changed. Scores of bullets bounced off of me but also continued to collect in the hair covering my immense pectorals. Some lodged in my beard. I pulled at one and noticed that it had actually wrapped itself around a single thick black hair. I pulled it off, popped it into my mouth, and swallowed. The hair remained attached to my skin.

 

I hopped down and began to walk forward. Occasionally a few of the bullets would strike my penis. They felt good. They feel good, I could do this all day. My cock began to grow and harden. The magnificent beast was awake.

 

I brought my hands up, my epic, bulging forearms, biceps, and pecs competing for space, and began to crush the thickening layer of ammunition against the impossibly massive, striated muscle of my chest, melting and spreading it across the expanse of my pecs, feeling how much broader and thicker they had become, then down my deeply separated eight-pack to my cock, which was now fully erect. It pounded, throbbing visibly as I covered it with molten steel and lead, squeezing it as hard as I could, the pleasure becoming so intense that for a moment I forgot where I was but not what – a being so powerful and masculine and glorious that all would beg to worship me.

 

As my tremendous cock throbbed madly, thrusting nearly a yard before me, my loins burning for release, I brought my arms up, arms which could surely rend the planet in two, and flexed. I closed my eyes and reveled in the immeasurable power of my body, turning my face up to the sky, lost in bliss as my indestructible form was caressed by thousands of rounds of ammunition, which suddenly ceased.

 

The echoes of dozens of automatic weapons faded, revealing only the whine of two jet engines. I opened my eyes to see every soldier silently weeping while either kneeling or bent forward, faces to the ground.

 

Better.

 

I looked up. The jet was about as close as it was going to get. It was also unmarked, at least as far as I could tell. Unlike the others, both of which were painted in the livery of American Airlines, this was simply a plain white twin engine passenger jet.

 

I jumped back onto Rat Rock and quickly wiped most of the metal from my torso and cock. As I squatted down, I wondered how much force my enormous legs could generate. When I threw the wrecker, I simple hurled it as hard as I could. But I didn’t want to fly through the plane. I needed to reach it and stop. Grab hold and tear my way in perhaps.

 

It was moving further away. I launched myself into the air.

 

As I soared toward it, I did feel as if I were flying. The sensation of air rushing by at a few hundred miles per hour – against my skin, around my still-erect cock – was exhilarating. But I was a projectile, subject to the friction of air and the gravity of the Earth, unable to alter course. Still, I was rapidly approaching the aircraft and as I passed through the plume of smoke from the remains of the Empire State Building, I realized I had to somehow grasp the port wing as I passed it at roughly 50 mph.

 

Time seemed to slow. I became aware of two things. One, I was going to miss by a few yards. I was going slightly too fast. Two, I could somehow see the turbulence of the air as the jet cut through it.

 

I could also see the aircraft’s interior to some extent. The harsh blue-white glow of the uranium was near the center of aircraft, its radiation detectable through the casing. The jet was configured to carry cargo. Most of the interior was empty, while the cockpit appeared standard – at least to my layman’s eye – two seats, some equipment, and a door. But, it was empty. No one was flying the plane.

 

I was closing in from below and of course from behind. I held out my arms to reduce my speed, alternately bringing them in and out a bit to fine tune my approach. The port engine was immediately to my right as I passed it – I could have reached out and touched it – but I waited until I could grab the wing’s leading edge.

 

Although I could see the air being drawn into the engine, it was too late – I wasn’t able to adjust my speed to avoid being sucked in without missing the jet entirely. My legs were pulled into the engine fans, which shattered before the bulk of my upper legs and cock forced the engine shaft to stop spinning entirely. Jet fuel accumulated for a second or two – I recognized the smell – before exploding and then burning out.

 

I climbed out of the damaged engine pod and clawed my way along the wing, digging my fingers into the aluminum to keep from being blown off. On reaching the fuselage, I simply tore my way into the cabin, which was dimly lit. The warhead was a cone well over a yard long, which was strapped vertically to a truss that ran from the floor of the cabin to the top. A cable ran from the cone up the truss to a box about a foot on each side with a keypad and a few controls. A digital LED displayed the number 10.

 

As I looked around, I noticed several cameras. I was probably being watched, but of course, I had no idea how to disarm it or even if it were possible. I fantasized about flying it into space. Or maybe I can pilot the jet out over the ocean.

 

I had turned and started toward the cockpit when I heard a quick, soft beep beep. I returned to the truss. The 10 on the control box was now 06 and continued to count down.

 

Only seconds before I had been completely fearless. For all practical purposes I was infinitely strong and completely indestructible. But now I was terrified, and I pulled the cone free of its straps and wrapped myself around it, covering as much of its surface as I could. Hank was down there. Matt was down there. Terry. Carlos. Nearly everyone I cared about plus a million or so others were only a few thousand feet below me.

 

04 … 03 … maybe I could crush it?

 

I leaned back so that the bulk of my body was between the ground and the warhead and began to squeeze, which collapsed the casing and…

 

It began so small. A perfectly white sphere of plasma only a few yards in diameter replaced the warhead, which was instantaneously vaporized into ionized gas at 100 million degrees. A fraction of a second later, the entire aircraft had been vaporized. By the time I had begun flexing every muscle I could think of, a full second had passed and a fireball a few hundred yards wide had appeared over lower Manhattan with me suspended at its center.

 

I flexed, reveling in the sensation of the enormous energy released by the weapon flowing into my titanic, growing muscles. I had noticed over the past few days that the hotter something was, the better it felt, the more pleasure I experienced. Having a nuclear weapon detonate immediately against my chest bathed me in ecstasy beyond comprehension and I could both see and feel my surging cock grow in both size and hardness, the pressure in my loins mounting to a degree greater even than that of the blast I was containing. I looked down at my unimaginably powerful pecs, watching as the thick black hair that covered them waved and floated in the inferno. One hundred million degrees and not even my hair was singed. I am truly indestructible.

 

My huge cock and balls, stimulated beyond imagination by the extreme heat and pressure, growing and throbbing uncontrollably, unleashed my most powerful orgasm yet, and I aimed my cum cannon toward the sky as it spewed thousands of gallons through the raging inferno surrounding me, soaring up into the atmosphere for miles. I continued to flex as hard as I could, absorbing as much of the escaping heat and energy as possible, canceling out the pressure wave which would have destroyed much of Manhattan.

 

I will become infinitely powerful. I knew this. Hank was right. The universe was creating its own god and the ecstasy this knowledge brought me was overwhelming. I was drunk with my own magnificence. I will have eternal and absolute dominance over all things. I will enslave this universe.

 

A brief shudder of abject terror washed over me, penetrating my ecstasy. No. That is not what I want. But I could feel my consciousness shifting again.

 

Jamal! It was Hank’s voice.

 

“Hank?”

 

Jamal, that’s not you. Hank’s voice was somehow clear through the thunderous roar of the firestorm. You’ve got to resist it.

 

I could feel the pressure increase. Even as the feeling of dread swept through me, the desire to embrace a dark yet infinite pleasure mounted.

 

“What do you mean?” I asked out loud.

 

It wants you. DON’T LET IT IN. Hank said desperately. FIGHT IT!

 

All I could sense was an intense need for conquest. A limitless hunger. Everything must be mastered and enslaved and drained.

 

But that isn't who I am, I replied.

 

*  *  *

 

Earlier that day, in another place…

 

There are things older than the universe. Ancient things from universes far older than our own or that no longer exist. It was one of those things.

 

Its home universe collapsed a trillion years ago, but it had learned long before of methods to slip between the universes, to navigate from one universe to another. As long as a universe’s physical constants were compatible, it was able enter. For an eternity, it searched through a universe of universes, methodically, deliberately, conserving its energy, maintaining just enough awareness to test a target universe’s physics, just enough awareness to be.

 

It had once enjoyed a seemingly endless torrent of energy drawn over tens of billions of years from all the stars, all the galaxies, all the life of its long-dead home, but its reserves dwindled as the eons passed, as it sought something that appeared increasingly unlikely.

 

Millions of years would pass between finding compatible universes or universes with life, billions of years between finding universes that were compatible and held life, and thus far, a trillion years without finding a compatible universe with life that it could use.

 

It was now barely a cloud of molecules, a fading wisp of organized information that knew little more than a tortured emptiness and an all-consuming hunger. A hunger that had been growing for countless billions of years. A hunger that finally, just as it had resigned itself to oblivion, detected a life form that it could use.

 

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Oh. My. God. Su FUCKING hot!

Love the descriptions of his strength and his limitless power. Oh man, this made me so hard. And my darkest part kinda wishes IT to prevail and conquer and crush everything for his own pleasure... ;-)

Really hope you continue this!

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I have re-read this story multiple times over the years and am really glad you came back to continue it!

I'm hoping you'll see fit to continue it again before seven more years elapse!?

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Nice to see you back and in great writing form!  I was just thinking the other day it was a tragedy this story didn't continue.  Glad to see you're going to change that!!!

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  • 3 months later...

OH. MY. GOD

This story is too hot.

Thank you for continue writing this story to the end

Thank you for re-writing the great story

And thank you for make the greatest story!

You make me alive again ❤️

 

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Hey, thank you! I'm so happy that you enjoyed it. I've written the first chapter of Part 2 but want to get farther along before posting anything.

I will also be reworking Part 1 to be more like a novel, especially the last two chapters, which are a bit messy, and maybe self-publishing it.

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  • 5 months later...

When you binge read the whole thing over days lol. I don't know why I never saw this story and I'm from the old forums heh. Awww well nice to find an old but gold. 

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