Chapter 3: Measurement Contest
The silence Frank left behind was a vacuum. Then, the adrenaline drained, and Jane’s legs gave out. She slid down the kitchen cabinet until she was sitting in the cold puddle of coffee and ceramic dust. She hugged her knees to her chest, the position all wrong now, her body not folding the way it used to. She felt scraped raw. Frank’s disgust was one thing. But that last muttered line—wouldn’t want to arm-wrestle you—that was what stuck. It wasn’t about what was between her legs. It was about the arms. The strength. That was the part that had truly unnerved him. That was the real transgression.
She stayed there until the chill from the floor seeped into her bones. Then she stood, moving on autopilot. She cleaned the mess, the gritty crunch of porcelain under paper towels the only sound. She showered, scrubbing at her skin until it was pink, trying to erase the memory of his rough, confused hands. The water beat down on muscles that felt like forged steel cables beneath the skin.
Amy found her like that hours later, sitting on the edge of her bed in just a towel, staring at the poster of a band she no longer felt she could listen to. The music belonged to a different person.
“Frank texted me,” Amy said, leaning in the doorway. Her voice was carefully neutral.
Jane didn’t look up. “I bet he did.”
“He said you came onto him. That you… showed him.”
That got Jane’s head up. “He what?”
Amy held up her hands. “I know. I called him a lying asshole and told him to lose my key. He’s blocked.” She came in and sat on the bed, the mattress dipping. She studied Jane’s profile. “But something did happen.”
Jane told her. The broken mug. The staring. The crude, competitive transaction. Amy listened, her expression shifting from anger to something more complex.
“He touched your arm?” she asked, her focus laser-specific.
“Yeah. He squeezed. Like he was testing a melon.”
“And you moved his hand.”
“I just… wanted him off.”
Amy’s eyes glittered. “Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me how you moved him. Do it to me.”
It was a bizarre pivot, but it was Amy. Everything was an experiment. Jane stood up, letting the towel drop. She faced Amy, who remained sitting. Jane reached out, took Amy’s wrist—gently—and began to apply pressure, just as she had with Frank.
Amy immediately resisted, her own muscles tightening. Jane increased the force, steady and inexorable. Amy’s arm began to move, pushed downward despite her straining. Her eyes went wide, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated delight.
“Holy shit, Jane. You weren’t just stronger. You’re strong. Like, stupid strong.” A grin split her face. “That’s the money shot. Not the other thing. This.”
For a moment, Jane felt a flicker of that same power, a clean, physical certainty. It was better than the confusing jumble of sensations between her legs. This was simple. A fact. She could move things.
The flicker died when she looked at the pill bottle on her nightstand. The next dose was due tomorrow. Phase Three. She pointed at it. “What’s it going to do next, Amy? What’s left to stabilize?”
Amy followed her gaze, her grin fading into thoughtfulness. “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out together.”
Two days later, Jane woke up at 3 AM with a dry mouth and a restless, buzzing energy in her limbs. She padded out to the kitchen for water. The apartment was silent, just the hum of the refrigerator. As she passed the living room, a shape on the couch made her jump.
It was Trent, Amy’s sort-of boyfriend, though ‘convenience’ was a better word. He was curled up under a blanket, his thin frame barely making a dent in the cushions. He must have let himself in after his bartending shift. Amy had mentioned he might crash. He was harmless, mostly. A satellite of neediness orbiting Amy’s brighter sun.
Jane got her water and turned to go back to her room.
“Hey.”
His voice was quiet, scratchy from sleep. She turned. He was sitting up, the blanket pooling around his waist. In the dim light from the streetlamp outside, his face looked pale, his eyes too bright.
“Hey, Trent. Didn’t see you there. Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t.” He rubbed his face. “Weird dreams.” He looked at her, his gaze travelling over the tank top and shorts she slept in. The changes were less shocking covered up, but still evident in the breadth of her shoulders, the cut of her arms. “Amy told me. About your… medical thing.”
Jane tensed. “Did she.”
“Yeah. She said it’s making you super strong. Said Frank was being a dick about it.” He paused. “She showed me the pills.”
A cold trickle of unease went down Jane’s spine. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“They’re in her bathroom cabinet. Little blue soldiers.” He swung his legs off the couch, standing up. He was shorter than her now, a fact that felt suddenly significant in the dark room. He took a step closer. “I took one.”
The world tilted. “You what?”
“Just one. Tonight. Wanted to see what it felt like.” He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. “I don’t feel stronger. I just feel… itchy. Like my skin’s too tight.” He took another step. He was close now, close enough for her to see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Amy says it’s different for everyone. Says it… grew you.”
His meaning was clear, his eyes dropping pointedly. This wasn’t curiosity like Amy’s. This was something needier, more desperate. A thin man’s fantasy.
“It’s not a party drug, Trent. It’s a protocol. You need to tell Amy. You could get sick.”
“I’m not sick.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “I just want to understand. Show me how it works.”
It was an echo of Frank’s demand, but without the aggression. This was a plea. Pathetic. Her disgust was tempered by a sudden, overwhelming sense of responsibility. He’d taken her medication. She walked past him, into Amy’s bathroom. The cabinet was open. The bottle was there, the cap loose. She counted. Two were missing.
“You took two, you liar.”
He was in the doorway behind her, crowding her. The bathroom was small. “Okay, two. I wanted to be sure.”
“You’re an idiot.” She turned, intending to push past him. Her hand pressed against his chest to move him. It was meant to be a light shove.
He flew backward as if yanked by a wire, his feet tangling, his back slamming into the opposite wall of the hallway with a dull thud. The air left his lungs in a pained oof. He slid to the floor, staring up at her, dazed and winded.
Jane stared at her own hand. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t felt strong.
Trent started to laugh, a gasping, pained sound. “Fuck. See? That’s… that’s amazing.” He struggled to his feet, a new, feverish excitement in his eyes. The impact seemed to have flipped a switch in him. “You’re like a superhero.”
“I’m calling Amy,” Jane said, reaching for her phone on the counter.
“No! Don’t.” He lunged, not at her, but to block the door. “Please. Just… show me the other part. The part Amy likes. I just want to see. I want to know what it’s supposed to do.”
He was breathing fast, his pupils wide. The drugs were in his system, doing Christ knows what. He was unstable. And he was between her and the exit. A new instinct, cold and clear, settled over her. Containing the situation was smarter than escalating it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice flat. “You want to see? Then we see.”
She walked past him, back to her bedroom. He followed, a nervous shadow. She didn’t turn on the main light, just the dim bedside lamp. The room was washed in soft, guilty yellow. She pulled her shorts and underwear down in one motion and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him with empty challenge. “There. Congratulations. You’ve seen it.”
Trent stared, his mouth slightly open. The clinical display seemed to disarm him for a moment. Then his own need rushed back in. He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats, pushing them down. His own erection, slight and anxious, sprang free. He looked from his to hers, and a slow, horrified realization dawned on his face.
The math was undeniable. Even soft, she had him outclassed.
A blotchy red flush spread from his neck to his cheeks. The excitement curdled into something bitter and competitive. “It’s not fair,” he whispered.
“None of this is fair, Trent.”
He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the evidence of his inadequacy. “Do you even need it?” he asked, a nasty edge creeping into his voice. “Or is it just for show?”
“Get out.”
“Make me.” He said it softly, a dare. He was touching himself now, a nervous, rapid stroke. His eyes were fixed on her, willing a response. It was the most pathetic power play she’d ever witnessed.
And yet, a corrosive heat began to spread through her own groin. It was the drug, she knew. It was always humming now, a low-level arousal waiting for a target. His humiliation, his desperation, his pathetic challenge—it was all a spark. She felt herself thickening, lengthening under his gaze, a visceral, autonomic retort.
His stroking faltered as he watched her change, his own hand slowing. The visual proof of his defeat was growing, literally, before him. A strangled sound escaped him. It wasn’t pleasure. It was anguish.
“Stop,” he breathed, but he didn’t look away.
She didn’t stop. Her own hand moved, not from desire, but from a deep, mechanistic urge to demonstrate a finished fact. To show him the completed equation his two stolen pills had only just begun to scribble on his own body.
They didn’t touch each other. They stood three feet apart in the dim room, a grotesque mirror image, hands moving in frantic, competing rhythms. It was a silent race to a finish line neither truly wanted. His breath hitched in panicked gasps. Hers was a low, controlled burn. The only sounds were the rustle of fabric and the soft, wet friction of skin.
He finished first, with a short, choked cry, doubling over as he spent himself on the floor. He looked up at her, his face a mask of exhausted shame.
She continued, relentless, her eyes holding his. She saw the exact moment his humiliation reached its peak, saw it flicker in his eyes, and that was the trigger. Her climax was a silent, powerful convulsion, a wave of tension that locked her muscles and then released in a slow, shuddering tide. It was a victory without triumph. An assertion without joy.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Trent scrambled to pull up his pants, avoiding her eyes. He looked smaller than when he’d arrived. Diminished.
“It’s not in the pills, Trent,” Jane said, her voice quiet and hoarse in the dark room. “It’s in the protocol. The shots. The monitoring. You just poisoned yourself for a preview.”
He fled, stumbling out of the bedroom. She heard the front door open and shut a moment later.
Jane cleaned up mechanically. She sat back on the bed, the adrenaline leaching away, leaving a hollow, metallic taste in the back of her throat. She looked at the bottle of pills on her nightstand. Phase Three. Trent had taken two of them. What would that do to him? What new variable had he just introduced?
She reached for her phone. She had to tell Amy. But her finger hovered over the call button. Amy would be furious, chaotic. She might go after Trent, make a scene. The money, the trial, everything could unravel.
A new thought, cold and practical, crystallized. Trent was a problem. But he was also a data point. An unintended test subject. What happened to him would be valuable information. For her.
She put the phone down. She would watch. She would wait. And she would see what two stolen blue soldiers could really do.