The New Guard
Inspired by @badguyswin and his MFSA stories.
The air outside of the stadium was full of with tension. The game was about to start, and the “Make Football Straight Again” supporters were out in force—flags waving, red shirts worn proudly, demonstrating traditional manhood in sports. Facing them was a small, shrill group of counter-protesters.
At the front was 21-year-old Liam Brooks: scrawny, weak-shouldered, barely 5’7”, with a soft, unimpressive body hidden under a baggy Pride hoodie. His voice was whiny as he screamed into his megaphone: “Make Football Queer Again! Bigots out!”
Liam believed every word. He saw the MFSA movement as pure evil that needed to be crushed.
It was then that the change slammed into him like a freight train.
A deep, unnatural heat surged up from the ground, wrapping around his skinny frame. Liam gasped, dropping his sign as his body began to violently reshape.
His spine elongated with loud cracks, rocketing him up to 6’4”. Thin legs exploded with muscle with calves turning into hard diamonds, quads ballooning into massive, powerful slabs that shredded his jeans instantly. His narrow chest barreled outward into thick, heavy pecs covered in coarse dark hair. Shoulders widened dramatically, arms swelling into veined, rock-hard biceps and forearms built for dominance. His abs carved into a solid eight-pack, and his ass tightened into powerful, muscular glutes as his back entrance closed tighter, nothing going in there anymore. A thick, heavy bulge formed between his legs, enlarged and aroused further by the changes.
His face aged and hardened in seconds. Youthful softness vanished, replaced by a square, weathered jaw lined with salt-and-pepper stubble. His hair receded into a tight, buzz cut, graying at the temples. Crow’s feet and deep lines made him look every bit of 48 years old. His soft brown eyes turned cold, steel-blue, and mean. Covered by sunglasses that were as dark as his intentions.
The baggy clothes dissolved and reformed into a crisp Police Department uniform stretched tight over his new muscular body. Badge gleaming: Officer Brock Harlan. Heavy tactical boots, full duty belt with holstered weapon, cuffs, baton, and radio. A crisp tie formed around his neck, adding to his new air of authority.
But the worst changes were mental.
Liam’s progressive ideals didn’t just fade. They twisted and rotted into something ugly. College lectures on inclusion warped into a deep, seething contempt for “degenerates,” “freaks,” and “woke scum.” A cruel streak emerged, a love of power and punishment. He now craved enforcing order the hard way—especially on people like his old self. Corruption bloomed naturally: he saw the badge as a license to bully, to take what he wanted, to make examples out of anyone who resisted “real American values.” The MFSA movement wasn’t just something he supported now. It was his cause. He would protect it ruthlessly, and he would enjoy every second of breaking the betas and sissys who opposed it.
Officer Brock Harlan flexed his massive arms, cracking his thick neck with a predatory grin. The old Liam was completely gone, replaced by something far darker. Something far better.
“Party’s over, you pathetic little shits,” he growled in a deep, gravelly Carolina drawl, his voice dripping with contempt and authority.
The remaining protesters froze.
Brock laughed—a low, nasty sound—and stepped forward, towering over them with his huge, muscular frame. His steel-blue eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure.
“You freaks have been ruining this game long enough. Pushing your sick agenda on kids, turning locker rooms into freak shows. Not anymore.”
He snatched a rainbow flag from a protester’s hands and ripped it to shreds with ease, muscles bulging. “Make Football Straight Again isn’t just a slogan. It’s the truth. And I’m gonna make sure it sticks. Men in men’s sports. Real men. Real football.”
Brock grabbed the closest activist by the collar with one massive hand, lifting the smaller man slightly off the ground. “You gonna keep causing trouble tonight? Because I’d love an excuse to drag your sorry ass in. Rough.” His smile was cold and vicious. “I’ve got cuffs, a baton, and plenty of ways to make the process… educational.”
Fear rippled through the group. Brock released the man with a shove, sending him stumbling backward.
“Get the hell out of here,” he barked.
As the protesters scattered in panic, Brock adjusted his duty belt over his thick, powerful waist, chuckling darkly to himself. He felt no remorse—only a rush of sadistic satisfaction. The movement had given him everything: a powerful body, real purpose, and the perfect position to crush its enemies.
He turned toward the roaring stadium, arms crossed over his massive chest, a cruel smirk on his rugged face.
“Time to keep the game straight,” he muttered. “And I’m gonna enjoy every fucking minute of it.”
