The House Of The Rising Guns

The House of the Rising Guns

“You think he’s gonna come out?” the first of the bullies asked.

Grant rolled his eyes as he folded his toned arms and stared at the white door. The old house had been abandoned for years, and they’d seen to it that their little freshie would be scared out of his mind, thanks to all the little surprises they’d cooked up. “Little nerd probably cried himself to sleep last night.” He strode out to the porch and thumped heavily on the door. “Yo, Jackson! You can come out now!” he shouted.

The door slowly creaked open to reveal the barest trappings of a cloth over a long rectangular surface that most likely was a mirror. Grant’s eyes widened when a wall of muscle lumbered out onto the porch, instead of the weak asthmatic he had come to enjoy teasing. The brim of the boy’s cap cast a shadow over his chiseled square jaw, and a sleeveless tanktop that read FOX with a fox head next to it on its front had replaced the hoodie he’d worn the night before.

The muscle man’s arms rose in a double bicep flex to expose the patches of hair that had grown out his armpits. The bullies watched in awe and surprise as that hair lightened before their eyes from a dark auburn to a bright gold. Veins snaked out over the sculpted curves and ridges of his arms, while his pectorals and lats bulged and expanded in the morning light.

He didn’t seem to recognize them as he looked down on the bullies. “’Sup, bros?” he lowed in a deep stuffy voice.

“Jackson?” Grant asked disbelievingly.

“The one n’only.” He let out a low deep guffaw as he posed and flexed in front of the boys. “This place is fucking ace! You guys should totally join me for my morning workout. They’ve got a whole gym in here! Treadmills, weights, rowing machines, the works!” He groaned in pleasure and rolled his eyes. “And the kitchen! All the supps a bro could ask for. You’ve gotta come see, guys,” he gushed.

“Come ... see....”

Jackson recoiled as he felt one of his possy shoulder past him to step heavily onto the porch. The kid’s eyes were glassy as he stared into Jackson’s own, and he swayed on his feet.

Jackson sneered. “Knew I’d get at least one of you to wanna come.” He clapped his thick hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Welcome to the House of the Rising Guns, bro.”

Grant gaped as he watched the shirt starting to ride up on his former crony, followed by the sound of creaking denim. The kid’s arms rose to mirror Jackson’s.

“Sun’s out, guns out,” he said with a chuckle.

“That’s right, bro. Come on in. Let me give you the grand tour.”

Grant gaped after the pair as the door creaked shut with a heavy slam.

After three solid minutes of gaping and running through the conversation in his head, he finally managed to say, “... What the fuck just happened?” He scratched a pectoral absently as he turned to his remaining two underlings. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. The other two nodded numbly as they strode away from the building. They didn’t notice how tight their shoes had become, nor the way their shirts had begun to cling to their torsos.

Jackson smirked as he watched them depart from behind one of the tinted windows. “They’ll be back,” he said to his new companion.

“Bro....” the other replied as he pumped a set of heavy dumbbells in either hand and watched his shirt slowly get torn apart in the process.

Jackson chuckled. “That’s a good little bro.”

What are you?

“A lowly recruit, Sir.”

And why are you here?

“I am here to train.”

For what purpose?

“To be the perfect soldier.”

And soldiers follow orders, don’t they?

“Yes, Sir.”

It is good to follow the orders of a superior.

“Yes, Sir.”

Good to obey, like a good soldier.

“Yes, Sir.”

And I am your superior, aren’t I?

“Yes.”

So that means you obey me, soldier.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

Good recruit. Welcome to the Spartan Program, where Strength, Obedience, and Discipline are all that matter. You will be molded. You will become the perfect warrior, the first of many. Sparta will live again.

“*Groan* Yes, Sir....”

You feel the first effects of my blessing, Spartan. This is but a taste of what I have to offer you, should you prove worthy.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Come now. You know me better than that. Address me properly, Recruit.

“Yes, ... Lord Ares.”

Good, good. Keep that up, and you’ll reach Captain in no time. I expect great things from you, Recruit. You are to lead a new generation of Spartans. Fill these barracks again. Return my troops to me, and I shall reward you handsomely.

“As my god commands.”

Good boy. Now go work out. I expect you to put on another five pounds of muscle by the end of today’s workout.

“SIR, YES, SIR!”

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The Game

You’ve heard of video games and drinking games, but bro, you haven’t lived until you’ve played the lifting game. It’s so fucking addicting!

How’s it work? You’ve just gotta join the Gaming Gym, bro. Dumb bros keep saying muscleheads and nerds can’t get along. That’s bullshit. Got recommended to this place by one of my bros, and I’ve never turned back. They’ve got this sweet gaming room. Tabletop, cardgames, videogames, consoles. You name it, they’ve got it. There’s just one rule to get in. You’ve gotta spend at least a half hour doing fitness. Cardio, weights, doesn’t matter as long as you put in the work. And they have the best fucking save system! I don’t know how they do it, but there’s this reader they put in at all the game consoles. You just insert your membership card, and it’ll pull up your save files for whatever game you’re playing, no questions asked. I don’t know what kinda deal they had to pull with the manufacturers to pull it off, but bro, it’s sweet.

The lifting game? Oh. Oh, yeah! Huhuh. Sorry ’bout that, bro. Kinda nerded out for a second there. I can be kind of a dumbass like that, sometimes. The lifting game’s got its own space aside from the rest of the gaming room. There are stations all over one of the walls, and it still has lines. The name says it all. It’s a game about lifting stuff.

Hey, don’t knock it till you try it! It’s harder than it sounds. You know VR, right? S’kinda like that. The more points you earn in the game, the higher your rank gets in the gym, and the more benefits you can earn, like VIP access to some of the games, special training programs, free health drinks from the bar once a month (or even once a week, if you’re really good), that sort of thing. It takes some getting used to at first, but bro, once you get into it, you won’t want to stop.

Don’t believe me? I used to weigh 130 when I started here. Now look at me. I’ve more than doubled that weight. I fucking love to lift, bro. And it’s all thanks to that game.

What’s my rank now? Bro, can’t you tell? I’m an NPC!

Well, of course we’re gonna have gaming references for ranks! It’s the Gaming Gym, bro, where you come to game and gain!

Come on. Let me give you the tour. Nah, bro. It’s no trouble. After all, I’m the welcoming NPC.

Gotta give those tutorials, m’I right, lil’bro?

Free

“I’m ... free to go?” Derek asked in a stunned voice.

The big man at the door nodded mutely, his tight black suit and blocky shades made him the epitome of the stereotypical villain’s guard. “You may leave this room and do as you wish.”

“No strings attached?”

“No strings attached.”

The shorter man leaned back against the bed as the full weight of those words sank in. “Free,” he mumbled. “I ... I can go.”

“Wherever you want,” the guard agreed in a grating rumble.

“Where are we?”

The guard smiled. “That’s for you to find out. I’m just here to give you the big news.”

The man scratched a casual itch on his thigh, then pulled at the strap on his thong. “This is ... wow. It’s ... well--”

“A lot to take in.”

“Exactly. I ... I can go.”

“Yup.”

“Any time I want.”

“Yup.”

“Anywhere at all.”

“Yup.”

“But ... I’m not moving.”

The guard shrugged. “You haven’t decided where you want to go.”

“Huh. Good point. I ... guess I should get my bearings, figure things out.”

“A sound idea,” the guard said in a neutral tone. He shrugged. “You’re free to go.”

Derek blinked absently.

“You going to move?” the guard asked. “I can’t stand here all day.”

“O-oh. Yeah. ... Yeah....” Derek strode dazedly to the door. He could hear the sound of shuffling footsteps and heavy thumps. He peeked outside. Identical rectangular doors were opening. A slow trickle of tan men slowly filtered out into the hall, peering bewildered at their peers. “There are ... others?”

“And you’re all free to go,” the deep voice rumbled behind him.

Derek took a tentative step into the hall. The other men mirrored his action, as though they were afraid it were some dream. Some retreated into their rooms. Others strode into the hall and blinked as they breathed the chemical scent of carpet cleaners and disinfectants.

“Free,” one of them breathed in utter bewilderment.

“Free to go,” another guard agreed from his place in the former prisoner’s room.

“Free to go,” one parroted. “I’m ... free to go.” He took one heavy step forward. The sound of the impact carried like an explosive charge. The whole hall tensed. Nothing happened. Nobody moved to stop him. His head darted left and right. His high-and-tight military cut accentuated the hints of jaw bone showing beneath his skin. He wore an identical thong to Derek and the other men. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the cooler air and exhilaration of sudden freedom sent goosebumps racing over his skin. He took another step forward. “I’m...” Another one. “Free to....” One more. “Go.”

He stopped, peered behind him in fear. The guard continued to stare from the portal, but made no move to follow. His breathing became shallow. A smile pulled at his lips, even as he fought back the tears that welled in his eyes. He stepped forward again, more confidently this time. “I’m free--” Thump. “--to go.” Thump. “I’m free--” Thump. “--to go.” Thump.

He grinned as he began to pick up speed and walk past the first few doors, reciting to himself in time to his forceful steps. “I’m free to go. I’m free to go...”

One set of footprints was soon joined by two more, then four, then six. The voices rang in unison, a motivating cry calling to the wary and frightened souls that still hovered in the doorways. Derek soon found himself ensconced in the ranks. The pace was awkward at first, but the continuous chant pounded in rhythm, and he soon adapted to the march.

Some laughed. Others cried. Others cheered at the top of their lungs. The call remained the same. It remained as their troops divided. Some waited by elevators, still chanting as they pushed the call buttons and marched in place. Others strode to a great metal door and shoved it open to the echoing stairwell that waited beyond. The echoes repeated as foot struck stair, smacking in time to the chorus of voices.

Derek peered down, surprised to see so many heads, so many bodies pressing forward in an orderly fashion. He wanted to think. He wanted to question. And yet, all he could think, all he could recall, was that wondrous phrase over and over as he grinned. “I’m free to go.”

The passage opened on the ground floor as the body moved en masse to pass through a finely decorated lobby. A backlit sign read Growing Pains Spa over the desk. A smaller subtext ran underneath the main title that read, Relax and Gain.

He blinked. His mouth kept moving. His bare feet kept thumping. His gaze turned idly to the tinted glass doors with their bronze handles and revolving shafts. Some of the other men strode through them. One cycle later, more guards would walk in with that same set of shades, broad shoulders, and rippling muscles.

Derek grunted briefly as he felt a familiar warmth in his crotch, followed by a tightness in the pouch. That warmth spread, until he began to sweat. His hands twitched and clenched as the march continued forward past a photo checkpoint and into a room filled with a hauntingly familiar sound.

Metal plates clacked steadily with the grunts and growls of many a muscular man. Music pulsed and thumped in his ears. And then he saw it in great bold capital letters that plastered the high brick walls in vivid red to draw the eye of every visitor in.

YOU’RE FREE TO GROW.

Derek thudded over to a weight machine, not even thinking anymore as his body moved for him. He watched impassively as burlier men strode into the locker room ENTRANCE. Seconds later, a new set of guards strode out the EXIT with grim expressions on their faces.

Derek hardly registered as one of them approached him. He pushed through the exercise, even as the visor lowered over his head. His posture didn’t deviate as the earbuds snaked into his ear canal. His form didn’t waver as his vision of the room slowly blacked out to be replaced by a bombardment of images accompanied by sound.

His mouth gaped open as he began to pant under his breath. “I’m free to grow ... I’m free to grow ... I’m free to grow ... free to grow ... freed to grow ... need to grow....”

The guard backed away and spoke in a dull monotone. “Relax and gain,” he said. “Relax and grow. Relax, ... and obey....”

One of my followers said he was getting bored of the usual dumbing down tfs that I’d been doing, so I thought I’d mix it up with this one and plant it in my Omnistore universe. Hope you all enjoy.

Going Medieval

Trent looked over the simple worn garment and sighed. The shopkeeper had promised the item would be properly authentic, but the thing was far too large. He’d be swallowed by it, if he tried to wear it. The thing would barely hold to the edge of his shoulders.

“Just try it. I find my costumes fit my clients just right in the end,” the owner had said with a smirk that looked very much like a sneer as the teeth on the dark fox head revealed themselves.

How this enigmatic Ronoc had managed to create such a detailed and realistic costume, Trent would never know, but he was willing to do practically anything to look good for the party.

He sighed as he pulled the simple pants from the hangar and drew them up his legs. The extra material pooled on the ground in a rippling puddle of cloth as he cinched up a leather belt with an intricate metal skull that grinned out at the changing room mirror. Then came the shirt. As he suspected, the material felt worn, and draped heavily over his frame. It felt more like a night gown than it did a medieval garment. The lack of sleeves certainly didn’t help that image. At most, this shirt could have been deemed a summer garment for a peasant.

“It’s too big,” he called through the door.

“Just give it a moment to sink in,” Ronoc’s voice called back. Trust me, you’ll feel right at home in it soon enough.”

“Clearly, you and I have different ideas of a proper form-fitting costume,” Trent said as he reached for the clasp on the belt. “I’m taking it off.” He’d just seized the clasp when his whole body spasmed and his hands jerked away from the metal. “What the hell?” he gasped. “It shocked me!” He reached over and probed the belt experimentally. The metal felt cold as ice, but no jolt shook his frame this time. His breathing came faster as his cheeks flushed. The colder the buckle felt, the warmer the room seemed to become.

“Patience is very important in my services, you know,” Ronoc’s voice carried over the door. “It simply wouldn’t do for you to take off the costume before it’s finished its work.”

“W-work? What work?” Trent’s voice cracked as he asked.

“You’ll see. Phase one should be underway by now. Go ahead and watch. It’s quite the enjoyable experience for those who seek power, or so I’ve been told.”

Trent leaned against the wall of the room as the dizziness took him. His skin tingled along his scalp, ears, cheeks, and face. He huffed, then whipped around. He could’ve sworn he felt someone touching him, but no one was there. Again the sensation arose, more like a gentle caress than the teasing he’d received in school.

“What the hell...?”

“It’s perfectly natural to feel certain pleasurable sensations as you change. I recommend you allow them to come,” Ronoc said calmly. “The sooner you enjoy them, the sooner we can move forward with finishing your costume.”

“What are you--?” Trent gasped as he felt a warmth building in his crotch, followed by a swelling between his legs. He groaned as he spread his legs apart to make room for the impossibility he knew was happening down there. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as the mysterious specter went back to work with a vengeance. Knots were kneaded, flesh rubbed down, all while the heat spread and the pleasure rose. His shoulders slumped as his jaw went slack.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Ronoc asked teasingly.

Trent could only groan again as he heard the undeniable scrape of stubble grate in his ears while he felt the surface of the hairs being pulled by his mysterious masseuse. He barely even heard the snap and crack as his jaw realigned and his shoulders expanded. The sensation of his feet growing longer and thicker left him swaying unsteadily. He huffed as he leaned against the side of the mirror and watched in a drunken haze as his chest broadened and his torso rose. There was muscle there, and proper tone. His skin darkened to a healthy tan, while the edges of his hair bleached to a suntouched blond with darker tones beneath.

He felt the surge of pressure as his Adam's apple jutted forward and his neck’s muscles expanded with his now significantly broader shoulders. He barely heard the rustle of the fabric as it rose from the floor, though he recognized the gentle pull against his skin as the shirt rubbed his torso.

Finally, the endless assault of pleasure and heat stopped. Trent panted to catch his breath and center himself. Then he stared into the mirror and gaped.

“Is that ... me?” he asked. His clutched at his throat as he heard his new deeper voice for the first time. His square face and chiseled jaw jutted with masculine edges under the light. A shadow was cast over his dark eyes from his brow, giving him an attractive smolder that many a girl would swoon over. His beard had grown in sufficiently to cover and accentuate his chin and cheeks as he puckered and spread his lips to get a proper look at his changes.

“I told you my costumes fit their hosts well,” Ronoc said with a wicked chortle.

“I’m ... big,” Trent marveled.

“Oh, we’re not finished yet,” Ronoc purred. Trent could practically hear the sneer behind the words.

“Not finished? What’re you--?” Fire burned in his veins as his hands clenched and unclenched. The appendages swelled to twice their size as his veins stood out against his skin. He roared as he felt that familiar tingle that seeped into his skin and deep to the bone. His jaw snapped again as two sharp teeth jutted out from his lower lip to rise on either side of his face. The blond faded as the darker hair beneath consumed it, darkening from sunny to sandy to brown to black. It lengthened down to his shoulders as taut skin strained against the rapid pace of his swelling muscles. The healthy tan gradually darkened to a murky brown with hints of swamp green. Finally, the green overtook it as the fire drove itself into his eyes and he watched the iris bleed into a glowing ruby. His brow jutted forward into a shelf that left his face with a perpetual menacing appearance about it.

He ground his new stronger teeth together as he bore the pain. The shirt now strained against his titanic form, and the pants clung tightly to the muscles beneath. He heard the swish of cloth and looked down in surprise to see the belt buckle had expanded into a far larger and hideous skull that held a loin cloth in place over the pants. Its eyes also glowed red as he felt the burning anger surge through him. Rage at the ones who had dealt so dishonorably with him, bloodlust for revenge, and an overpowering urge to fight, control, conquer.

The new orc roared, and the skull’s mouth opened in a terrible pantomime. Its maw gaped hungrily as the war cry died off, and Trent’s shoulders heaved against the now paper-thin material of his shirt. His new sharp ears jutted out to ether side of him, peeking through the veil of his black hair. He turned, and the hair whipped wildly behind him as he slammed the door open to stalk up to the store provider. He towered over the puny creature now, yet the creature remained the picture of calm. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Part of him was outraged. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him felt respect for the lack of fear. He wasn’t sure which part he wanted to listen to yet.

“Well now, Durog, you certainly do look fantastic. I told you my costumes worked well.”

Trent furrowed his heavy brow. “Durog?”

“Well, you couldn’t well keep calling yourself Trent. That’s a human name.”

A wave of involuntary disgust rose in the new orc, and his face contorted in distaste.

“I see you agree with me. And yet you’re confused by that agreement.” Ronoc shrugged. “It is how it is. You get the form, you get the instincts that go with it. Just accept the new name. Trust me, it’ll feel better for you, if you do.”

The belt’s eyes flashed. Durog’s eyes flashed. “I’ll need armor,” he growled.

“Naturally,” Ronoc agreed. “A warrior should always be ready for battle.”

“On that, we are agreed.”

“And a chief should always be ready to lead.” Ronoc sneered as he brushed the belt. “You won’t be the only orc walking the streets tonight, if you play your cards right. Just let Durog do the driving. The belt will take care of the rest.”

Durog sneered. “I believe I’ve decided I like you after all, Ronoc.”

Ronoc sneered back. “I thought you might. Just do your best not to forget Trent. Do that and, well, you might well be stuck as Durog forever.”

Durog smirked as a Minotaur tossed him a wicked battleaxe. It carved through the air with a familiar weight that made him grin.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

The Captive

“How do you do it?” a young teen asked as he looked up at the muscle man tugging the elastic bands for his resistance training. “How can you always be so dedicated?”

The man cocked his head as the veins bulged out of his arms. The slightest fluctuation around his cheeks and jaw betrayed anxiety. The rest of his face seemed more calm, curious. The light reflected off his sculpted chest as his swollen biceps flexed and strained with his triceps and flexors. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” the kid said excitedly. “I’d give anything to get strong like you.”

The man laughed. His mouth broadened into a grin. His eyes watered, but that was likely a result of either Spring allergies or maybe irritation from contacts. “Anything, huh?” His breathing remained steady as he strained against the tense wires. “Even your freedom?”

“Uh ... what?”

“There’s a reason I wear this gear, you know. There’s a reason I’m always working out. I used to be like you, kid. Normal, small, weak. I was just a lot chubbier, and I had a lot more nasty habits when it came to food.” He sighed. “Well, my body got sick of it.”

He shook his head to cut off any commentary. “No, I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean literally. I woke up one morning to find myself actively doing pushups and situps without any memory of how I got there. It was small at first, little things like that. A minor piece of fitness here, a few healthier choices there. For example, when I reached toward a bag of chips, and there was something better close at hand, my body would freeze, and I’d have to either pick the healthy snack or just forget it.

“I talked to doctors about it when it got worse. Eventually, I got locked away in a psych ward. I went through hypnotists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and who knows what else.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t fun. I finally got out of that hell, and by then I had little choice. My body had gained more control than I had. I walked where my legs wanted me to go. I lifted what my arms wanted me to lift. I ate what my hands put in front of my face, because I couldn’t do anything else.” A tear slid down his cheek. “I still can’t.” He gestured to his thigh with a jerk of his head. “There’s a reason I wear that brand of shorts, you know. My muscles like the idea of the joke. They’re alive, kid. My body literally has its own consciousness, and it’s taken the driving seat away from me.”

He lowered his broad back and released the tool he’d been using, then tromped past the kid toward the leg press. “I get maybe a couple of hours to call my own each day, and only if they fall within the habits my body wants me to follow.” He released a deep chuckle as he set the weight and positioned himself on the chair. “My consciousness broke for a while when I couldn’t cope, you know. I created the persona of a musclehead. For all intents and purposes, I was the perfect dumb jock stereotype, right down to the low IQ and bro talk.” He sighed. “Eventually, I clawed my way back to my old self again, but I still couldn’t really do much.” He grunted as he pushed against the plate, and his calves and thighs bulged with the effort. “I still try to work out a compromise with it from time to time. Sometimes negotiations succeed, and sometimes they fail. When I do what my muscles want, I get....” He shuddered and groaned as his legs retracted and the plates clanked against each other. “Rewarded.” His cheeks flushed as he pushed again. “I’m a slave to my own body, kid. Trust me, it’s--” His neck twitched. “It’s--” His head jerked. “No, no, no!” he snarled. “You pro--”

His mouth broadened into a grin as haunted eyes stared helplessly, pleadingly. He rose from the machine and adjusted the weight to a lighter setting. “It’s an experience you’ll learn to love.” He motioned to the chair and its plate.

The boy trembled as he approached the chair with wide eyes. He sat down. “What’s--?”

A heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, and it was like an electrical current passing through. “Welcome to your new life.”

The boy groaned as his legs pushed and a surge of pleasure rebounded through his body.

The man’s chuckle was low and deep. “We knew we were’t alone.”