You stare ahead blankly with your arms at your sides. The black room’s featureless walls stared back at you. The corners had long since faded away to you. Your heart thudded steadily in your chest as the icy chill spreading through your veins was replaced with the familiar euphoric warmth. You could feel the passages expanding against your flesh as you breathed in time to the steady whirring that had bombarded your hearing for so long. You’re not even sure what day it is, let alone the week or month. Time has no meaning, when you have no means to track it.
You must wait. You know you must. You do not question why.
A deep voice sudden echoes from that seamless void. “What are you?”
Your pecs twitch as your mouth opens and you speak for what feels like the first time in centuries. “I am muscle.” A rush of pleasure cascades down your body from the top of your head to the very edges of your toes. You barely resist the urge to flex. Now is not the time. You are not sure how you know this, but you do. It is time to listen and respond. That is what you are here to do.
“And what does muscle do?”
“Muscle obeys the brain. It does as it is told.”
“That is correct. And if you are commanded to grow?”
“I am muscle. I will work. I will obey. I will grow.” You blink slowly as you feel your skin tightening, and your breathing becomes heavier, fuller.
“Muscle does not think for itself.”
“Muscle obeys,” you finish for the voice. It is a distant memory, this discussion, but it is so deeply ingrained within you that you know exactly what to say. How many times have you said it? Did it even matter? It was all Muscle memory now. You swallow as you feel your adam’s apple expanding and pushing against your throat. It bobs, while your trapezius muscles muscles expand in the slope along your shoulders and the cords along your neck thicken.
“That is good. That is right. Because you are dumb muscle.”
“Yes.” Your voice was deeper now. You could feel it rumble out from your diaphragm.
“You do as you are told.”
You stare ahead blankly and do not respond. You feel the distinct pressure starting to build against your crotch, and know that you are growing as muscle should. It fills you with satisfaction.
The voice tried again. “Do you have a name?”
You feel the dull ache and hear the snaps as your feet expand. That is of no concern. No pain, no gain. A muscle must gain. Instead, you answer the voice’s question. “No.”
“That is good. That is right.”
You feel your arms rising against your will. Your expanding biceps press against your swelling sides, pushing your arms away from their resting place.
You answer without question. “I am muscle. I obey.”
Your pupils didn’t constrict when the door finally slid open to spill light over your frame. You stared ahead at the walls, where reflection upon reflection stared back at you with blank expressions. Something flickered briefly in the back of your head and in your chest. Your body tensed, but you weren’t quite sure why. Then you felt a hand on your bicep. Another figure had joined you, wrapping measuring tape around your arms and torso. He looked up at you, even as you continued to stare ahead.
“You may flex, if you wish,” he said, and the words were like a switch had been flicked. Your arms shot up in a double bicep pose. Your boulder-like shoulders bunched and tensed as the skin grew taut over your slab-like pectorals and brick-like abdominals.
The three truths echo over and over in your mind as you open your mouth to speak. “Muscle flexes. Muscle listens. Muscle obeys.”
The sneer that contorted the man’s face was irrelevant as he peered up at you. He was the voice. He was the brain. The brain commanded the muscle. The muscle obeyed.
“That is right,” he said as he patted your sleek skin, and you let him. After all, muscles must be examined. “That is right.”
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