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Descent into growth : Part 5


Hialmar

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Part one is found: here.

Part four is found: here.

 

Descent into growth

Part Five

Uncomfortable.

You felt uncomfortable and soaked in sweat. The air felt hot – too hot – and suffocating, and your face felt too warm. You couldn't move, and another nauseous wave of too warm and stuffy atmosphere surrounded you, tossed you around and carried you away: into sleep, into your thoughts, into reality – you didn't know.

You smelled the scent of shavings and guineapig droppings, methylated spirits and cleaning solution. You were in the Lab. Hadn't this already happened once? You approached Rob and Nate, who sat watching the screen of the computer, which controlled the field. The morphogenetic field. Rob was free to study the diagrams, the 3D sketches consisting of translucent outlines of real persons' physiques. You hadn't given that particular aspect of experiments much thought: Your predecessors in that field of study had gathered and collected a bank of statistic data about human anatomy and physiology. You recollected the stray reports about accidents, when the symmetry protocols and functionality protocols had been disregarded in the past, and you had tried to instill into little Rob the importance of basing any morphogenetic field on real people with functional physiques. You came closer. Little Rob must have heard the sound of your feet, and turned his head. You could see him blush, and his ruddy cheeks contrasted against his platinum blond hair and his innocent ice blue eyes.

"How's Mr. Vanderwesthuisen?"

"Still recovering from his DNA-programming infection. What are you looking at?".

Nate turned around, his friendly and confident smile flashing from his youthful face:

"Hey, Doc. Rob is showing me how the machine works. You've got data about most of my heroes, and then some."

"What do you mean?"

"Look here: You've got stats and some sorta drawings on the computer, and not just the competitors from the mid-2020's, but also a lot of vintage athletes. Take this one, for instance: Lee Priest, famous back in the 90's. Short, but built like a brick wall! Or that one, did you ever watch Game of Thrones? I was too young, but I've watched the re-runs. That's Hafthor Bjornson. The Mountain? And you have drawings ... what did you call them, Rob?"

"Three-D sketches."

"Three-D sketches, then. You've got 3D sketches of Cutler at Olympia in 2009, and you've got sketches of Markus Ruhl at the height of his career, and you've got Morgan Aste and Mariusz Pudzianowski."

"Who?"

"It's your data bank, not mine."

"I have never been much into sports. I do work out irregularly, but I don't remember the names of athletes."

"Rob didn't recognise half of them either. Most of them are bodybuilders, but Bjornson is a Strongman comptetitor. Mariusz won World's Strongest Man five times, but went into MMA after that. Now, the thing is, Rob showed me, that it is possible to combine data from all these drawings."

"Yes, it is. How so?"

"Well, I've sometimes imagined what would happen, if anyone of Bjornson's height got the same physique as Lee Priest. Lee's even shorter than me or Rob, but look how WIDE he was back then."

"I suppose it could be done, theoretically, but no scientist would attempt to combine two physiques as different as those two."

Nate looked smug. Rob blushed.

"Actually, I asked Rob to fuse the, eh, 3D-sketches of Lee and Bjornson, and then mix that sketch with all the others here: Jay...  Ruhl... Aste... And he did it! He actually did it! Take a look at this sketch!"

They had actually "did it", indeed: The newly added SKETCH NUMBER 2137 in your data bank depicted a man looking like something out of comics or computer games, but with one important exception. If you had placed comics characters or game characters in real life, they wouldn't be able to move. Since the sketch was based on existing men with functional muscles, a person looking like that in reality would actually be able to have a life that worked. 

"Put it in the Archive, Rob. We will not use it. Not this week. Probably never, but put it in the Archive."

Something was wrong with the scene. Rob and Nate. Both short lads. Wrong with the scene. Wasn't Nate taller and bigger when this happened? Not happening now. Happened. In the past. Memory. Strange. Something wrong. Uncomfortable. Darkness. You struggled. It felt like an invisible being wrestled with you. Too hot.

* * *

You smelled the scent of shavings and guineapig droppings, methylated spirits and cleaning solution. You were in the Lab. Hadn't this already happened once?  You were standing in front of the Test Chamber, and Mr. Vanderwesthuisen arrived in the Lab. You turned your head. Your employer had a taste for making scientific experiments into fun-fairs: He arrived, wearing a gown of some sort of silky fabric, like the ones some boxers wear. Then he tossed the gown over a chair, revealing his almost naked body. His days spent at the beach had given him an even tan, and, although no one could call him a bodybuilder, it was obvious, by the way he looked, that he worked out seriously. All the marks were there: Pecs, including the beginning of a pec ravine, but not beefy ones; A faint outline of abs; Biceps, but not bulging ones; Visible lats, but not enough to give any exaggerated V-shape. Mr. Vanderwesthuisen was wearing black high-neck trainers – no, rather boxing boots, you corrected yourself. And he was wearing posing trunks. Minimal, metallic green posing trunks of the sort European bodybuilders wear.

”I’m ready. An injection wasn’t it?”

You had to clear your throat. It felt like you had a lump in it.

”Beg your pardon?”

”Injection. I have to be injected before I enter, haven’t I?”

”Uh. Yes. Of course. And this is what you are going to wear inside the Test Chamber, Sir?”

He smiled. Smugly. Arrogantly. His rather handsome eyes had a glint, that revealed, that he knew that his playful approach to your work irritated you, but that you knew your place in the hierarchy. It was obvious, that he enjoyed how you served his whims, even when it irked you. Smugly. Arrogantly. Expectant.

”Yes, this is what I am going to wear. Unlike Nate, I don’t take pleasure in ripping out of clothes. The injection, then?”

Rob was there. He had fetched the serum designed for Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s DNA. The scent of alcohol. The syringe. The sting. Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s eyes. Blue eyes, but another hue than Rob’s icy blue ones. Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s eyes were blue like a welding torch, and burning now.

”Will you repeat on me what you did to Nate?”

”We were considering two different options. On one hand, it would give us more comparable data, if we repeated the settings of Nate’s go at the Chamber, but, on the other hand, it could be interesting to see what happened, if we increased the hypertrophic power a few percentiles and intensified the anabolic radiation to the same degree. In that case…”

You were interrupted by Mr. Vanderwesthuisen:

”I’ll go for the second option.”

”But…”

”That was not a question, Doc. That was a command. You will increase the levels.”

You could see Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s posing trunk fill out. Something was growing before the Process in the Test Chamber had begun. He eagerly stepped inside the sluice. The two atmospheres switched place, and he entered the Chamber. You and Rob activated the machines, including Arngrim, the AI, that assisted you in your work.

”Gas saturation, Arngrim?”

The metallic voice of the AI answered:

”Eighty-five percent and increasing.”

You sneezed, and had to find a package of tissues in your pocket. It was obvious, that you had a sore throat now. Your usual luck… just in the middle of an experiment…

”Ninety percent and increasing.”

You could see Mr. Vanderwesthuisen stand in the centre of the chamber inside the octagon outlined by black-and-yellow tape marks. He was inhaling deeply, with an eager expression.

”Ninety-five percent and increasing.”

”Time to warm up the anabolic rays, Rob. I’ll activate the hypertrophic coils.”

”Anabolic emmitters warming up. Hypertrophic coils activated. Ninety-nine percent saturation: Full saturation level.”

Bolts were beginning to hit Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s body. He shook. It was hard to distinguish the bolts through the thick protective glass panes. In the green hue from the lamps Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s skin looked almost green. Tanned and green. Silly comics-based fun-fair whims.

”Initiating irradiation.”

Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s eyes widened. His mouth opened. You activated the interior microphones and speakers.

”Everything well, Sir?”

”Fuck. Yes. Well. Yes. More than well. Love this. This feeling. Better than I thought. Nate, if you are out there: I’m joining you now. Now I understand, what you talked about. The feeling. Fuck. So good. Becoming like you.”

”Intensify radiation.”

”Intensifying anabolic radiation.”

”FUCK, yes. I don’t know what you are doing out there, but I loved that.”

Mr. Vanderwesthuisen was shivering, nay, shuddering inside the Test Chamber. His fit but small physique had begun to change, as Nate’s had a few days before. To fill out. To become taller. To become wider.

”Increase power.”

”Increasing hypertrophic power.”

”FUCK! YES! More! Watch me! Watch me grow! Look at me! Look what I’m becoming now! Look at me! These muscles!”

The test subject was correct. He was growing, and his muscles were more visible, more full. He looked like a short lightweight bodybuilder, or perhaps a bodybuilder of average height. The signs of middle age in his face were fading. It was now hard to guess Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s age. His chest protruded proudly. He stood there, the increasing volume of his quads and hamstrings pushing his legs wider apart. The outline of his abs was much more visible now: Six hard bronze-coloured hemispheres glistening of sweat. His manhood was growing inside his metallic green posing trunks, and his two proud bicepses were not the only growing steel-bulge of his. His shoulders looked like grapefruits – no, small melons, now, and there was a beefy trap running behind his neck, causing his neck to look beefier.

You felt a mild feeling of dizziness, but recovered within seconds.

”Intensify radiation.”

”Intensifying anabolic radiation.”

”Increase power.”

”Increasing hypertrophic power.”

Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s eyes widened again. Voluntarily or involuntarily he flexed all of his muscles. And again. Flexed. And again. Two or three conflicting feelings shone from his eyes: Fear. Pleasure. And confidence. He did a crab pose in front of himself. Then he flexed both biceps, his mouth grinning confidently. Then his head arched back in abandon. His mouth opened, and he let a moan out. His muscle mass expanded outwards. His bone-structure re-structured with an ugly sound, and in a split-second you briefly sent a grateful thought at the analgesics flowing in Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s body. A sick wet sound, like stuffing a leather sofa full of raw meat, was heard through the loudspeakers, but that sound was almost drowning in Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s more and more loud moans of pleasure. Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s penis was stretching his green metallic posing trunks further, and the root of his tanned manhood was now visible. Pre-cum drooled through the fabric of the very elastic posing trunks, and Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s right hand blindly thrashed in the air, until his big, powerful hand cupped the head of his rod through the fabric of the poser. His left hand sqeezed his right pec. By now, he must have grown from 5’7’’ to 6 feet, and he could accurately be described as ”barrel-chested”. Metallic green was a suitable colour-scheme for a man beginning to look like a powerful machine.

”FUCK! YES! Look at me! All this mass! Behold your Alpha! I’m the Dominator! I’m coming! I’m huge now, and I will dominate the world! I’m… Uh, fuck, fantastic…”

You became worried for his sanity, and the safety-script had run to it’s end anyway, so it was best to finish this test session.

”Deactivate radiation and power!”

”Deactivating hypertrophic power. Decreasing anabolic radiation.”

”NO! You can’t stop it now! I want more! I want EVERYTHING!”

It was 266 lbs of powerful beef that stepped out of the Test Chamber. It approached you, and that fast. Mr. Vanderwesthuisen was angry now, and the welding-torches in his eyes were burning hot. Absent-mindedly, you noticed that Mr. Vanderwesthuisen’s posing trunks were too small now. Obscenely too small. The dizziness returned, and you coughed. He grabbed you by the collar of your lab coat, and you found yourself dangling in the air, while veins crawled over his 24’’ arms.

”Now, you little science geek, I want you to switch that Chamber on again. I want Alpha godhood, and I want it NOW. You have no idea how it feel to… Oh fuck, I’m still growing! You didn’t tell me about the after-effects…”

There seemed to be after-effects. You hadn’t expected that. You were still dizzy, but you could see the impressed expressions on little Rob’s and Nate’s faces. You still dangled in the air.

”Now, Mr. Vanderwesthuisen, you have to calm down. Put me down, and…”

”Feel so good. I’m not Mr. Vanderwesthuisen anymore. I demand, that you call me Mr. V. now, and I tell you: Switch that Chamber on.”

The dizziness. Black dots floating before your eyes. You felt uncomfortably warm. The dizziness. And then everything blacked out. Far, far away, you were dimly aware of a huge presence carrying you like a little child to somewhere else. Darkness swallowed your consciousness, and you fell into heat and the smell of sweat.

* * *

You felt uncomfortable and soaked in sweat. The air felt hot – too hot – and suffocating, and your face felt too warm. You couldn't move, and another nauseous wave of too warm and stuffy atmosphere surrounded you, tossed you around and returned you to reality. You could remember it all, but you must have become unconscious. You woke up, and found yourself in your own bed. You had wrestled with the sheets, and they were a damp mess.

Something felt wrong about your ears. You touched them. Some sort of earbuds, but they were locked around your ears. Strange. You opened your eyes. Dark, but the outline of the window was visible. You rose. Still slightly dizzy. For how long had you slept? Moonlight outside the window. Moonlight over the tropical sea.

You turned around. In the moonlight you could see the outline of an IV pole. You became suspicious. An empty bag was hanging there. No. Two empty bags were hanging there. What was going on? Mr. V’s insanity. Somehow, you had to call the authorities. No sign of your mobile phone anywhere. You had to go to the office room undetected.

You were still dizzy, as you navigated the unlit nocturnal corridors of the compound. There it was. The office.

You lifted the receiver from the old-fashioned stationary telephone. Not all equipment on the island had been updated. Your legs were shaky after the flu, and you felt exhausted. You dialled 112.

Silence. 

"Hello? Anyone there? Can anyone hear me?"

You felt a BIG warm presence behind you, and a BIG powerful hand pulled the receiver out of your hand, restoring it to its place, while a deep voice – a both pleasantly and threateningly deep voice – growled behind you:

"What did I say about contacting authorities? Remember, I pay your rent, but don't worry: Welcome back from the sickbed. You are needed in the Lab."

You turned around. It was Mr. V., and he was bigger now.

* * *

Part six is found: here.

Edited by Hialmar
language, more language corrections, since something is wrong with the spelling-program, continuity, added link
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