Chapter 35: Command Transmission
The TA’s friend – Mike, Ethan’s frazzled memory supplied – looked like a cornered rabbit. He’d dropped the cue chalk. It rolled under the sagging leather couch, forgotten. His knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the pool table’s edge, eyes darting wildly from his vacant friend, still exhibiting that telltale bulge, to Ethan and Dale advancing on him. The common room’s usual chaotic energy had fractured; pockets of wary silence spread outwards from the pool table, punctuated by nervous whispers and the relentless thump of bass bleeding from a distant room.
"Easy, Mikey," Brick called out, leaning against the doorframe, the picture of relaxed authority. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. "Just a little demonstration. Show you what the team offers. Real potential."
Mike flinched as Dale stopped a foot away, his tall frame blocking the flickering light from the TV screen. Dale’s expression was blank, unreadable, but a faint, unnatural crimson glow pulsed from beneath the collar of his dark t-shirt where the pendant lay. His long fingers twitched at his sides.
Ethan stepped alongside Dale, feeling the golden warmth radiating from his own amulet against his chest. The taste of Dale’s mouth – mint and metal and blood – was still sharp on his tongue, a confusing counterpoint to the cold, focused energy humming through him. He saw Mike’s terror, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. It mirrored his own panic just weeks ago. A flicker of unease, quickly smothered by the surge of power and the insistent programming echoing Brick’s command: Show him.
"Look," Ethan said, his voice sounding deeper, steadier than he felt. He gestured towards the TA. "See what happens? Potential unlocked. Strength."
Mike whimpered, trying to shrink back against the table. "What did you do to him? Tom... he looks... wrong." His voice cracked. Tom, the TA, stood rigidly, swaying slightly, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the stained ceiling tiles. A faint sheen of sweat coated his forehead.
"Improved him," Dale stated flatly. He didn’t ask. His hand shot out, surprisingly fast, and clamped onto Mike’s bicep. The contact was electric. Mike yelped, trying to pull away, but Dale’s grip, amplified by whatever power the red stone channeled, was unyielding. It felt less like flesh and more like iron wrapped in worn cotton.
Ethan moved in closer, the golden light from his temples intensifying, casting sharp, shifting shadows across Mike’s terrified face. He saw Dale’s free hand lift, hovering near the golden pendant Ethan wore. Dale’s eyes met his for a fraction of a second – a silent signal. A shared understanding, forged in that brutal kiss and the chilling effectiveness of their power.
As Dale’s fingertip brushed the warm gold of Ethan’s pendant, the connection snapped into place. Power roared through them both, a circuit completed. The golden light from Ethan flared, brilliant and dominant, engulfing Mike’s face. Simultaneously, threads of crimson energy, emanating from Dale, snaked out, wrapping around Mike’s trapped arm, creeping up his shoulder.
Mike’s scream died in his throat, choked off into a strangled gasp. His struggles ceased instantly. His eyes, wide with terror a moment before, glazed over. The frantic fear melted away, replaced by a vacant, eerie stillness, identical to Tom’s. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris, fixed unblinkingly on the source of the golden light: Ethan.
"Initiate baseline protocols," Dale murmured, his voice a low monotone. His hand, still gripping Mike’s arm, began to move. Not caressingly, but with the clinical precision of an engineer assessing a structure. His fingers pressed, probed the lean muscle beneath the thin t-shirt. "Substandard arm definition. Triceps require significant hypertrophy. Lats underdeveloped. Core stability insufficient." Each pronouncement was delivered coldly, a diagnostic report. As he spoke, the crimson energy pulsed brighter where he touched, sinking into Mike’s flesh.
Ethan focused the golden light, channeling the core programming Brick had designed. Images, sensations, commands flooded Mike’s surrendered mind: Strength. Obedience. Brotherhood. Belonging. Desire the power. Submit to the forge. He felt the raw potential within Mike, a sketch compared to the blueprint Brick demanded. He saw the scrawny frame, the nervous hunch, the lack of physical confidence.
"Shoulders need broadening," Ethan added, his voice resonating with an unfamiliar authority. He visualized the changes, willing them through the connection. "Chest expansion parameters require maximization. Neural pathways for aggression and loyalty need reinforcement." The golden light pulsed, etching the commands into Mike’s pliant consciousness.
As they worked, a subtle shift occurred. Beneath Dale’s probing fingers and the invasive crimson glow, the fabric of Mike’s t-shirt pulled tighter across his shoulders. Not dramatically, but noticeably. The lean muscle of his trapped arm seemed to harden, the outline becoming sharper, denser under Dale’s grip. A faint flush spread across Mike’s neck, not from exertion, but as if blood flow was being forcibly rerouted. His breathing deepened, steadying from panic to something more rhythmic, controlled. His vacant eyes, though still fixed on Ethan, held a new, unsettling depth – the spark of personality extinguished, replaced by a nascent, programmed hunger.
"Good. Good," Brick murmured from his vantage point, his earlier satisfaction deepening into something predatory. He watched Mike’s subtle transformations with the intensity of a sculptor eyeing wet clay. "See the potential, Anvil? Hammer? We’re building something unstoppable."
From the edge of the crowd, Marcus "Mauler" Johnson shifted his massive weight. The unease that had flickered during the kiss was now a storm cloud darkening his broad face. He watched Dale’s clinical assessment, Ethan’s dominating light, the terrifying passivity of the recruits. His thick arms were folded tightly across his chest, knuckles white like Mike’s had been moments before. He didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near his temple.
Dale finished his assessment, releasing Mike’s now slightly thicker arm. The crimson threads faded. Ethan let the golden light slowly dim, though the connection to Mike’s mind remained, a live wire humming with implanted commands. Mike stood perfectly still, a statue undergoing metamorphosis. Beside him, Tom remained trapped in his own vacant state, a testament to their previous work.
Dale’s gaze slid from Mike to Ethan. That unnerving light was still in his eyes, a reflection of the red stone’s power. His lips, slightly swollen from their earlier collision, parted. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression – not the cold precision of Anvil, but a confusion, a question, an echo of the Dale Ethan used to know. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the focused intensity of the role they were playing. But the look landed, a hot coal in Ethan’s stomach, reigniting the chaotic mix of power, shame, and the unsettling, undeniable pull he felt towards his friend.
Brick pushed himself off the doorframe, clapping his hands once, sharply. "Hydration and rest cycle for the new assets," he announced, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. He gestured towards two burly players lingering nearby. "Get ’em downstairs. Secure." He then turned his attention fully back to Ethan and Dale, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of control and the scent of success. "You two… cleanup. Then my office. We have strategies to discuss. National champs don’t build themselves." He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Tonight, we plan the next batch." His gaze swept meaningfully around the common room, lingering on several watching pledges who quickly looked away. The message was clear: the forge was hungry. It was just getting started. Ethan felt the weight of Dale’s stare beside him, the golden amulet still warm against his skin, and the chilling momentum of Brick’s ambition pushing them relentlessly forward.