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(THE SWEETIE PIE. HEADQUATERS AND CAPITAL WARSHIP OF THE REBEL FORCES)

Lieutenant-Colonel Mitch Michelson, twenty-two, beautiful and brilliant, and, he mused, probably a bit arrogant for knowing it. But that was okay, for he needed every magnificent piece of himself for his chosen path. Lesser men would have been broken by war efforts. Lesser men would have surrendered to fate. But lesser men did not rise up to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel at the mere age of twenty-two, even if he was in a rebel military.

The latest raid against the Republic had gone on smoothly. Naturally it had of course, Mitch had planned everything and the rebels, mewing sheep that they were, had executed that plan wonderfully. Not only were rebel casualty rates well within acceptable parameters, they had made off with dozens of files and machinery that would assist the rebels in replicating the mysterious Warlord project.

Oh, not to mention an actual Warlord himself.

A big dude by any standard, thick-necked, broad shouldered and a big, powerful chest. Incredible arms with thick, angry veins despite being completely comatose. The warlord, who had apparently put on 50 pounds of muscle since his last recorded weight, looked like a god trying to pass off as a mortal with his firestone brick abs like twin columns of brick-like goodness. Mitch had no doubt those abs were unfathomably strong. They would need to be, if such a small waist was to support such a broad back.

And those quads! Mitch had bitten his lip to supress a swoon when he first saw Zoltan. The only time he had ever seen such long, muscular legs were in the digitally enhanced muscle worship holovids he kept in a secret compartment in his living quarters. Everything about the Warlord was phenomenally perfect! Simply watching the medical crew struggle to fit him into a pair of square black trunks had sent blood rushing to all the wrong places, that cock was just so big! Even the trunks had clung onto him so tightly they looked like hot shorts, the sort people wore to the gym to show off their chiselled asses and hefty packages. That applied to the Warlord too, but damned that bulge was insane! Only its roundish appearance gave any sign of its flaccidity, how could that thing be ten inches soft? It looked bigger. Mitch wondered if he was visibly salivating at the possibility of having the Warlord serve as his personal bodyguard. He was growing bored with his current one anyway.

The Lieutenant-Colonel glanced at the shipboard clock. 1712hrs.

That meant the Warlord had been in the operating theatre for an hour already. That was far too little time to extract the neural inhibitor that had been implanted into his brain. Inhibitors were there to supress memory and render the victim susceptible to orders. However they were still unnecessarily complex by design and even the esteemed rebel doctors could not promise anything.

Patiently, the officer rubbed a hand against his muscle hardened chest as he glanced at the clock. 1713hrs.

Damnit! What the hell was he, big buff officer that he was, supposed to do between now and the time the doctors and scientists were done? Beating one out was certainly out of the question, Mitch had already ruined four different pairs of underwear over the thoughts of having such superhuman muscles, and there was no way he was going to get another load out without the use of a stimpack. But he wasn't planning on subjecting himself to stims anytime soon.

Individuals on stims benefit from greatly increased speed, reflexes, muscle density, sexual performance, and combat effectiveness. It was easy for said individuals to find themselves addicted to stims. Of course, at first glance that didn't seem all that bad. Only side-effects from over usage included, but were not limited to, insomnia, weight loss, mania, muscular atrophy, paranoia, marked decreases in sexual performance, spontaneous combustion, and in severe cases, death.

It was a vicious cycle really. A sufferer would have to pump himself with more and more stims just to counter the side-effects. While the majority of these people populated the drug dens on backwater planets, the truth was stim-abusers could be found pretty much everywhere. There were even a few men like that on the Sweetie Pie. General Pridewater's personal assistant was an ex-abuser, his once strong and virile body now a useless, wasted husk unfit for combat. Mitch swore he would never share such a fate, hence the meticulous planning to attack the facility on Moon 11.

Somehow Republican scientists had developed a way to turn any guy into a walking, talking muscle god. Okay, maybe not any guy, but Mitch wanted to keep his hopes up. After all, was it not his dream to grow muscles so massive, to grow a cock so huge, and to be so fucking strong and even stronger on stims?

Yes, who would be able to resist him when he got massive? Mitch would have anyone he wanted, anyone! But he wasn't going to settle for anyone. No, no, there was only one person he truly wanted. This person did not want him now, but that should soon change. He wouldn't be able to resist him when he got massive, but Mitch didn't expect him to want to.

The officer snuck another look at his timepiece. 1715hrs.

Damnit!

***

Haclyonian media coverage of the rebel attack on Moon 11 was overflowing with pretermissions, embellishments, and all-out lies, as the Council controlled media always was. Nothing that put the Council in a bad light aired down on Haclyon, and so the attack on Moon 11 was presented as a barbarous, terrorist-rebel attack on a lunar terraforming facility in which hundreds of civilians were killed.

How long were the people of Haclyon going to let themselves be misled like this? Gunther wondered as he took another sip of his hot chocolate. The republic was leading its people to the slaughter, and they wouldn't know till the knives came out.

The non-commissioned officer shivered again and took another sip of hot chocolate. Man, his entire body ached something fierce. Gunther was sure it wasn't the stimpack that caused him to feel so, but rather what he did while pumped as sin. He barely remembered the details, only the euphoria of the stim-charged, sex-crazed muscle madness that had ensued aboard the dropship that had picked him up.

He had stormed up the ramp to the dropship and ripped off the pathetic remnants of his clothing. Naturally that was enough to convince the rebels that the big, buff wolf needed big, strong men to appease his sexual urges.

That was a couple of hours ago of course. The stims had worn off and Sergeant Gunther found himself in one of the wards in the infirmary. He had taken a shower and changed into a pristine set of military fatigues. His vigorous exercise had caught up to him by then and Fleet Petty Officer Second Class Jacob Fray, good friend and medic that he was, had dragged Gunther to the infirmary for some desperately needed rest.

And so, Gunther found his aching body sitting on a chair, with a mug of hot chocolate between his hands and an unconscious Warlord bound onto the bed before him.

Jacob was the duty medic in charge of the unconscious muscle beast. If he remembered right, the doctors and scientists were all examining the machinery had that produced such a hulk. Gunther's friend was ecstatic and, if that constant hardon in his shorts was any indication, extremely satisfied with his life.

"Damned, Gunther! How did you score a beast like this?"

Was that... jealously saturating Jacob's voice?

"Just look at him man!" Jacob wailed, indicating the huge paristeel bands that bound the Warlord's chest to the bed, "All that beautiful muscle hidden away!"

The bands were two inches thick but puny compared to the Warlord's gigantic frame. Gunther had opened his mouth to enlighten Jacob when he noticed that the distance between his friend's fingers and the Warlord's rippling abdominals had decreased dramatically.

"Jacob, what are you doing?"

"Relax. He's gonna be out for at least a few hours," Jacob replied as he worshipped the god's hardened eightpack, "damned, you've been holding out on-"

Jacob recoiled suddenly, as if suddenly burnt, staring at the Warlord with all traces of playful lust gone from his eyes. His eyes were wide with the same emotion that was now surging through Gunther - shock.

Then the Warlord opened his mouth, and groaned.

***

For the longest time there was only darkness. Then there was a sensation of slowly returning to reality, like coming to the surface of dark waters. His mouth was dry, and his head ached dully. There was a brightness perceived through his closed eyelids.

There were noises: the hum of equipment, the low deep rum of massive engines, something hard wrapped around his chest.

He decided he didn't like the thing around his chest, so he opened his eyes and sat up.

Bolts popped, clattering on the floor, and a large curved band slid off his chest. Someone was shouting, but Zoltan could not comprehend the words.

The metal band struck the floor like a meteor, leaving a massive dent in its wake. The sound burst into his ears like a gust of wind, waking his senses and clearing his vision a little. There was a wolf seated next to his bed and, judging by the chevrons visible on his military fatigues, a sergeant at that.

The sergeant had rugged yet elegant features that highlighted a friendly, open face and a body that was toned with tight, lithe muscles. But the most remarkable aspect of the little sergeant was his hair. Bright pink and spikey, it hung in front of him and swept midway down his neck with a casualness that contrasted what one would expect from a military organisation.

For a moment, they simple stared at each other.

"Hello," said the pink sergeant.

Zoltan stared back at him for a moment, then replied. "Where am I?"

The sergeant's lips parted, revealing perfect teeth, "You are on board the Sweetie Pie, a battlecruiser under the command of General Pridewater. You are here as a guest of the Umagon Rebel Forces. My name is Gunther."

Somehow he knew the Sergeant was telling the truth.

"We... liberated you from a Republic test facility on Haclyon's eleventh moon. You were being subjected to experimentation. Do you remember any of that?"

Zoltan thought for a moment. Then a montage of memories flashing through his head: strange machines and dark rooms, cold stasis cells, chemicals flooding his system and...

"I remember some things. But I can't remember what I did before the facility."

The sergeant nodded respectfully.

"That is understandable. After we brought you aboard the ship, we removed a neural inhibitor that had been implanted into your brain. The purpose of it is to suppress memory and render you obedient to the orders of the Republic. I do not know how long it will take for you to regain your memories, or even if you will."

"And what do you want from me?"

"I don't think I have any say in that." Gunther replied, indicating the figure sprawled on the floor, "Jacob here is a medic, but I think you frightened him when you woke up. You weren't supposed to wake for a few more hours at least."

Zoltan was unsure how to respond. He could not remember ever having been treated this way. Gunther offered him another easy smile, and rose.

"Wait," Zoltan managed, "where are you going?"

"I have to inform the doctors that you are awake." He replied softly, "And I have to get our friend here to a ward. That reminds me, do you remember your name?"

A name rose to the surface of his thoughts then, without any prompting on his part. He blurted it out uncertainly, aware of how strange it sounded, as if he was unsure of its authenticity.

"Zoltan..."

But Zoltan what?

At the hatchway, Gunther smiled that easy smile again. "Well, Zoltan, please have a good rest. I hope we meet again soon."

***

Zoltan knew he was dreaming. No, he was remembering. It was as if he had found a key to all the memories that had been locked away by his former masters. He had taken that key and opened his long lost memories, letting them crash around him like all the oceans of the world.

It was high school. And it was hell, for everybody belonged to a wealthy family, even Zoltan. Thus, none of the staff would take to disciplining rowdy behaviour for fear of offending a powerful family and losing their jobs.

Still small of frame and weak of muscle, Zoltan's body called out to bullies like sirens did to sailors back on Old Earth. But of all the bullies in school, Michelson patronised him most often.

Michelson, Zoltan's primary bully, had taken to pumping iron, and had grown huge as a result. He was still pitiful compared to muscle-Zoltan, but he was more than twice of student-Zoltan.

Painful memories paraded through his brain and he thought he cried out.

School bullies, lots of them. Unbearable pain as he was beaten, unconscious and bloody, and dumped into the school garbage dumps. He had remained there overnight, found only when the garbage truck came for its daily load.

Michelson. He had been snatched right as the day ended and dragged to a storm drain. Michelson had tormented him for hours, and then tossed him in and replaced the grilling, likening them to prison bars. Then he had left him there. As if that wasn't bad enough, a storm hit that night. Zoltan was there for two nights, crying out for help as the water rose around him. When the janitor found and rescued him on the third day of the storm, he was up to his neck in rainwater. Ten minutes, and he would have drowned.

That had done it. Zoltan knew what had done after that day, and he knew what the memory was shifting to...

He was bigger, much bigger, much taller, and four times thicker with muscle. It had exploded all over him, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his legs. The school uniform was painfully tight across his powerful frame, but the rich materials were of unprecedented quality, and held. His father had been disappointed when Zoltan had offered himself to some top secret military experiments. But Zoltan didn't give a fuck. He had such a powerful body now. He had huge, rippling muscles and a cock that was growing bigger every day.

Zoltan even had sycophants now, and one of them accompanied him, for he knew the way around the dormitories. The slimy little muscle worshipper was leading him to Andrew Wright, the bastard who had a habit of ambushing him in the school lavatories.

The sycophant had gleefully led him to a closed door and was now looking at him with big, worshipful eyes.

"Well, here we are big guy, Wright's dorm. Would you like me to knock?"

"What?" said Zoltan, "Fuck no!"

Damned his voice had already dropped an octave. Zoltan brought up his fists and slammed them against the door.

BOOM! CRAACK! The door didn't even open, instead it flew off its hinges and landed at the base of Wright's bed, taking the doorframe with it. Wright, who had been beating off to a holovid, turned soft almost instantly, the blood draining from his face.

"Aww fuck!" yelled the sycophant, "Go get'em Zolt!"

Zoltan didn't need such encouragement. In two strides he crossed over to where Wright was sitting, seized a fistful of shirt, and hefted the ex-bully into the air. There was a loud ripping sound as Zoltan's bicep exploded through his right sleeve.

"W-What do you want, Armstrong?"

"What do I want?!" he bellowed, "Look what you did to my sleeve man!"

"Ooooooo!" came his little sycophant, "Wright you are so screwed!"

"I-I'm s-sorry, Armstrong!"

"You're SORRY?!" Zoltan yelled, slamming the bully back onto his bed. He seized the metal bedframes and easily twisted them out of shape. Wright struggled fruitlessly as Zoltan shackled him to his own bed.

This was where the memory began to disturb Zoltan. He watched through his own eyes as his younger self ripped off his shirt, exposing his ripped, shredded muscles. He clenched a massive fist and brought it before Wright's face.

"You see this Wright?" he sneered as he waved it before his quarry.

"I'm gonna stain it with your blood."

The rest of the bullies had landed in the hospital for similar reasons. Zoltan saved Michelson for last, so he knew he was coming for him.

The memory began fading again. But Zoltan managed to get the gist of what he did. He had ambushed Michelson in the gym. But Michelson had been waiting, and the moment he had sighted Zoltan, had taken out a pistol and emptied the cartridge at him.

Zoltan was unharmed, but the bullets caused him pain, and made him very, very mad.

Everything else was a blur. He knew there were people screaming to get out his way. He was a raging muscle beast that would not be stopped, not by people, or furniture, or even walls. He knew he had sent half the school to the hospital that day, including Michelson.

The military came for him soon after that. And they had given the okay to implant a neural inhibitor into his brain. And Zoltan had been a slave to their whims from that day.

The memory shifted yet again.

He sat at the back of a civilian dropship now, watching an army of noisy, hyperactive kindergarteners, most of whom lacked the ability to remain in their seats.

Zoltan could not blame them. He knew where this ship was going, and what kindergartener could resist a trip to the zoo?

He looked to his left, on the other set of seats, knowing who he would find. A child sat there. While the kindergarteners were puny compared to Zoltan's massive frame, this one was even smaller than his peers. Thin and unhappy looking, the pup had dull, iron grey fur and soft blond hair. He was clutching his schoolbag, as if the bus was full of cutthroats and thieves instead of children.

Then a figure came running to the end of the bus. Another pup, this one was bigger than most of his peers and wore a wicked grin where his mouth should have been.

Michelson.

"Hey! Armstrong!" he taunted, "What are you doing back here runt? Miss Keen told us to sit with our friends so we wouldn't get lost later!"

A mock look of revelation bloomed across Michelson's face.

"Oh wait! You don't have any friends do you runt?"

The mini-Zoltan cringed slightly and hugged his bag ever tighter.

"Go away Michelson."

"But why? Then you would have nobody to keep you company."

Michelson pulled himself onto the seat, effectively cutting off all means of escape. Zoltan was burning to just grab the miscreant and dangle him by the collar of his shirt, but he knew that would not work here.

"Why do you hate me Michelson?" Zoltan could see his younger self practically trembling at what was to happen next. They had done this many times before, many, many times before.

"Because I hate your fucking fuck-face, runt." He sneered, cocking his fist backwards, "But don't worry, we still have lots of time to beat it into shape."

The mini-Zoltan squeezed his eyes shut. Big-Zoltan mimicked him, and felt himself physically shake at the recollection. Oh god he couldn't count the number of times they went through this. Zoltan felt his fists tightening around the metal seating, knowing that if it were real, he would have bent them out of shape long ago.

Michelson was merciless despite his begging to stop, please stop. He was laughing, enjoying mini-Zoltan's weakness, and muscle-Zoltan felt his knuckles grow white in anger.

Then the beating abruptly stopped.

"The hell is wrong with you Michelson!" called out a third voice.

"Back off Hawke!" Michelson spat.

Hawke, who was a little smaller than Michelson but far bigger than Zoltan, had both hands wrapped around the bully's punching hand. Zoltan remembered seeing that bloody fist, all the blood had come from his nose and jaw.

What he did not remember was Hawke's appearance. Michelson had turned on Hawke later that day, and his parents had transferred him to another school after that, depriving Zoltan of befriending the only person who was willing to stand up for him.

Hawke's hair was pink.

Muscle-Zoltan started. No, no it couldn't be. He stared at that Hawke's little face, at his little eyes, and swore when Michelson jumped him and sent them both tumbling onto the ground. The mini-Zoltan was crying now, his tears mixing with the blood dripping onto his schoolbag. Muscle-Zoltan remembered this moment, but now he fought to get a glimpse of his rescuers nametag.

He glimpsed it then, just as the memory began to fade.

G. Hawke.

Gunther Hawke.