The Muscle Struggles

The Muscle lay there in his blood-covered hospital room, breathing heavily. As the blood mist settled, he looked over his newly freed body. His once lumpy, grotesque body, had transformed into an accurate recreation of the human muscular system if it were twice as thick and with twice as many strands. Whenever he so much as twitched, he could see the cords flexing and straining, pulling and sagging to allow his movement. It was a truly disgusting display.

The Muscle’s study was quickly disrupted by a group of armed officers, dressed head to toe in heavy riot gear. Looking about the room, he noticed that all of the medical staff had left him, and were probably responsible for calling the police. Not that he blamed them since it is the lawful thing to do. The Muscle remembers seeing the signs stuck to walls, pronouncing ‘Report all supers. It’s the law!’

One of the six officers stepped forward, holding a pair of thick manacles that looked massive in the officer’s hands. The officer glared steadily at him.

“You will be brought to a testing facility, where your abilities will be recorded, and you will be cataloged. Resisting is a felony. Seeing as how you are no longer human, your rights have been temporarily revoked. You will be given a designation once your abilities are discovered. If you can be cured, your name and rights will be returned. Now, hold out your hands.”

The Muscle stood still for a moment, contemplating all that he was told. He supposed that now, he could be considered a second-class citizen. As he thought about his next moves, the other five officers raised their weapons at him. Not knowing his own abilities, he swiftly placed his hands in the shackles.

The officer attempted to drag him to the door, but comically almost fell by a combination of the Muscle’s unexpected weight and the still blood-slick floor. Not expecting the sight of a pinwheeling cop, the Muscle startled the other officers with his sudden burst of laughter.

One of the officers closer to him hit him with the butt of their rifle, but it did nothing. The Muscle barely even noticed, to busy trying to stop his guffaws. He was not expected comedy, especially after all of the horror that he’s lived through.

The officer rapidly regained his composure and grabbed the, now compliant, Muscle, before walking him to the armored van.

It was a long, tense ride, sitting in the windowless back area of the van. There were so many turns that the Muscle was convinced they were trying to cover up their route. He supposed it made sense, after all, once they finished up, they’d probably dump him somewhere, and he wouldn’t be able to track them down. He wouldn’t be surprised if the van was scentless or something, too, to stop Freaks with an enhanced sense of smell from following them back.

Finally, they arrived at the facility. The Muscle stepped out onto a concrete floor, and before he could turn around, the prison truck had already sped off through a seamless garage door. The metal walls revealed nothing, but high above him, he could make out cameras and speakers attached to the ceiling. The room was massive and eerily empty.

“Subject previously known as Brock Richardson, we will now conduct a test to determine the extent of the changes caused by your transformation. To begin with, please insert your hands into the pedestal behind you.”

Turning around, the Freak, known as Brock the Lock during his wrestling career, noticed that a cylinder had appeared. He stepped toward it, feeling air weave through coils of muscle with every step. He had been too dazed earlier to notice, but now that he had time to think, he felt powerful. Even more than the first time he successfully grappled his father. If he tried, he knew he could’ve lifted that armored vehicle that brought him here like it was an unwieldy cardboard box, and he could’ve crushed it just as easily.

Standing in front of the pedestal, the Muscle slowly lowered his hands into the two dark holes. In an instant, they snapped closed around his wrists. He tried to pull his arms out, the groaning sound of strained metal quickly filling the air.

“Do not resist. This machine will simply test your grip strength. Relax, and grasp on to the bar that you will feel in your hands as tight as you can.” The cold, monotone voice commanded him once more.

The Muscle complied, if only because he was unsure if he could break out, and he didn’t know what he would do if he did. He squeezed down until he heard a crunch as the material in his hands gave way to his impressive strength.

“Interesting. Now, make your way over to the table and lay down on it. Your limbs will fit into the grooves, and clamps will then come down on them. Do not resist.” The voice's tone did not change in the slightest as it gave him another task.

Hefting himself up on the table that had risen out of the ground, he lay spread eagle, with his arms above his head. After a series of clunks, the Muscle felt metal bands covering his wrists, ankles, and neck.

“The next test will be one of toughness. We will apply various damaging substances to your body, to view their effects. Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you survive.”

With that, the true torture began.