Chapter 21: Feeding the Machine
The frat kitchen smelled like stale grease and desperation. Last night’s pizza boxes formed a leaning tower near the overflowing bin, and empty energy drink cans littered the countertops like metallic casualties. Brick leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching. Mauler hunched over the worn couch in the corner, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the hazy air.
The spectacle was… efficient. Alarmingly so.
Dale Davies, once a lanky ghost haunting computer labs, now filled a borrowed rugby jersey like concrete poured into fabric. The seams screamed. He methodically shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth, fork scraping rhythmically against the chipped plate. Beside him, Ethan Finch – ‘Einstein’ – looked equally alien. His thick glasses perched on a face now framed by a thicker jawline and corded neck muscles. He chewed mechanically, his focus seemingly inward. Under the cheap plastic table, Ethan’s tree-trunk thigh, straining the worn denim of borrowed sweatpants, flexed rhythmically. Thump. It bumped the table leg. Thump.
"Pass the hot sauce, Davies," Brick commanded, his voice casual but carrying an undeniable edge.
Dale’s hand shot out instantly, snagging the bottle without looking up from his plate. He slid it across the sticky laminate towards Brick. Beneath the stretched collar of his jersey, a faint, golden pulse throbbed against Dale’s sternum. Ethan’s pendant, hidden beneath his own borrowed tee, echoed the glow a fraction of a second later.
"Good hands, Davies," Mauler rumbled from the couch, a note of surprised approval in his voice. He crushed his cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray. "Quick off the mark."
Dale just grunted, shoveling another forkful of eggs. His brow furrowed slightly, a fleeting ripple of confusion crossing his face. He blinked, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and the focused intensity snapped back into place. The pendant’s glow softened.
Brick watched Ethan. The physicist’s chewing slowed. His eyes, magnified behind the lenses, darted around the chaotic kitchen – the grimy sink, the overflowing bin, Mauler’s hulking form. A flicker of… something… panic? Recognition?… sparked in them. His thigh stopped flexing.
Thump.
Ethan’s head jerked slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then reopened them. The confusion was gone, replaced by that unnerving blankness. His thigh resumed its rhythmic pulse against the table leg. Thump. Thump.
"Finch," Brick said, sharper this time. "Eyes front. Focus on the fuel. Game day prep starts now."
Ethan’s head snapped towards Brick. "Yes, Captain," he responded, his voice deeper than Brick remembered, devoid of its usual hesitant tremor. He picked up his fork again, attacking the eggs with renewed, robotic vigor. Beneath his shirt, the pendant pulsed warmly.
Brick exchanged a glance with Mauler. The big man just shrugged, a slow grin spreading. "Told ya, Brick. Look at ‘em. Davies eats like a prop forward already. Finch… hell, look at the thickness on those legs. Imagine him hitting a ruck."
Brick nodded, forcing a confident smirk. Inside, a coil of unease tightened. It was working. Better than he’d dared hope. The pendants, the carefully crafted hypnosis scripts Dale had unknowingly helped refine… they were reshaping these guys, body and mind, into perfect rugby machines. The raw potential radiating off them was palpable. Dale’s sheer bulk promised immovable defense. Ethan’s transformed lower body screamed explosive power.
But the moments of confusion… those brief flickers where Ethan’s old self seemed to surface… they were cracks. Tiny, dangerous cracks. The voice commands were integrating, aligning their thoughts with rugby instincts, making the new personalities feel natural, inevitable. Yet Ethan’s analytical mind, perhaps, fought harder in the quiet moments.
Dale finished his plate with a final, decisive scrape. He pushed it away, his movements economical, powerful. He flexed his right hand, staring at the thick tendons standing out on his forearm. A low hum vibrated in his chest, almost subsonic. Satisfaction? The pendant glowed faintly.
"Feel strong, Davies?" Brick asked, keeping his tone light, conversational.
Dale looked up. His eyes, usually hidden behind a curtain of hair or a screen’s glow, met Brick’s directly. They were different too – sharper, colder. "Solid, Captain," he replied, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Ready for contact." He rolled his massive shoulders, the borrowed jersey fabric protesting audibly. Another flicker crossed his face – a micro-expression of bewilderment at his own words, his own sensations. He blinked it away, his jaw setting. The pendant pulsed, steadying him. The confusion vanished, replaced by a predatory stillness.
Ethan finished his own plate. He placed his fork down precisely. His transformed body radiated heat in the cramped kitchen. He stretched, a movement that showcased the new breadth of his shoulders and the dense power packed into his torso and legs. The table creaked as his thigh pressed against it.
"Systems primed, Captain," Ethan stated, his voice flat, efficient. He pushed his glasses up his nose, a familiar gesture rendered strange by the unfamiliar thickness of his fingers and wrist. "Optimal protein conversion achieved. Awaiting tactical deployment." The jargon flowed unnaturally smooth, a perfect echo of the hypnosis scripts.
Brick’s smirk felt more genuine this time. The cracks were sealing. The programming was winning. "Good. Both of you." He pushed off the fridge. "Mauler, take them down to the basement gym. Run them through the basic strength diagnostics. See what we’re really working with."
Mauler lumbered to his feet, cracking his knuckles. "Hell yeah. Time to see what these puppies can lift." He gestured towards the basement door. "Move it, recruits. Legs!"
Dale stood instantly, his movement surprisingly fluid for his new bulk. Ethan followed, rising with a sense of contained power that made the floorboards groan. They moved towards the door, their footsteps heavy, synchronized. Dale’s borrowed jersey stretched taut across his back. Ethan’s thick thighs filled the borrowed sweatpants to capacity.
Brick watched them go, flanked by Mauler’s eager bulk. The kitchen door swung shut behind them, muffling the heavy tread descending the stairs. The lingering smell of smoke and eggs suddenly felt thin, insubstantial.
He walked over to the table they’d vacated. Ethan’s plate was clean. Dale’s too. But beside Ethan’s plate, a single fork lay slightly askew. Brick picked it up. The cheap metal was bent. Twisted. As if gripped by a hand discovering immense, uncontrolled strength.
Brick stared at the distorted fork. The coil of unease tightened into a cold knot. The power was undeniable. The obedience, so far, was absolute. But the cost… the sheer, terrifying force now residing in those transformed bodies… He dropped the bent fork onto the plate with a clatter. It landed next to a faint, greasy smear where Ethan’s powerful thigh had pressed relentlessly against the table’s edge. The basement door thumped faintly below, followed by the clang of heavy weights being loaded onto a bar. The foundation was laid. The recruits were primed. The game had irrevocably changed. Brick took a deep breath, the scent of potential now laced with the faint, metallic tang of fear.