redwavesolutions

[redwavesolutions]

Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word II

To read part one, click here.

The door clicked shut behind Jackson and his escort, leaving Mason alone with the two guards restraining him and the older man who now regarded him with a devilish smirk. The mysterious man clasped his hands behind his back, his demeanor calm and assured, as if he were savoring the moment.

“You know, Mr. Samsen,” the man began, his voice smooth like honey laced with poison, “you’re quite the lucky fellow. Few people ever get the privilege of witnessing the birth of such a marvelous creation.” He gestured toward the door, as though Jackson’s presence still lingered there. “By the time the sun rises tomorrow, that pitiful, flamboyant Cooper you knew will be nothing more than a distant memory. Forgotten and completely erased from existence.”

Mason seethed, but he stayed silent, his jaw clenched as the man’s words slithered into his ears.

The older man continued, his tone shifting to one of admiration, as if recounting a triumph. “In his place, Jackson will reign supreme – an ideal fraternity president, someone charismatic and commanding. He’ll inspire his brothers to follow him, molding them into men of virtue, strength, and conviction. By the end of the week, they’ll be chanting the creed of discipline and order under his lead while eagerly embracing the fraternity’s increasingly Conservative values. And his evenings?” He chuckled darkly. “Spent passionately embracing his girlfriend, who he’s already dreaming of marrying and impregnating. Such a fine trajectory, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mason strained against the guards’ iron grips, his frail muscles taut with anger, but the older man merely raised a hand to signal calm. “Remove your hands from his mouth,” he ordered the guards, his voice a command, not a suggestion.

The guards obeyed, and Mason wasted no time. “You sick bastard!” he screamed, his voice reverberating through the sterile room. “Someone help me! These psychos are–”

Before he could finish, one of the guards yanked his hair sharply, forcing his head back and silencing him with a firm pull. Mason winced in pain, gritting his teeth as he shot daggers at the older man.

The man tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Now, now. Let’s not make this unpleasant, Mr. Samsen. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Surely you understand the value of conducting oneself with professionalism. Scream again, and I won’t hesitate to silence you in a far more... permanent manner.”

With the apparent threat of death now suddenly on the table, Mason took a moment to gather himself, forcing his breathing to steady even as adrenaline coursed through him. The guard released his grip, and Mason bit back his urge to retaliate, knowing that it would do him no good.

With barely concealed contempt, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Who the hell are you? And how is any of this possible?!” His eyes burned with fury. “Let me make one thing crystal clear – you can bet your ass that I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’re doing here. You won’t get away with this!”

The older man chuckled, a low, patronizing sound that made Mason’s blood boil. He clasped his hands behind his back again, his posture unshaken. “Ah, such spirit. It’s almost endearing, really.” He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto Mason’s. “But I think you’ll find, Mr. Samsen, that the more you learn about us, the more you’ll realize… we’ve already gotten away with it.”

He straightened and began pacing slowly, his tone turning colder, sharper. “As for who I am, you may call me Mr. Corbin. I’m the architect of conformity – the shepherd guiding lost, pathetic little sheep like Jackson into their rightful places in society.”

He stopped and faced Mason, his smirk widening. “And how is this possible, you ask? That’s the wrong question. The question you should be asking is why we do it. And the answer is simple: Order. Stability. Strength. Qualities your kind – weak-willed, rebellious, aimless – lacks entirely. We’re here to fix that.”

Mason’s jaw tightened, his mind racing as he searched for some way to counter the man’s rhetoric. “You think people will stand for this? You’re brainwashing them, turning them into…”

“Into better versions of themselves,” Corbin interrupted sharply. “Versions who can thrive in the world as it already is, not as your naive ideals imagine it should be.”

He motioned toward the guards. “Take him. It’s time for Mr. Samsen to begin his own journey toward understanding.”

The sharp, sterile room seemed to grow colder as Mr. Corbin’s voice filled the air, his words dripping with a chilling confidence.

“You see, Mr. Samsen,” Corbin began, pacing leisurely, “the intricacies of our process, the chemistry, the programming – all of it is irrelevant when compared to the bigger picture.” He stopped to face Mason directly, his smirk widening. “Our goal isn’t just to win elections. It’s to ensure that Conservative values never die, to create more virile men eager to impregnate women and indoctrinate the next generation of humanity. Permanence, Mr. Samsen. That’s the name of the game.”

Mason’s breath quickened, the weight of Corbin’s words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. He strained against the guards holding him, but their grip was immovable.

Corbin continued, his voice calm yet menacing. “The spiel we give our clients – temporary transformation, lasting only until the administration concludes – is a necessary fiction. A comforting lie. The truth, however…” He chuckled darkly. “The truth is that Conservatism will never end no matter who is in charge. As a result, neither will these transformations. Once someone joins us, they’re ours. Forever.”

Mason’s body surged with adrenaline. He twisted and jerked, attempting to break free from his captors, but the guards tightened their hold, rendering him powerless.

Corbin tilted his head, watching Mason’s futile struggle with mild amusement. “Ah, there it is. That spark of defiance. Admirable, if misguided.” He stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. “You see, Mr. Samsen, you’ve played right into my hands. Your so-called journalistic curiosity, your relentless need to fight for what you think is ‘justice’ – all of it made you the perfect target. We knew you’d come snooping.”

Mason froze, his eyes narrowing. “You planned this?”

Corbin’s grin widened. “Of course. The flier placements across campus? Completely intentional. That background check? A pure fabrication meant only to encourage you to snoop. We knew exactly who you were and how to lure you in. You pride yourself on exposing the truth, don’t you? Well, congratulations, you’ve uncovered something extraordinary!”

Mason spat through gritted teeth, “I’ll never help you. No matter what you do, I’ll never spread your message. Never.”

Corbin laughed, a sound so rich with mockery it made Mason’s skin crawl. “Help us? Oh, Mr. Samsen, you misunderstand. You won’t have a choice. You’re going to become a face of our movement. A voice that guides the disillusioned masses to embracing the truth – our truth.”

Reaching into his suit pocket, Corbin pulled out a small vial of vivid red liquid. The substance seemed to shimmer ominously in the harsh fluorescent light. “This,” he said, holding it up between his fingers, “was made just for you. A special concoction tailored to transform you into one of the most trusted news anchors in the country. A paragon of rationality, dependability, and Conservative values. Believe me when I tell you, your viewers will gladly hang onto your every word and follow anything you tell them.”

Mason’s stomach churned, and his attempts to thrash free became more desperate. “You’re insane!” he barked.

Corbin ignored the insult, instead turning and gesturing to the guards. “Open his mouth.”

The guards obeyed without hesitation, prying Mason’s jaw open with brutal efficiency despite his muffled protests and frantic attempts to resist.

Corbin took a step closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Don’t worry, Mr. Samsen. I’m granting your greatest wish – you’re becoming the loudest voice of truth.” He tilted the vial over Mason’s mouth, the red liquid pooling on his tongue.

Mason fought with everything he had, trying to spit the liquid out, but Corbin was ready. He clamped Mason’s mouth shut and pinched his nose, cutting off his air supply. Mason’s lungs screamed for oxygen as his vision blurred. For a moment, he weighed his options – wondering if death would be a better option than the alternative. Before he could make a decision though, desperation overtook him, and despite his resolve, his throat contracted. The liquid burned as it slid down, where the instant it hit his stomach, a strange heat began to spread through his body.

Corbin released Mason, stepping back to admire his work. “And now,” he said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “the transformation begins...”

Mason collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air as his body began to tingle and shift. Panic surged through him, but deep down, he knew: there was no escaping what was coming next.

Mason gasped for air as the tingling sensation coursing through his body began to intensify, a strange warmth blooming from his core and spreading outward. Mr. Corbin stood a few feet away, watching with an infuriating air of calm amusement. “Ah, the calm before the storm,” Corbin said with a smirk. “This process is not only fascinating to behold but incredibly amusing as we watch our customers reckon with the path that led them here. But don’t worry, Mason. We’ll give you a little privacy to fully experience it and embrace what’s to come…”

Turning to the guards, Corbin gestured toward the door. “Come along, gentlemen. Let’s leave him to it.” He paused at the threshold, his piercing gaze locking onto Mason’s trembling frame. “I’m looking forward to seeing just how incredible and manly you turn out. I have no doubt you’ll do us proud.”

With that, the guards followed Corbin out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Their absence left an oppressive silence in the room, broken only by the sound of Mason’s ragged breathing.

Mason staggered to his feet, his limbs feeling oddly stiff and heavy. He began pacing frantically, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Despite what he had already seen and experienced thus far, he refused to believe it now that he was on the precipice of the same type of transformation. “This has to be a joke,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaking. “A prank. Some kind of sick, twisted dream. That’s all this is.”

In a desperate bid to wake himself up, Mason pinched his arm until the skin turned red, then slapped his own face hard enough to leave a stinging mark. But nothing changed. The room remained solidly real, the warmth inside him growing more insistent by the second.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, backing into a corner and sliding down against the wall. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t real!”

But the evidence against him mounted as the heat inside his body shifted, pooling in his stomach. The ache began as a dull throb, but it quickly escalated to a violent twisting pain that made Mason double over. His hands instinctively clutched at his abdomen as if he could somehow stop the process.

The memory of Cooper’s transformation flashed through his mind, sending a wave of cold fear crashing over him. “Oh God,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “It’s really happening…”

Despite his mounting dread, Mason’s gaze was drawn toward the mirrored paneling on one side of the room. He hadn’t wanted to look, but some morbid curiosity overpowered him, compelling him to face the horrifying reality of his situation.

At first, there was nothing visibly different. He still looked like himself, albeit pale and drenched in sweat. But then, his legs buckled slightly, and he felt a strange pressure in his bones – a stretching sensation.

Mason’s eyes widened as his reflection began to shift. He watched in horror as his frame elongated inch by inch. His shoes grew tighter before the laces snapped, and the cuffs of his pants rose higher and higher, exposing his ankles and eventually leaving them as comically short as capris. His torso followed suit, broadening slightly as his spine straightened.

The dizzying growth finally stopped, and Mason stumbled backward, bracing himself against the wall. He stared at the mirror, his chest heaving. The man looking back at him was taller, much taller in fact. Where he had once been a respectable 5’10”, he now loomed at an imposing 6’4”.

The change wasn’t as drastic as Cooper’s transformation, but it was enough to leave Mason feeling completely unmoored. His center of gravity had shifted, making him feel awkward and clumsy in his own body even when just standing still. His reflection felt like he was looking into a funhouse mirror, like he was staring at a distorted, elongated image of himself.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands against the mirrored surface.

But even as he tried to ground himself, the warmth inside him surged again, a sign that this was only the beginning of his changes.

Mason staggered around the room, trying to adjust to his new height. Every step felt alien, his longer legs making his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. His side bumped against the mirrored wall countless times, his face wincing at the sudden impact. Eventually, the throb of his ongoing transformation and the soreness of his side caused him to momentarily steady himself against the wall. “This is so fucking insane,” he muttered under his breath, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of his situation.

His head grazed the overhead light fixture, making him flinch. “How do tall people deal with this?” he grumbled. But as he focused on his awkward gait and trying not to trip over himself, he remained oblivious to the quiet changes already taking place.

The intense heat radiating through his body, which had initially been a dull simmer, began to shift and ripple under his skin. Mason didn’t notice how the slight flab that had clung to him from years of late-night snacking was dissolving. The warmth was burning it away, leaving him leaner and more defined with each passing moment.

It wasn’t until his shirt began to feel noticeably looser that Mason frowned. He tugged at the hem of his baggy shirt, his confusion mounting. “What the…?” he muttered, pulling the fabric away from his body. When he lifted it up to inspect his torso, his breath caught in his throat.

Gone was the slight paunch that had accompanied him for as long as he could remember. His stomach was completely taut and flat, the skin smooth and firm. “No way,” he whispered, running a trembling hand over the newly chiseled surface.

The reprieve was short-lived. Without warning, a sharp, stinging sensation shot through his body, like being slapped repeatedly in different spots. Mason gasped, doubling over as the pain ricocheted across his limbs and chest.

He forced himself to look at his reflection, eyes darting to the areas where the pain struck. His jaw dropped as he watched his body suddenly begin to inflate with muscle.

His arms, once thin and unremarkable, began to thicken. Veins surfaced as his biceps grew, swelling outward into solid, rounded shapes. His shoulders broadened, creating an imposing, V-shaped silhouette. A modest pair of pecs jutted from his chest, pressing against the fabric of his shirt.

Mason instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling a flurry of movement beneath his skin. He looked down just in time to see the faint outlines of a six-pack emerging, each muscle sharply defined. His jeans grew tighter around his thighs and calves, the denim straining to contain his newly bulging legs.

“Am I… becoming muscular like Cooper?” Mason whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief and dread.

But the changes didn’t stop there. Another wave of stinging slaps spread across his body, stronger this time. Mason winced as his muscles continued to swell, growing well beyond the lean athleticism of a frat bro.

His biceps expanded into massive, soccer-ball-sized domes of power. His pecs grew heavier and squarer, jutting out so far that they created a noticeable shelf. His back widened, his lats flaring out like wings, while his traps rose to form thick ridges near his neck.

His thighs strained against the seams of his jeans, each leg packed with dense, corded muscle. Even his calves weren’t ignored by the potion, quickly growing into defined, diamond-shaped bulges. The sleeves of his shirt ripped as his arms outgrew them, leaving shreds of fabric hanging from his impossibly thick shoulders.

When the changes inflating his body finally subsided, Mason stood frozen in front of the mirror, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable. His once-average frame had been replaced by the colossal, hulking physique of a professional bodybuilder.

He gingerly poked at one of his biceps, the sheer size and firmness of it sending a chill down his spine. His other hand examined his pecs, which felt like slabs of stone under his fingertips as he awkwardly squeezed them.

“Holy… holy fucking shit… H-how is this possible?” Mason stammered, his voice cracking as he struggled to process what he was seeing.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the immense power coursing through his body. The strength was intoxicating but also deeply unsettling. This was not him. This was a stranger – a body far removed from who he had ever been or wanted to be. And yet, the mirror offered no denial. This was Mason now. And he had no idea what to do.

Mason barely had time to process the muscular bulk he now inhabited before a strange tingling sensation spread across his skin. His initial thought was that it might be sweat from the intense heat of his transformation, but the feeling was different – even deeper within him than before, almost as if it were coming from within his very cells. He watched in growing horror as his reflection in the mirror began to change once more.

His hands were the first to catch his attention. The skin on them, once smooth and youthful, began to grow slightly weathered. Fine lines crept across his knuckles and the backs of his hands, and faint wrinkles etched themselves into the creases of his fingers. His nails, which he rarely paid attention to, became neatly trimmed and pristine, as though they had been professionally manicured.

He looked back up at the mirror just in time to see his face start to morph. His youthful, unassuming visage shifted and contorted, as if clay being sculpted by invisible hands. His once-average features began to sharpen. Prominent brow bones jutted forward, giving him a commanding and intense gaze. His cheekbones rose and became more sculpted, lending an aristocratic air to his face, while his jawline squared into a picture-perfect angle that looked chiseled from marble.

His nose subtly reshaped itself into a straight, perfectly proportioned feature that seemed almost too flawless to be natural. The transformation left Mason staring at a face that, despite its changes, was undeniably his – yet now carried an unnerving, almost predatory attractiveness.

But the alterations didn’t stop there. As he stared, his shaggy hair began to retract into his scalp, the strands shortening visibly before his eyes. His heart sank as his hairline crept upward, a clear sign of his apparent aging. Within seconds, his once-casual and messy hairstyle had been replaced with a short, cropped look that exuded professionalism and control.

What disturbed him even more was the sudden darkening of his hair. The strands deepened into an unnaturally dark shade, hovering near black but tinged with a glossy sheen that further indicated its artificial origins. Along his temples, hints of grey emerged, lending him a distinguished, older appearance.

“Is, is this fucking hair dye?” Mason muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He reached up and touched his hair, feeling its styled, slightly stiff texture. The realization that his hairstyle was a perfect description for his new appearance hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been reimagined, reshaped into a figure that exuded dominance, age, and authority – but with a still-stylish edge.

The worst part was that he couldn’t deny the appeal of his new visage. He looked like someone who commanded attention, a man who could walk into a room and have every head turn. And yet, while thinking about the things this new self would say and the type of values he was becoming an unintentional mascot for, the thought now revolted him.

His thin, yet masculine lips, now perfectly balanced and tinged with a faint rosy hue, curled in disdain as he thought about what they would soon be used for. They weren’t his anymore – not truly. Those lips would soon spew lies, distort facts, and manipulate the masses with confidence and charm – just as Red Wave Solutions had designed them to.

Mason clenched his fists, his knuckles white against his weathered hands. He glared at the man in the mirror, wishing he could shatter the glass and erase the image forever. But no matter how much he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. This was who he had become, and deep deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before he forgot about who he once was.

Mason’s breath hitched as he continued staring into the mirror, his emotions a chaotic mess of revulsion, fear, and, despite everything, a twinge of morbid fascination. The man reflected back at him was undeniably magnetic. Mason hated the thought of what this form represented, but even he couldn’t ignore the undeniable allure it carried. A small, intrusive part of him whispered that he could use this body to his advantage.

He let his imagination wander, picturing himself walking into a gay club, towering over the dance floor with his imposing height and rippling physique. He imagined catching the eye of a younger, nervous but intrigued man who would be drawn to his aged confidence and charm. He pictured the heat of the music, the press of sweaty bodies, the flirtatious exchanges, and the way his strong, calloused hands might guide the man closer as they danced.

But before the fantasy could grow, a wave of something foreign rippled through his mind. A sharp pang of disgust shot through him – revolted by the imagined scenario. His stomach churned as his mind involuntarily recoiled at the thought of being intimate with a man. It was like someone had flipped a switch, flooding his thoughts with an inexplicable sense of wrongness.

“No,” he whispered, his voice shaky as his fists clenched against the edge of the sink. “That isn’t me. It’s just the potion. I like men, it’s just the…”

He tried to ground himself, closing his eyes tightly as he forced himself to think about the men he had dated throughout college. He thought of Ethan’s confident smile and his broad shoulders. He thought of the softness of Mark’s lips, the way they brushed against his own during their first kiss. He remembered the thrill of running his hands over a man’s hairy chest, the firmness of their bodies pressed together, and the comforting scratch of stubble against his cheek.

But the images began to shift. Ethan’s confident smile warped into a shy, feminine giggle. Mark’s lips thickened and became painted with glossy lipstick. Instead of the sharp, masculine planes of a man’s chest, Mason’s mind began to envision soft curves. His memories of perky butts in fitted jeans were overwritten by the image of plump, rounded hips in a skintight dress. The scratch of stubble on his cheek was replaced with the sensation of smooth, freshly shaved skin against his own.

“No!” Mason shouted, slamming his beefy hands against the mirrored glass in anguish. He stared at his reflection, wide-eyed and trembling. His mind was no longer his own – it was forcibly being overwritten, piece by piece, by something unknown and turning it into something incredibly wrong and utterly opposite of his innermost values.

He tried again, desperately clinging to memories of past kisses and the thrill of attraction to a man. But every attempt was corrupted, replaced with images of soft, feminine hands trailing down his chest, the warmth of a woman’s body pressed against his. A rogue thought emerged, unbidden and unwanted: the fantasy of cradling a woman’s delicate face in his strong hands and leaning down to kiss her full, pouty lips.

“No, no, no!” Mason muttered, pacing the room as he gripped his temples, trying to shove the thoughts away. But the more he fought, the more vivid the images became. 

He stopped pacing and looked at himself in the mirror again, breathing heavily. His reflection looked so calm and naturally composed, even as his inner world crumbled. The man staring back at him didn’t seem like someone who had ever kissed another man, much less desired to.

Faint tears pricked Mason’s eyes as he whispered to himself, “I have to fight this. I have to hold on to who I am.”

But deep down, he feared it was already too late. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth in a desperate attempt to resist a series of rogue thoughts that began to emerge throughout his mind.

One voice, low and smooth, slid through his mind like a serpent. “You’ve never had power like this before,” it purred. “Look at yourself. Who could resist you? Women crave a man like you. They’d do anything… anything to please you.”

“No,” Mason hissed, shaking his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the voice. “That’s not me. That’s not what I want.”

But the voice continued, unrelenting, dripping with smug certainty. “Oh, but it is now. Think about it. Think about how good it feels to have someone submit to you, to have them worship every inch of this handsome, powerful body. Imagine their eyes lighting up with desire, their voices trembling as they beg to make you happy in any way you want.”

Mason pressed his hands to his ears, his heart pounding as he tried to drown it out. “Shut up! Shut up!” he shouted, but his words fell flat against the weight of the seductive voice.

“You deserve this,” it crooned, each word pressing deeper into his psyche. “This body, this face, this strength – it’s what you’ve always been meant to have. And women? You’re only meant to have them as well.They’re your playthings –  there to entertain you, to serve you. Hook up with them. Take what you want from them. That’s what a real man like you is meant to do. Why would you waste time respecting them when they’re so eager to submit to a man like you?”

“No, no, no!” Mason’s voice cracked, his breathing ragged as he stumbled back from the mirrors. His reflection blurred in his vision, tears welling in his eyes as he fought against the intrusive words. But even as he resisted, the voice began to root itself deeper. 

He looked around in anguish, but found that his reflection offered no comfort. Instead, it seemed to mock him, standing there tall and perfect, the embodiment of everything the voice was describing. His mind began to falter, the line between his real thoughts and the implanted ones blurring.

Against his will, images began flashing through his mind. Women, beautiful and eager, surrounded him. They touched him with reverence, their eyes wide with adoration, their smiles promising pleasure. He envisioned their soft hands trailing down his muscular chest, their soft, dainty bodies pressing against his, their voices pleading for his attention.

And what terrified him most of all was the pull he felt toward those thoughts. It wasn’t just the voice anymore. Deep inside, a part of him – a seemingly small yet traitorous part – was beginning to quickly find the idea appealing. The concept of being desired so deeply and desperately by women who would do anything to make him happy sent an involuntary thrill coursing through him. Before he knew it, Mason could feel his cock beginning to thicken in his skintight pants.

“No!” he cried out again, though this time the word sounded weaker, less certain. He stumbled back to the sink, gripping it as he stared at his reflection. His lips trembled as he whispered, “This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”

“You know it’s true, this is who you’re meant to be” the voice interrupted, softer now, but no less insidious. “You’ve been given the ultimate gift. Why fight it? Just accept who you’re becoming. You’re not weak anymore. You’re not invisible. You’re a man now – a real man.”

Overwhelmed with everything going on, Mason began to pace around the room, each step heavy with frustration and fear while his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. The mocking voice inside his head didn’t falter, growing bolder with every moment. Its tone oozed confidence, a sinister undercurrent of triumph humming through each word.

"Take a real good look at yourself," the voice purred, a smirk practically audible. "You’re the perfect male specimen now. Tall, muscular, confident. A total alpha. Men will envy you, Mason. They’ll look up to you, want to be you. Women? They can’t help but fantasize about being with you. And even if they can’t, they’ll still eagerly listen to everything you say and accept it if it means possibly getting the attention of other men like you. You’re everything that anyone would desire, in one way or another.”

“Shut up,” Mason growled, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands to his temples, trying to block out the insidious whispers. But the voice ignored his protests, unfazed.

"You know I’m right," it continued smugly. "Especially with your career – imagine it. Every evening, people turn on their TVs just to see you. Their lives might be falling apart, but all they care about is catching a glimpse of you. The country’s favorite news anchor, the face they trust. You’re not just handsome – you’re a god to them, Mason. An alpha god sent from above to help mold the world in your image."

The words twisted in his mind, and Mason clung to the memories of his real career as an investigative journalist. He tried to picture himself standing at a podium, holding up an award for his hard-hitting exposés, the occasional flashes of cameras not hindering him from displaying his proudest smile. But the memories began to blur, fragments slipping through his grasp despite his best attempts to hold on.

Instead, new images forced their way in: the glaring brightness of stage lights washing over him, assistants swarming around him with powder brushes and combs, their soft touches ensuring he was flawless for the camera. He saw himself sitting at a news desk, posture perfect, a designer suit clinging to his impossibly broad shoulders. He could hear the countdown from the producer in his earpiece, the hum of the camera as it zoomed in on his chiseled face.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the Mason in his mind said, his voice deep and commanding, effortlessly capturing attention.

“No,” Mason whispered aloud, shaking his head. “That’s not real. That’s not me.”

But the voice pressed on. "Oh, it’s you, all right. Picture it, Mason. The power you hold when you speak. Every word you say – people hang on it. They believe you, they admire you, they trust you. You’re not some invisible journalist typing out words behind a keyboard. You’re seen. Respected. Adored."

Mason tried to resist, but his mind betrayed him, lingering on the imagined scene. He pictured himself leaning back in his chair during commercial breaks, assistants fussing over him, the camera crew nodding with approval as they reviewed footage of his perfect delivery. He saw the way his reflection looked in the teleprompter: sharp, polished, magnetic.

The warmth in his body flared again, and Mason stopped pacing, placing his hands on his hips to steady himself. Upon looking up and getting another look at his transformed reflection, his breathing grew shallow as a strange sensation overtook him. He felt an unwelcome smile tugging at his lips, while his hips began to buck softly, the motion subtle but rhythmic.

“No,” he murmured again, but his voice was weaker now, his resolve fraying as the images in his mind grew more vivid.

He saw himself adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit, flashing a confident smirk that could disarm anyone. He imagined the eyes of the crew following his every move, the palpable awe they felt as they worked in his presence. The thought of commanding such attention, such reverence, sent a shiver through him.

His lips curled further into a smirk as he caught his reflection again, the older yet impeccably handsome face staring back at him. It wasn’t his reflection – it couldn’t be. But as his gaze lingered, as his hips continued their subtle thrusting motion, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.

He tried to think of the awards he’d earned, the articles he’d written, the causes he’d fought for. But those memories were hazy now, dimmed by the brightness of studio lights and the weight of the microphone clipped to his pristine tie.

“You belong here,” the voice whispered, dripping with satisfaction. “Accept it, Mason. This is who you are now.”

Mason’s thoughts continued to spiral as he stood frozen in front of the mirror, his reflection now fully the picture of an imposing, middle-aged news anchor. He flexed his square shoulders and ran a hand over his tightly cropped, dyed hair, his smirk widening as he imagined the commanding presence he would have on screen. The idea of his face beaming into countless homes every evening, his deep voice trusted by all who heard it, was growing quite intoxicating.

A spark of excitement ignited in his chest, fanned by the growing fire of his inflating ego. He imagined the headlines about his rise: “The Face of the Nation: Mason Samsen Leads the Evening News.” A sudden warmth spread across his body – not the unnatural heat from before, but a heady rush of pride and anticipation.

He thought about the newsroom, the bustling energy, the cameras trained on him, and, suddenly, a stray thought surfaced. He pictured his co-anchor, a sharp, intelligent woman who was respected for her wit and incisive reporting. But instead of admiration, another feeling crept into his mind.

Before he could fully process it, the voice in his head slithered into his thoughts, laced with venom. “She’s such a disappointment, isn’t she? A nasty little liberal. What a waste. Women making the same money as men despite all of our hard work, what could be more revolting?”

Mason recoiled inwardly. He didn’t believe that – he knew he didn’t. He’d spent years championing equality and defending people’s rights to love whoever they chose. But as he opened his mouth to protest, nothing came out. The words stuck in his throat, trapped by an invisible force.

The voice grew louder, more insistent. “Look at her. She could be on her knees under the newsdesk, begging for your attention, and yet she’d rather waste her time with another woman or a pathetic excuse of a man? What kind of sick joke is that?”

A sick feeling churned in Mason’s gut, but instead of pushing back, he found his thoughts being swept along with the voice’s hateful tirade. Against his will, his mind’s eye shifted, and he pictured her again – no longer as a colleague but as an object, someone he could have “had” if only she weren’t so bull-headed.

“She’s such a babe,” Mason muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with derision as though the words weren’t entirely his own. “And yet she wastes herself like that. What a man-hating prude.”

He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction as the words left his lips, despite the small, rational part of him screaming that this wasn’t who he was. The voice purred in approval, feeding off his growing disgust.

“That’s right,” it urged. “If she just stopped pretending to be some untouchable, real man-hating feminist, you’d show her what it’s like to be with a real man. She’d never look at another woman or man again after you’re done with her.”

Mason’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to think this way – he knew he didn’t – but the voice’s influence was like a tide, washing away his convictions and leaving behind something monstrous.

He tried to recall admirable aspects of the co-anchor’s actual personality: her sharp humor during commercial breaks, the way she stood her ground in editorial meetings, her passion for stories that made a difference. But just as quickly as he mentally found these things that he once would praise or respect, those sensations changed to feelings of annoyance and rage at her way of trying to turn the station “woke”.

Instead, all he could focus on now was an imagined scenario: her storming into his office to argue about a segment, her cheeks growing flushed as his imposing presence overwhelmed her, and her eventual “realization” that she couldn’t resist him. The thought sent a twisted thrill through him, one he hated himself for feeling even as the voice praised him.

“You’re a real man now, Mason,” it cooed. “And the world needs to see that. No more hiding, no more playing nice. You’re the alpha here, and everyone else – women like her included – needs to fall in line.”

As Mason stared at his reflection, he saw the smirk tugging at his lips again. It was crueler this time, more predatory. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from believing the voice entirely.

Mason's mind swirled with the vivid clarity of a memory he hadn't lived yet now felt undeniably his own. He saw himself standing in the brightly lit newsroom, the buzz of post-election chaos filling the air. His freshly polished dress shoes echoed against the tiled floor as he crossed the room, exuding an aura of confidence that seemed to demand attention. Every gesture, every word, felt rehearsed to perfection – an embodiment of his calculated and commanding charisma.

His female co-anchor had just walked in, her expression an open book of grief and disdain. Her eyes, red and puffy, locked onto Mason’s. He could recall the way her shoulders sagged, her steps hesitant as if she were carrying the weight of a world that had just turned against her beliefs. In stark contrast, Mason stood tall, his broad chest puffed out with a sense of triumph that radiated from him like heat off asphalt on a summer day.

“You look like you could use a drink, Sarah,” he heard himself say in the memory, his voice dripping with smugness. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile that was as patronizing as it was confident. “But then again, I think it’s good for you to really reckon with the reality of the world and accept that your time of winning is finally over.”

Her response was a withering glare, her lips pressed into a thin line of contempt. But it wasn’t her silence that Mason remembered most vividly – it was his own voice, booming and unapologetic as he turned to the room of male colleagues.

“Gentlemen, let’s take a moment to celebrate,” he declared, raising an imaginary glass. “Finally, a real man is back in charge of the country! No more of this woke nonsense dragging the country down. We’re getting back to the basics – the way things should be.”

The memory felt intoxicating and foreign all at once. He could almost feel the collective laughter and cheers of agreement from the other men, the slap of hands on his back in camaraderie. Yet, in the pit of his stomach, a flicker of unease twisted.

In the present, Mason found himself nodding instinctively, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “This country was going to hell, to be honest. Maybe things will finally get back on track…”

The stray voice in his mind cheered him on, reinforcing every sentiment. That’s right. It’s time for real leadership. Time for strength and order. You’re a part of that now.

For a moment, Mason tried to resist, to cling to the fading remnants of who he was. He thought of the co-anchor’s tear-streaked face, the silent despair in her eyes. But even that memory began to shift in his mind – her sadness no longer struck him as unjust, but as proof of her weakness. This is the natural order of things, the voice reminded him. She doesn’t belong at the table anymore.

Mason felt the words settle deep in his chest, his resistance ebbing further. The memory blurred as his present thoughts intertwined with it, leaving him with a growing sense of pride and belonging. His lips curled into a smirk as he whispered to himself, “We’re finally doing things the right way.”

Mason’s pulse thundered in his ears, his chest rising and falling as the inner voice grew louder, more assured. "That’s it, Mason," it purred. "You’re finally seeing the light. No more confusion. No more weakness. Just truth, strength, and common sense values. This is the life you were meant for."

The words reverberated in his head, filling every corner of his mind as though they were his own thoughts. He gripped the edge of the desk, his fingers trembling slightly, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. The voice surged forward, emboldened.

"Picture it: a wife who loves and obeys you, children who look up to you and carry your name with pride. That’s the purpose of marriage, Mason – to create a legacy that matters. You’ll guide them, protect them, and in return, you can sneak around and fuck as much as you wanted. After all, spreading your seed to as many women as possible is what men like you were made for – to help create the next generation of like-minded men."

Mason’s lips parted, almost involuntarily, as a low murmur escaped. "Yes… that sounds… right."

Images began to flood his mind – visions of a suburban home with a pristine lawn, of a woman in a modest dress standing at his side, her eyes glowing with admiration for her strong, successful husband. He could see a handful of children laughing as they played in the yard, their voices ringing out in the glow of an idealized life. In addition, rogue flashes of hooking up with women in his office or underneath the news desk while live emerged.

The voice continued, its tone sharpening with conviction. "And with your career, Mason, think of what you’ll achieve. Not just the respect, but the wealth. The power. You’re not like those lower-class men, struggling and scraping by. You’ll be the man they look up to, the man they envy. Capitalism rewards the best, and you’re going to be the best. A beacon of the upper class."

Mason nodded, his jaw tightening as he stood straighter. "I’m not meant to be small," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I’m meant to succeed. To live my best life. To be on top."

The voice practically growled with approval. "Exactly. It’s time to step fully into your destiny, Mason. Embrace it. Wade into the red waves and claim the life you were always meant to lead."

Mason’s breath quickened, a guttural grunt escaping his lips as he clenched his fists. "I can’t wait," he said, his voice deep and resolute. "I can’t wait to be a part of the red wave. To leave behind the prissy liberal nonsense and finally live like the man I was meant to be."

The moment hung in the air, a crescendo of inner turmoil and transformation. Then, without warning, Mason froze. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as his body stiffened. His head tilted back slightly, a sharp gasp catching in his throat.

His eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible as his body shuddered violently. His mind swam in a haze of euphoria and terror, the voice laughing triumphantly as it echoed within him. The world around him seemed to blur and spin, his consciousness teetering on the edge as the last remnants of resistance faded into the overwhelming tide of transformation.

And then… stillness.

The room was quiet save for the faint hum of air conditioning as the massive figure eventually stirred a few minutes later. A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his throat as his eyes fluttered open, their sharp blue intensity scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. His brow furrowed, and he brought a hand to his throbbing temple, the remnants of a disorienting fog clinging to his thoughts.

David Carlson looked up, rolling his shoulders and trying to get reacquainted with his massive frame. Confusion flashed across his face as he looked down at himself, noticing the ill-fitting, torn clothes stretched over his immense, muscular body. The fabric strained at his bulging chest and biceps, seams barely clinging together, while his thick thighs threatened to split what remained of his pants. He chuckled, low and rich, the sound resonating like a confident hum.

“What in the world?” he muttered, his voice deep and commanding. He shifted his legs apart, resting a meaty hand on his thigh, and stared at his reflection in the nearby mirror. A smirk spread across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth framed by his square jaw.

“Well, damn,” he said, standing slowly to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He turned, flexing one arm, admiring the round, granite-like bicep that bulged against the tatters of the shirt. He ran a hand down the vast plane of his chest, his thick fingers grazing the solid grooves of his pecs. “Now, if I’m not the sexiest man in the world, I don’t know who else could be. After all, a sexy motherfucker like me can make a woman cum from just giving a traffic update,” he remarked with a cocky sneer.

His smirk widened as he leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head to inspect himself further. His piercing eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his killer smile flashing as he flexed his shoulders, watching his reflection move like a sculpted titan come to life.

As his gaze dropped lower, he ran his hands over his thighs, feeling the dense muscle through the shredded fabric. His fingers lingered momentarily, and then his eyes caught something out of place: a suit bag hanging neatly off the door handle.

His brow lifted in curiosity, but the smirk never left his lips. “Ah, now we’re talking,” he said, striding over to the bag and unzipping it with precision. Inside was a sleek, custom-tailored suit – a dark navy jacket and trousers, paired with a crisp satin dress shirt and a tie that shimmered faintly under the room’s fluorescent light.

“The sooner I can get out of these pitiful cheap shreds, the better,” he muttered, stripping off the ruined clothes with haste. The shirt slid on effortlessly, the cool satin gliding over his thick, warm skin. He tugged the sleeves, adjusting the cuffs, and buttoned it up, marveling at how perfectly it hugged his torso. His chest stretched the fabric taut, but the shirt held, emphasizing every ridge of his muscular form.

Next came the trousers, which he slid on with care. The waistband fit snugly, outlining his powerful thighs, while the tailored cut tapered sharply to his ankles, exuding professionalism with a touch of dominance. The jacket followed, and as he shrugged it on, he couldn’t help but flex his shoulders, feeling the material strain slightly over his bulk.

“Perfect,” he muttered, stepping back to admire the result in the mirror. The suit was impeccable, a testament to luxury and power, and it fit him like a second skin. He adjusted his tie, smoothing it down with one hand, and grinned.

“David Carlson,” he said aloud, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece. An alpha that women wish they could have and men wish they could be.” He ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, standing tall as he gave his reflection a final approving nod.

With that, he strode to the door, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he pulled it open. His broad shoulders barely fit through the frame as he stepped into the hallway, his head held high.

Now dressed to impress and radiating confidence, he set off with purpose. “Time to find Mr. Corbin,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor. “Now that this tour is over, I just need to ask a few more questions about the operation they’re running here.”

As soon as David touched the door, the flash of a green light emerged and allowed the massive newscaster to turn the handle and exit the room. He strutted confidently down the polished hallways of Red Wave Solutions, easily navigating through the labyrinth-like hallways as if he’d known it like the back of his hands. While walking, the sharp lines of his suit accentuated his immense frame, his shoulders brushing perilously close to the walls as he passed. Employees bustled around, their heads turning one after another to catch a glimpse of the imposing man. David’s smile gleamed, radiating charisma and cockiness.

“Morning, folks,” he said, nodding toward a group of young interns who stood frozen in awe. “Don’t work too hard now.” He chuckled as they scurried off, red-faced and whispering among themselves.

To a middle-aged man in a lab coat carrying a stack of binders, he flashed a wink. “Looking sharp there, Doc. Keep it up – love to see the brains behind the brawn in this operation.”

The man chuckled nervously, nearly dropping the binders in his haste to nod in agreement.

David continued his journey, stopping briefly at a glass window showcasing a bustling control room filled with monitors and data feeds. His keen eyes scanned the workers hunched over their stations, fingers flying over keyboards. He gave them a small wave, followed by a cocky grin. “Looking good in there! Keep making magic happen, people.”

Every interaction added a spring to his step, his ego swelling with each fawning glance and whispered admiration. By the time he reached the sleek, modern front desk at the heart of the facility, he felt utterly invincible.

Upon noticing the slim, well-dressed man with his styled grey hair and trimmed stubble, David made his way over to Mr. Corbin. With each step, the reporter watched how the man’s smile widened into a huge beam as he extended a hand out to David. 

“David Carlson!” Corbin exclaimed warmly, gripping the reporter’s hand with surprising strength as they united for a firm handshake. “You look absolutely incredible. Like you were truly made for this.”

David arched a brow, the compliment throwing him slightly off balance as he took in the other man’s amused grin. “Uh, thanks,” he said slowly, his grin faltering just a fraction. In the back of his mind, a stray thought surfaced: Is this guy a homo or something?

But Corbin’s expression didn’t linger long on admiration; instead, he pivoted seamlessly, his demeanor shifting to one of professional excitement. “So,” he said, gesturing grandly to the lobby around them, “what do you think of the place so far? Impressive, isn’t it?”

David straightened up, smoothing his tie as he nodded. “It’s incredible,” he replied, his deep voice carrying genuine approval. “State-of-the-art. Honestly, I think what you’re doing here is brilliant. I’ve read all about your mission, and after what I’ve witnessed here today, I can’t say enough about how much I agree with what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Corbin’s face lit up, his smile widening as he stepped closer. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he gave David a friendly nudge in the side with his elbow. “Does that mean I can count on you to give us a glowing report tomorrow night?”

David tilted his head, letting a smirk play across his lips. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “You better believe it. I’m going to make sure your message reaches the people who really need to hear it. We’ve got to work together to trick these pathetic progressive losers into finally opening their eyes and seeing how the world is supposed to look.”

Corbin’s laughter boomed through the lobby, rich and full-bodied. He clapped a hand on David’s broad shoulder, his grip lingering as he leaned closer. “Ah, I knew you were the real deal, David,” he said, his tone brimming with satisfaction. “It’s such a relief to meet someone who gets it… someone who truly sees the vision. You and I? We’re going to do amazing things together.”

David’s chest swelled with pride, the man’s approval feeding his growing sense of self-importance. “Damn right we will,” he replied, his voice steady and firm. “This is just the beginning.”

***

The studio lights bathed the room in an artificial glow, casting long shadows across the set. David Carlson sat tall at the anchor desk, exuding the poise and confidence that had cemented his place as the number one star in the conservative news world. The countdown to airtime ticked away on a monitor beside the camera, but David’s focus wasn’t on the clock.

Instead, it was on Tiffany, the studio’s blonde bombshell of a makeup artist, who approached him with her signature playful grin. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she sauntered toward him, her skintight dress emphasizing every curve. Tiffany’s long, golden hair framed her flawless face, and the warm scent of her perfume wafted toward him as she leaned in to touch up his makeup.

“Just a quick touch-up, David,” she said, her voice teasing as she gently dabbed at his forehead with a powder puff. “Can’t have our star looking anything less than perfect.”

David chuckled, his piercing eyes scanning her physique without subtlety. From the generous curve of her chest to the hourglass dip of her waist and the way her dress clung to her toned legs, she was a sight to behold. His lips curled into a wolfish grin.

“Not sure anyone’s looking at my forehead, Tiffany,” he remarked, his voice low and smooth.

She giggled, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Oh, don’t be modest. The viewers love you. You’re the reason they tune in every night. It’s our job to make you look as good as possible.”

“Damn right,” he replied with a chuckle and smirk, his hand casually brushing the edge of the desk as he shifted closer. As Tiffany leaned over to adjust a stray strand of his perfectly coiffed hair, David let his gaze linger on her mouthwatering tits before making his move. His hand slid down and gave her plump ass a confident squeeze.

Tiffany gasped softly, her cheeks flushing an even deeper red. But instead of pulling away, she giggled nervously, her eyes darting around to ensure no one was watching.

David leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Why don’t you swing by my office later? Evening broadcasts can be intense, so I always need to let off a little steam.”

Her blush deepened, and she bit her lower lip as she nodded. “I’d like that,” she murmured, barely able to meet his intense gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his grin widening as he patted her ass and sat back.

Tiffany quickly finished her work, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You’re all set,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Go kill it out there tonight, David.”

David chuckled, adjusting his tie as he leaned back in his chair. “I always do,” he said, his tone oozing self-assurance. “Let’s be honest, every viewer out there goes crazy for me. I can’t say the same for everyone at this desk though...”

His gaze shifted to his female co-anchor sitting across from him. She was busy reviewing her notes, her expression composed but tired. David’s eyes narrowed into a glare, the weight of his ego palpable as he mentally compared their on-screen presence.

The studio’s director called out, “Thirty seconds to air!”

David straightened his posture, his polished smile snapping into place as the countdown continued. Tiffany disappeared off to the side, but the lingering scent of her perfume and the promise of their meeting later fueled his already inflated confidence.

As the final three seconds were uttered and the red light on the camera blinked on, David Carlson’s face suddenly filled the screen with a look of composed sincerity. For any viewer at home, they couldn’t resist savoring how his sharp jawline was framed perfectly by the flattering angles of the studio lighting. His deep, resonant voice greeted the viewers with the practiced warmth of a trusted confidant.

“Good evening, patriots,” he began, his tone rich with professional gravitas. “I hope you’re all having a wonderful evening. Tonight, I want to take a moment to speak directly to you – to the Americans out there who may feel unsure or even afraid about what the future holds.”

He leaned forward slightly, his piercing blue eyes staring directly into the camera, as if he could reach through the screen and hold a private conversation with each viewer.

“Are you worried about what comes next? Are you feeling ostracized by those who don’t share your values, your beliefs, your way of life?” His voice softened to a somber cadence, each word laced with a careful, purposeful empathy.

David paused, letting the questions hang in the air for a moment, before flashing one of his signature charismatic smiles – a smile that seemed to radiate reassurance to the viewers. His tone lightened, carrying a hint of optimism.

“Well, my friends, I’m happy to report that I’ve found a solution to these concerns – a solution that has left me thoroughly impressed. It’s a company called Red Wave Solutions.”

David sat back slightly, his hands folding neatly on the desk as he continued.

“Red Wave Solutions has developed an innovative way to ease the anxieties many of you might be feeling. They’ve pioneered a state-of-the-art ‘recalibration’ process that allows individuals to step into a new perspective – specifically, the perspective of strong, confident conservative values – for the duration of this current administration.”

His diction was flawless, each word delivered with precision, yet his tone carried an undercurrent of excitement that kept the message personal and engaging.

“Yesterday, I had the privilege of visiting one of their clinics to observe the recalibration process firsthand,” David explained, his voice lowering slightly as if sharing an intimate secret. “The facility was absolutely cutting-edge – everything you’d expect from a company that cares solely about delivering results safely and effectively.”

He leaned in again, his tone becoming animated as he described what he saw.

“I watched a young man, clearly nervous and weighed down by his worries, begin the process. And when it was over, he emerged completely transformed. I’ll tell you, folks – it was remarkable. He was lighter, happier, even eager to talk about the exciting future ahead under our president’s leadership. It was a night-and-day difference.”

David chuckled, shaking his head as though he could still hardly believe it. “That young man, who had walked in anxious and unsure, left ready to embrace life with open arms.”

He sat back again, his hands gesturing subtly to underscore his words.

“Now, I understand that some of you at home might be skeptical. You might be thinking, ‘What if I don’t like the change?’ or ‘What happens when the presidency ends?’”

David’s expression grew earnest as he addressed the concerns head-on.

“Well, let me reassure you,” he said, his voice steady and confident. “The recalibration process is designed to be completely reversible. When this presidency comes to an end, so too will the recalibration, leaving you exactly as you were before – no muss, no fuss.”

He leaned forward, his hands clasped together as his eyes locked onto the camera.

“I feel for anyone out there who’s afraid of what lies ahead,” he said earnestly. “This can be a challenging time for many of us, and let me the first to say that I see you and I hear you. But if you want to make things easier on yourself and your family, I strongly urge you to consider reaching out to Red Wave Solutions. Their process is seamless, safe, and highly effective. But don’t wait too long—appointments are filling up fast!”

David’s smile widened, a glimmer of encouragement in his eyes as he delivered his closing line.

“Take control of your future, patriots. Call Red Wave Solutions today and see what they can do for you. You’ll be glad you did, I guarantee it!”

As the camera shifted to focus on his co-anchor’s segment, David leaned back in his chair, flashing a satisfied grin at the crew. He knew he had delivered the message perfectly, feeling incredibly cocky about the fact that he would be the reason why Red Wave Solutions began converting hundreds to thousands of “libtards” into real men.

[redwavesolutions]

Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word

Mason Samsen wasn’t your average 20-year-old college student. His perpetually tousled hair and ink-stained fingertips were more than a badge of his role as a budding journalist; they were the marks of someone who rarely rested when there was a story to uncover. A junior at Jefferson University, Mason had quickly built a reputation as a truth-seeker on campus. His peers respected his tenacity, and some even feared his relentless pursuit of exposing wrongdoing. As an outspoken Democratic Socialist, Mason believed deeply in the power of truth to dismantle systems of inequality and oppression. For him, journalism wasn’t just a career path – it was a moral obligation.

His work spoke for itself. Within just two years, Mason had written exposés that sent shockwaves through the community of his college. The first uncovered a scandal involving a tenured professor who was not only cheating on his wife with his teaching assistant but also allegedly grading female students unfairly. Then there was the damning report on the head of the History Department, whose pattern of racially charged comments and discriminatory hiring practices for his TAs Mason meticulously documented. Both articles landed Mason in hot water with the faculty due to how much news coverage it received, but they also cemented his place as the student body’s most fearless journalist. His articles had been shared far beyond campus, with national outlets even picking up some of his stories. To Mason, this was proof that his instincts were never wrong.

So when the fliers for a company called "Red Wave Solutions" started appearing across campus, Mason’s journalist’s radar pinged instantly. He first noticed them plastered haphazardly on the corkboard outside the student union. A stark crimson logo dominated the page, paired with the tagline: "Reject Political Anxiety and Accept Conformity – Join the Movement Today!" The messaging was vague but calculated, designed to intrigue and alarm in equal measure. The company’s name struck him as odd too, as "Red Wave" sounded more like a politically charged rallying cry than a corporate entity. As such, he couldn’t help but wonder what type of services it could even offer.

Due to this, Mason tore a flier off the board and scrutinized it further. There was no detailed description of services, no list of affiliations, and no website – just a QR code and a phone number. A quick scan of the code on his phone led to a bare-bones webpage with little more than a flashy promotional video and a generic mission statement about "encouraging unity across the political divide." To Mason, it reeked of corporate jargon hiding something more insidious.

As he watched several nervous students hastily follow him and grab the fliers while looking around to make sure no one else saw them, the odd feeling Mason felt continued to gnaw at him. Why was a seemingly obscure yet political company suddenly plastering fliers all over campus? What exactly were they selling, and who had invited them here? Was this tied to the university administration, or was it the work of a private group looking to influence the student body? Mason didn’t know yet, but one thing was certain: the smell of bullshit was undeniable.

Mason’s resolve hardened as he opened a fresh document on his laptop. He would do what he always did – follow the trail, piece by piece, until he uncovered the truth. He had a gut feeling that Red Wave Solutions was up to far more nefarious things than their preachy unity message implied. As such, it was up to him to find out exactly what they were hiding and why they were targeting his campus.

Back in his dorm room, Mason leaned back in his creaky office chair, scrolling through the company’s sparse website with a growing sense of unease. The bright, polished visuals stood in stark contrast to the murkiness surrounding the company's true purpose. Stock photos of smiling queer couples holding hands and multi-racial families posing dominated the homepage. Their warm, inclusive energy clashed oddly with the undercurrent of the program’s messaging, which was as ambiguous as it was unsettling.

Mason’s sharp eyes honed in on the phrasing in the promotional text. "Are you worried about the future? Afraid of standing out? We hear you, and we can help remedy those nerves!" The implications were vague, but something about them made Mason’s skin crawl. The language was too polished, too calculated, as if crafted by a focus group determined to hit all the right notes for an audience grappling with post-election anxieties. His intuition told him this wasn’t just a therapy program – something insidious lurked beneath the cheerful exterior.

Being a gay man, Mason had learned to trust his gut when it came to exposing homophobic hostility, no matter how sugar-coated and concealed it appeared. The website’s queer-friendly imagery might have fooled someone else, but to Mason, it reeked of a ploy. As he clicked through the pages, a darker theory began to form in his mind. Could Red Wave Solutions be some kind of veiled conversion therapy operation? Maybe not in the traditional fire-and-brimstone sense, but something modern, subtle, and far more calculated – a campaign to indoctrinate or "reorient" unsuspecting young people under the guise of empathy and support.

Adding to his unease, Mason had found himself overhearing some of his friends mentioning Red Wave Solutions in the past few weeks. They’d talked about the program as a potential outlet to process their political anxieties and the stress of living in a rapidly polarizing society. Their interest frustrated Mason to no end. Couldn’t they see how suspicious it all sounded? He knew he couldn’t simply tell them to stay away without proof though, it was a common occurrence for them to accuse him of overthinking or being paranoid.

And so, Mason made a plan. If his friends were intrigued, he’d get there first. He’d scope out the company himself, ask pointed questions, and observe their methods. If his suspicions were correct, he’d blow the lid off Red Wave Solutions before any of his friends fell victim to its schemes. He wasn’t afraid to sacrifice a few hours enduring thinly-veiled conservative rhetoric if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

That resolve ultimately left him scheduling an appointment and standing outside the nondescript building listed as the company’s headquarters the very next day. The office complex was a bland, utilitarian structure – gray cement walls with windows that reflected the cloudy sky. There was no large sign or logo to announce Red Wave Solutions’ presence, only a small decal on the front door that caused the company to look as impersonal and corporate as Mason had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Mason adjusted the front of his shirt. It wasn’t just a nervous habit though, he wanted to make sure the tiny button camera sewn into the middle of his polo was perfectly aligned. He’d spent all night setting up the camera, ensuring its placement was discreet yet functional. If something went south, he needed visual proof of whatever shady operation was running inside.

As he smoothed his shirt, Mason glanced at his reflection in the glass door. He looked composed enough, but his stomach churned. This wasn’t his first investigative dive, but something about this one felt different. Possibly dangerous even, given the type of hardcore conservatives that were most likely working on the inside to trap unsuspecting people into their web. Ever determined though, Mason shook the thought from his head and squared his shoulders. He had a job to do, after all, the truth wasn’t going to expose itself.

With one final glance at the street behind him, Mason pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air inside the Red Wave Solutions building was cool and faintly scented with a generic, clean aroma that reminded Mason of a freshly mopped hospital floor. His eyes darted around the space as he stepped inside, taking in the minimalist yet calculated decor. The interior was almost sterile in its design: pristine white walls and floors offset by carefully placed red accents. A striking red backlight illuminated the reception desk at the center of the room, and short sections of the walls were painted in the same bold crimson. It was sleek and modern but lacked any warmth, as if it had been designed to evoke trustworthiness without inviting comfort.

Behind the desk sat a neatly dressed woman who greeted Mason with a polite but impersonal smile. She was African American, her hair pulled into a professional bun while her burgundy blouse complemented the crimson accents of the room. Mason’s journalistic instincts immediately kicked in. The choice of a minority woman as the face of this place struck him as deliberate – an intentional move to put visitors at ease and present an image of inclusivity. He wondered how many people had walked through these doors, seen her friendly face, and let their guards down.

“Welcome to Red Wave Solutions,” she said, her voice professional but warm. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

Mason nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Yeah, it’s Mason Samsen. My appointment’s at 2:30.”

The woman’s manicured nails clicked against her keyboard as she searched for his information in the system. Mason used the moment to glance around, noting a few chairs arranged neatly along the walls of the waiting area. They were stark white, with small red cushions placed in the center of each seat. A table held a stack of glossy pamphlets with titles like "Taking the First Step Toward Inner Peace" and "Navigating Life’s Challenges with Confidence." He resisted the urge to grab one, keeping his focus on the woman behind the desk.

“Ah, here you are,” she said after a few moments. “I just need to verify your identity. Do you have an ID with you?”

Mason froze for a fraction of a second. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Uh, yeah,” he said, fishing his driver’s license out of his wallet. “Is that really necessary though?”

The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve had a few incidents recently with people trying to play pranks or disrupt our sessions. Running a quick background check helps us ensure that everyone who comes in is serious about taking advantage of what we offer while also helping us easily share information with the police if necessary.”

Mason hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of his license. Her explanation was reasonable enough on the surface, but it still felt invasive and incredibly suspicious. Still, he knew he couldn’t afford to raise any alarms this early in his investigation. With a tight smile, he handed over the ID.

“Thank you,” the woman said, sliding the card into a small scanner attached to the desk. The machine whirred softly as it processed the information. “This will just take a moment. Once it’s done, we’ll take you back to begin your consultation and help you learn how to thrive in the red wave.”

Mason forced a polite chuckle at her use of a clearly corporate-enforced tagline, but inwardly, his nerves spiked. The phrase felt even more ominous now that they held his ID, like some Orwellian euphemism. He watched as she glanced at her screen, her expression unreadable as the system ran its checks.

“Feel free to take a seat while we finish up,” she added, gesturing toward the waiting area.

Mason nodded and moved to one of the chairs, carefully positioning himself where he and his hidden camera could keep an eye on the desk. He slid his phone out of his pocket and pretended to scroll while his thoughts churned. This whole process felt wrong. What kind of therapy company needed to run background checks on its clients? Was this just about deterring pranksters, or was there something deeper at play – some sort of data collection method or pre-screening tool to help figure out how exactly to break the mental reserves of interested parties?

As he waited, Mason adjusted his polo shirt again, ensuring the hidden button camera was still perfectly aligned. Whatever was happening here, he wasn’t leaving without answers.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Mason sat in the waiting area, his foot tapping against the white tile floor. His eyes flicked between the receptionist and the clock on the wall, noting that it had been over ten minutes since his ID had been taken. The polished environment of Red Wave Solutions, with its pristine surfaces and artificial calmness, was starting to get under his skin. The longer he waited, the more his mind raced. What if they were stalling for a reason? Had their check revealed his identity as an expose-focused journalist? He needed answers, and he wasn’t about to waste more time sitting idly by and waiting for them to make the first move.

Determined to act, Mason stood and walked back to the desk, forcing a polite smile. “Hey, sorry to bother you,” he began, “but is there a bathroom I could use while I wait?”

The receptionist returned his smile with one of her own, still calm and composed. “Of course,” she said, pointing toward a hallway behind her. “Just head straight down that hall and take a right. You’ll see the sign.”

“Thanks,” Mason replied, masking his nerves as he turned away.

He followed her directions, but as he walked, he took in everything around him. The red accents continued down the hallway – with all of its short walls and door frames painted with the same deliberate splash of color. The space was oddly quiet, the faint hum of distant air conditioning the only sound accompanying his steps. His hidden camera captured everything, from the layout to the stark, almost clinical lighting.

When he reached the intersection where he was supposed to turn right toward the bathroom, he paused. To his left, the hallway stretched further into the building, its end obscured by a sharp turn. Mason hesitated, weighing his options. The bathroom was a safe choice, but his instincts pushed him in the other direction. If he wanted answers, he knew he had to take a risk.

After glancing back to ensure the receptionist couldn’t see him, Mason hastily turned left and strode deeper into the building.

The further he went, the stranger the place felt. The hallways were eerily labyrinthine, branching off into sharp angles and other hallways that made it easy to lose his bearings. Doors lined the walls, each one marked with a small, nondescript plaque bearing a room number. Curious, Mason peeked through the window of one door, only to find an empty, white-walled room with a single chair bolted to the floor. The next room was the same. And the next.

“What the hell is this place?” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding harder with each step.

Then, a sound broke the silence – a voice, faint at first, but unmistakable.

“Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

Mason froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was male, clearly desperate and filled with terror.

“I changed my mind! I want to leave! Please, let me out!”

The cries sent a chill down Mason’s spine. He scanned the hallway, trying to pinpoint the source. Although he didn’t know where exactly, the man knew that the screams were coming from somewhere deeper in the building.

Without hesitation then, Mason followed the sound, his steps quickening as he navigated the twisting corridors. The voice grew louder by the minute, the man’s pleas echoing off the sterile walls. Mason’s chest tightened as he rounded another corner, finally stopping in front of a heavy door with a small rectangular window.

Inside, a young man was standing with his head pressed against the glass window. His face was pale, his eyes wide and filled with panic. When he saw Mason, he pounded on the glass.

“Please, help me!” the man begged, his voice raw. “You have to let me out! I changed my mind. I don’t want to go through with this anymore!”

Mason’s hands trembled as he reached for the door handle, only to find it locked. He looked back down the hallway, adrenaline flooding his system. The silence outside the door was deafening, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

“Hold on,” Mason said, his voice low but urgent. “I’ll get you out of here. Just give me a second.”

The man inside the room sobbed, clutching his head in anguish. “Please, hurry, I don’t feel well,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Mason scanned the door, looking for any way to unlock it. His instincts told him to move quickly – if anyone caught him here, he wouldn’t have the chance to find out what was really going on.

Mason’s heart hammered in his chest as he examined the door, searching for some way to unlock it. His fingers brushed over the control panel on the side, and he let out a small breath of relief when he saw the latch mechanism – a simple keypad. His years of investigative journalism had taught him a few tricks, and after quickly punching in a few common codes he’d used to sneak into areas in the past, the lock finally gave a faint click.

The door swung open, and the man inside nearly collapsed into Mason’s arms. His slender twinkish frame trembled, and before Mason could say a word, the man threw his arms around him, clinging tightly.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” the man cried, his voice breaking. “We need to get out of here… right fucking now!”

Mason gripped his shoulders firmly, pushing him back slightly so he could look him in the eyes. “Hey, calm down. Stop yelling,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. “I’ll help you get out, but you have to keep quiet. We can’t get caught, okay?”

The man nodded frantically, his breathing ragged. Mason took a moment to observe him. He was young – probably a college student no older than Mason himself – with bright blonde hair that was tousled in a way that suggested he’d been consistently running his hands through it while in distress. His frail physique was only emphasized by the somewhat tight Britney Spears t-shirt he wore, providing Mason with a clear as day impression of the other man’s toned abs and flat chest. The whole look screamed twink, which instantly caused Mason to develop a pang of protectiveness for him.

“Okay, we’re getting out of here,” Mason said, his voice firm but quiet. “Stick close to me, and don’t make a sound unless I ask you something.”

The man nodded again, wiping tears from his face. Mason led him out of the room, carefully closing the door behind them. He glanced down the hallway, ensuring the coast was clear before gesturing for the man to follow him.

As they walked, Mason leaned in close. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” the man whispered, his voice trembling. “Cooper Evans.”

“All right, Cooper. What the hell is going on here?”

Cooper hesitated, wringing his hands as they moved down the quiet hall. “I– I came here because I was scared,” he finally said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do. With this new administration, I was afraid of being hate-crimed or losing my rights. They said they could help me blend in.”

Mason’s brows furrowed. “Blend in? How?”

“They… they said they have this process,” Cooper explained. “They said they could transform me into a Conservative. That I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore if I just… fit in.”

Mason stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at Cooper. “Transform you? What are you talking about? How does that even work?”

“I, I don’t know!” Cooper said, his voice rising before Mason quickly shushed him. “I swear, I don’t know. They gave me this whole pitch, had me sign a contract saying I’d agree to it, and then they gave me this red pill for me to swallow. That’s it. That’s all I know!”

Mason let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell were you thinking saying yes to something like that?” he hissed. “I know the future’s scary right now, but why would you want to become someone with such awful values? Someone your altered self would hate if they ever met the real you?”

Cooper’s lip trembled, and tears began streaming down his face again. “Dude, I was scared, okay?” he choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought… I thought it was the only way I’d be safe.”

Mason sighed, his frustration melting into a mix of sympathy and anger. “Look, I get it. Things are bad, but you can’t just give up who you are because you’re scared. That’s exactly what people like them want. I don’t know you well, but I can already tell that you’re a great guy who deserves to be your true self…”

Cooper sniffled, nodding miserably as he endured the lecture from the other man while continuing down the hallway. Mason kept a hand on his shoulder, guiding him while keeping an ear out for any approaching footsteps. Whatever was happening here, it was worse than he’d imagined, and he was determined to not only get Cooper out of here safely, but expose this company for the disgusting things they’re attempting to do.

Mason kept a steady grip on Cooper’s shoulder, speaking softly but urgently. “Listen, Cooper, nobody can just transform like that. It’s not real. Whatever they gave you, it’s probably some kind of drug – a sedative, maybe, or something to make you more suggestible. Brainwashing, that’s got to be their angle. They’re just trying to get you weak enough so they can get in your head…”

Cooper’s watery eyes flicked toward him, searching for reassurance. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Mason replied firmly. “You’re still you. We just need to get out of here in one piece, and everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

But just as the words left Mason’s mouth, Cooper stopped dead in his tracks. A low grunt escaped him, and his hands shot to his stomach.

“Something’s wrong,” Cooper whimpered, his voice tight with discomfort.

Mason spun around, his heart lurching. “Cooper?”

Before he could get another word out, Cooper screamed – a piercing, guttural sound that echoed through the hallway. Mason’s pulse spiked, causing him to immediately clamp a hand over Cooper’s mouth.

“Shh! Stop screaming!” Mason hissed, glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to come rushing toward them at any moment. But Cooper’s muffled cries didn’t stop. His entire body trembled, his knees buckling as he clutched his midsection.

“Damn it,” Mason muttered under his breath, scanning the hallway. He spotted a door nearby, one that oddly wasn’t locked like so many of the others but rather slightly ajar. With no other choice and not in the situation to second-guess it, he yanked it open all the way, dragging Cooper inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Okay, breathe,” Mason said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “We just need to–”

But Cooper cut him off with another scream, this one deeper and more guttural than before. Mason’s stomach churned as the sound of cracking bones filled the air. Cooper fell to his knees, his hands bracing against the cold floor as his body convulsed. “What’s happening to me?!” he roared, his voice suddenly raspier and deeper, no longer the light airy tenor Mason had heard moments ago.

“Cooper, calm down!” Mason demanded, though his own panic was building. “It’s, it’s probably the drug giving you a panic attack or something. Just hold on, we’ll–”

But Mason’s words faltered as he watched, wide-eyed, as Cooper’s body began to change. His frame, once frail and delicate, suddenly began to expand with unnatural speed. His limbs stretched, his torso elongating until he had shot up to at least 6’4”. His skinny jeans became comically short, now resembling capris, while his Britney Spears t-shirt rode up his lengthening torso, exposing a wide swath of his toned abdomen.

“What the hell…” Mason whispered, stumbling back against the wall.

Cooper’s screams wavered, cracking wildly between high-pitched cries and guttural, low groans. His hands clutched at his chest and shoulders as his body continued to shift – this time with the invasion of muscle into his lithe frame. Before his eyes, Mason watched as the other man’s lean arms buffed up, his flat chest began to thicken and broaden, and the remainder of Cooper’s entire physique began to morph from wiry club kid to college athlete.

“It hurts!” Cooper cried out, his voice so deep and gravelly it was almost unrecognizable. “What the fuck is happening to me?!”

Mason’s breath caught in his throat. “Cooper,” he said, his voice trembling. “I– I think it’s real. That pill… it’s actually transforming you.”

Cooper’s new, larger form shook with silent sobs as his head dropped forward, his blonde hair falling into his face. “But I didn’t want this!” he bellowed, his voice resonating in the small room. “I just wanted to feel safe!”

Mason stared at him, horrified and helpless, his mind racing. Whatever he had stumbled into at Red Wave Solutions was far more sinister than he could have imagined. This wasn’t just brainwashing or manipulation – this was something once thought to be scientifically impossible.

He took a shaky step forward, placing a hand on Cooper’s arm and struggling to comprehend the jock-like biceps the man now possessed. “We’re going to figure this out,” Mason said, his voice low but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will find a way to turn you back. Just… keep it together, okay?”

Cooper looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. “They changed me,” he choked out. “I barely even recognize myself…”

Mason swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of panic. “We’ll fix this,” he promised, though he had no idea how. “But first, we’ve got to get out of here.”

He reached for the door handle, his heart hammering. Whatever was happening inside Red Wave Solutions, Mason knew one thing for sure: he had to expose it, no matter the cost.

Mason had barely finished reassuring Cooper when the man doubled over again, this time clutching his chest with both hands. The cracking and popping sounds of shifting bone and sinew returned, louder and more unsettling than before. Mason’s stomach twisted in fear as Cooper’s body began to shake once more.

“Cooper?” Mason asked, his voice shaking as he stepped back. “What’s happening now?”

Cooper let out a low groan that turned into a guttural moan as his entire body suddenly began to swell with immense mass. In an instant, his arms ballooned with muscle. His biceps and forearms thickened rapidly, straining the sleeves of his Britney Spears shirt until they began to tear at the seams. His chest expanded, leaving his plump pecs pressed tightly against the fabric as his shoulders further broadened and filled out. His newly-jockish frame was already disappearing, undergoing an extreme metamorphosis as more layers of powerful muscle began to flood his physique. 

“Holy… shit…,” Mason muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Cooper’s transformation.

The changes didn’t stop with his upper body, as Cooper’s thighs and calves surged with muscle, causing his jeans to pull taut until the fabric threatened to split. His abdomen, which had been toned yet flat before, rippled with abs so bulging and pronounced they looked sculpted from stone. And yet, even as Mason watched, a soft layer of fat began to spread over Cooper’s newly chiseled physique. His once-defined six-pack faded into the softer outline of a bulkier, slightly rounded stomach, giving him the appearance of a well-fed, off-season athlete… or a frat bro who spent as much time lifting weights as he did guzzling beer.

Cooper let out a long, low moan as the transformation slowed. His once frail and shaky voice was now deep and resonant, though his words came out in a stilted, almost dazed manner. “Holy shit, bro,” he said, looking down at his enormous hands and flexing them experimentally. “What… what happened to me?!”

Mason’s breath hitched as he stared at the hulking figure before him. Cooper’s face still bore a trace of his former self, but it was broader now, more rugged. His blonde hair was now down to his shoulders, styled with a natural set of curls that gave him a sort of redneck-chic style befitting of a frat bro. The sight was surreal, and Mason’s instincts screamed at him to leave.

He took a step back, glancing at the door. “Look, Cooper,” he said cautiously, his voice trembling. “I– I think you’re going to be okay still. Just… stay here. I need to figure out how to get us out of this mess.”

But the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. Every fiber of his being told him he couldn’t stay here any longer. Whatever was happening to Cooper, it was beyond anything Mason could comprehend, let alone fix.

“I’ll be right back,” Mason lied, taking another step back toward the door until his back pressed against the firm metal.

As he reached for the handle and turned it though, his heart sank. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked harder, but it quickly became clear that there was no use. The door was locked.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his panic rising. He spun around, his eyes darting toward the small window in the door.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Two enormous security guards stood just outside, their arms crossed over their broad chests. Both men were built like linebackers, their sharp features set in stern, no-nonsense expressions. They were looking directly at Mason, their eyes unblinking, their presence menacing.

“Oh, crap,” Mason whispered, stepping away from the door.

“Dude,” Cooper said behind him, his voice booming and casual now. “Why’s the door locked? What’s goin’ on, bro?”

Mason didn’t respond. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out. Yet as he looked around, he quickly realized that not only was the room small, but it lacked any other exits or windows. The only way out of this room was through the door – and the guards who clearly weren’t going to let him leave.

Cooper took a lumbering step toward him, his movements unsteady as he adjusted to his new burly size. “Yo, Mason,” he said, his voice a strange mix of confusion and excitement. “I feel so weird, man. Like, I’m freakin’ huge now. This is nuts!”

Mason pressed himself against the far wall, his breath quick and shallow. He had come here to expose Red Wave Solutions, but now he was trapped in a nightmare with no clear escape. And to make matters worse, the transformed Cooper was now staring at him with an unsettling mix of bewilderment and enthusiasm, as if unaware of the full extent of what had just happened to him.

The guards outside shifted slightly, their eyes never leaving Mason. It was clear they were waiting for him to make a move – which left the journalist wondering if they were simply there to stop him from interfering or eventually take him somewhere worse for finding out the truth.

Mason swallowed hard, his mind racing. Whatever was happening here, he was in way over his head.

Mason barely had time to process the sight of the guards standing outside the window before the door clicked and swung open into the room. His pulse spiked, and he took a few reflexive steps back, especially as the two massive guards rushed into the room with practiced precision and alarming speed.

“Hey! Wait–” Mason shouted, but the words were cut off as one guard grabbed his left arm and the other seized his right. Their grips were like iron, pinning him in place with an effortless strength that left him completely immobilized.

“Let me go!” Mason demanded, struggling futilely against their hold.

But his cries went ignored. The guards didn’t so much as glance at him, their stony expressions remaining fixed ahead like robots as they held him firmly.

Mason’s eyes darted to Cooper, desperate for help, but the sight before him made his stomach drop further. Cooper was staring at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the far wall, his now-massive hands running over his muscular chest and arms. His face, once soft and pretty, had undergone further dramatic transformation. The delicate features had sharpened into something rugged and masculine – a stubble-covered jawline that could cut glass, a straight nose, a set of manly lips adorned with a trimmed mustache, and thick brows that framed eyes filled with a vacant yet self-satisfied glint. For a moment, the man played with his hair, enjoying running his thick, callused fingers through his long wavy strands.

“Cooper!” Mason called, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

But Cooper didn’t respond, his attention entirely consumed by his own image. He flexed, his bulging biceps straining the tattered remnants of his shirt, his lips curving into a smirk as he admired his physique.

The sound of deliberate, measured footsteps echoed through the room, drawing Mason’s attention away. His eyes widened as a figure emerged in the doorway – a handsome, middle-aged man with perfectly trimmed stubble and sharp, piercing eyes. Dressed in a tailored suit that exuded authority, the man carried himself with an unsettling confidence.

He stepped inside, surveying the room with a smile that sent chills down Mason’s spine. His gaze lingered on Cooper for a moment, his expression one of approval, before turning toward Mason.

“Well, isn’t this quite the scene,” the man said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Cooper is coming along beautifully, wouldn’t you say?”

Mason didn’t answer, his throat dry as he glared at the man.

The stranger’s attention returned to Cooper, who was now flexing in earnest, his massive arms and broad shoulders filling the small space. “You’re doing great, Cooper,” the man encouraged, his tone warm and enthusiastic. “Just look at you. All that weakness, all that self-doubt – it’s melting away, isn’t it? You’re finally becoming the straight alpha male you were always meant to be.”

“No,” Mason muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “This isn’t right. Cooper, don’t listen to him!”

But Cooper didn’t even glance at him. Instead, his expression remained precisely trained at his new reflection and hyper-masculine face as one hand moved down to paw at his immensely-sized crotch. “Yeah… yeah, bro,” Cooper said, his voice deep and almost gravelly. “I feel so… powerful.”

The man chuckled, his smile widening. “That’s it. Embrace it. Let go of that weak, pitiful version of yourself. Expel it. You don’t need it anymore.”

“Cooper, stop!” Mason shouted, straining against the guards’ hold. “This isn’t you! Don’t give into what this asshole and his fucked up company wants!”

But his words were drowned out by the older man’s encouragement. “Come on, Cooper. Show us you’re ready. Show us you’re done with that fragile little self you used to be.”

Cooper’s grin turned almost feral as he stepped back from the mirror, his massive hands now split between jerking himself off and squeezing his immense new form. He thrust his hips forward once, then again, his body trembling as he gave in to whatever compulsion was driving him.

“No!” Mason screamed, his voice cracking as he fought against the guards with renewed desperation.

Cooper bucked his hips one last time, his movements growing erratic until he froze as a torrent of cum shot out of his thick cock. Mason watched as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head, his chest heaving as a guttural groan escaped his lips.

Mason’s blood ran cold. Whatever was happening to Cooper was reaching its horrifying conclusion, and Mason had no idea how to stop it.

Cooper – or rather, the person who had once been Cooper – stirred a few minutes later, his head jerking slightly before his eyes fluttered open. Mason froze, watching in disbelief as the hulking man came to. The confusion was evident in the newly sculpted frat bro’s face as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.

“Uh… what the hell is going on, broskis?” he mumbled, his deep voice carrying an unfamiliar, lazy drawl. His gaze darted from the guards restraining Mason to the middle-aged man standing with a smug expression, and finally landed on Mason himself.

As recognition failed to surface in his eyes, the now-transformed man tilted his head, his lips pulling into a cocky smirk. “Yo, wait a sec… are you, like, a homo or something? Tryna sneak a peek at my badass bod or check out my… uh…” He flexed one arm and cupped his other hand over his crotch with a crude laugh. “…my impressive package, bro?”

Mason’s mouth fell open. “Cooper, it’s me, it’s Mason! Don’t you remember anything? You came here because–”

“Shut it,” the other man interrupted before snapping his fingers at the guards holding Mason. Without hesitation, they reached up and clamped strong hands over his mouth in order to silence him. Mason struggled, muffled protests escaping as he glared daggers at the older man.

The mysterious man turned to the hulking figure, his demeanor calm and calculated. “You’re quite perceptive, Jackson. As a matter of fact, we did indeed catch Mr. Samsen here sneaking into your room while you were in the middle of your… business.”

Instantly, Jackson’s brows furrowed as his expression darkened. He clenched his fists, the sound of his knuckles cracking echoing ominously in the small room. “What the fuck, bro?” he said, his voice a mix of anger and indignation. “You some kinda creep? Lemme guess, you’re some kind of fucked up fairy jealous of what a real man looks like?”

Mason shook his head frantically, trying to plead through the guards’ hands. His muffled cries went unnoticed by Jackson, whose frustration seemed to bubble over.

“Yo, I’ll mess you up, dude,” Jackson growled, taking a menacing step forward. His massive form towered over Mason, the threat in his body language clear.

But before Jackson could act, the middle-aged man raised a hand, his commanding tone cutting through the tension. “Now, now, Jackson. There’s no need for violence.” He nodded toward one of the guards standing by the door. “Escort Jackson to the lounge, would you? He’s had an intense day coming to terms with his inner truth, so I’m sure he could use some time to relax.”

One of the guards stepped forward, placing a hand on Jackson’s broad shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”

Jackson hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking back to Mason. But then he shrugged, his frustration melting into indifference. “Yeah, whatever. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today, bro,” he muttered, turning to follow the guard out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the man shifted his attention back to Mason. His warm smile was chilling in its insincerity. “Now, Mr. Samsen,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s your turn. You’ve poked your nose into matters you shouldn’t, so now it’s time for you to not only get punished but find a way to truly contribute to our cause.”

Mason’s eyes widened as the man continued, his tone almost fatherly. “You’ve spent so much time fighting against what you perceive as wrong. But you’ll soon realize that you’ve been on the wrong side of history all along. Don’t worry though, we’ll be gentle in helping you see the truth. And once you do, you’ll become the Conservative you were always meant to be...”

To read part two, click here.

[redwavesolutions]

#RedWaveRapture

This story is inspired by @transform4u's incredible series.

Liam adjusted the strap of his messenger bag as he pushed open the heavy doors to the lecture hall, his worn-out Vans squeaking faintly against the linoleum. The room was already buzzing with energy, with rows of students sat in their cramped chairs chatting or scrolling through their phones with the occasional snippet of heated debate floating above the noise. In the aftermath of the election, the air in the once cheerful room was now unbearable tense – just further signifying the political divide which had only deepened in the aftermath of the election. Ever the perceptive one, Liam felt it acutely, the divide feeling sharper for him as an outspoken progressive and openly gay man in a department filled with students of various ideologies. Although luckily going to school in a major urban town meant that the vast majority of his classmates were like-minded in most of his core values, Liam still found himself having to deal with people who identified as anything from libertarian to far-right.

In the midst of all the chaos he scanned the room, searching for an open seat. Most of the good spots were taken, clusters of students clumping together in unspoken yet well-known clicks. To the left, he noticed a group of self-proclaimed moderates – individuals with calm, stoic faces that always tried to chime in during heated debates in order to play “devil’s advocate”. To the right, the small yet overbearing group of men decked out in MAGA hats and other overly patriotic attire huddled close, their smirks growing when they glanced around at all of the chaos their votes had manifested. Liam’s stomach couldn’t help but tighten when he saw a guy in a Trump 2024 hoodie staring at his phone, lips curling in a smug grin. Worried about getting noticed and causing a scene, the man looked away quickly.

As he slowly made his way up the stairs of the lecture hall still in search of a seat, Liam couldn’t help but flash a smile and offer up a quick wave to the few friends that were also Political Science majors. One of those individuals was Peter, a lanky man who looked like the stereotypical nerd with his dated fashion sense and thick-rimmed glasses. Despite being 19, the young man hadn’t been able to push past the plights of puberty, which left him still with an acne-ridden face where his pasty white complexion only emphasized the round red dots that were speckled across his dorky visage. 

Upon heading up a few more rows and noticing an empty seat in the middle of the lecture hall, Liam awkwardly excused himself as he struggled to navigate his pudgy body past the already seated students. It was just his luck then that he ended up tripping over a backpack and almost landing on a male classmate. His poor luck was only further emphasized as he caught himself and looked down at the man and discovering that his laptop had a sticker on the back that read “Trump That Bitch!”. 

After quietly offering up an apology, Liam pushed past while carefully making sure to avoid eye contact with the clearly frustrated classmate. Upon finally making his way to his seat and sitting down, he then unzipped his bag and pulled out his laptop. As he set it down on the small table resting atop his armrest, the man opened it up and thus proudly displayed his stickers to the room – small pieces that displayed his inclusive forward-thinking mentality via an AOC sticker, rainbow pride flag, and a Black Lives Matter sticker. Although he usually felt completely confident in his identity and values, the aftermath of the election had left him feeling somewhat self-conscious, especially in this current environment. Despite this, he sat tall and took a deep breath, the nerves in his chest settling a bit when he reminded himself of the reason he loved this class: Professor Townsend.

Townsend was a rarity – a professor who didn’t shy away from the sharp edges of politics and thus didn’t mind to ruffle some feathers. Middle-aged, greying, and perpetually dressed in dri-fit polo shirt that strained against his humongous belly, he had a booming voice that could command attention without effort. But what Liam appreciated most was Townsend’s commitment to calling things as he saw them. The professor didn’t just teach about political systems – he dissected them with the precision of a surgeon, exposing corruption, authoritarianism, and the insidious ways disinformation spread like wildfire in the digital age.

According to the syllabus, today’s lecture promised to be particularly potent: Disinformation and Hashtags—The Role of Social Media in Creating False Narratives. The topic felt painfully relevant, especially given how much the election’s discourse had been fueled by social media chaos. Yet despite the tightrope that such a topic its instructor would be required to walk, Liam was incredibly eager to dive in. His notebook and laptop were ready as the clock ticked closer to the hour, but he couldn’t help noticing the furtive glances and occasional murmurs around him. He’d learned to tune them out – being both extremely progressive and gay had made him a lightning rod for snide comments and tense silences – but the charged atmosphere today felt almost suffocating.

A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. “I just think people are way too sensitive about what he says. Like, that whole locker room talk shit was just a joke, right?” It came from a guy two rows ahead, his tone dripping with condescension. Liam clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time he’d overheard this argument, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last over the course of the next four years.

Before Liam could roll his eyes too hard, Townsend waddled his way into the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. The scattered conversations dropped off, replaced by the hum of laptops booting up and notebooks flipping open. Townsend set his leather satchel on the desk and surveyed the room with a sharp gaze.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he began, his deep voice cutting through the room like a knife. “I hope you’re ready for a lively discussion today. Our topic, disinformation, is more relevant than ever. As we’ve all seen in the aftermath of this election, the truth is often drowned out by the loudest voices instead of the most accurate ones. And what amplifies those voices? Social media of course.”

Liam leaned forward, his pulse quickening. Townsend’s words always felt like a rallying cry, a reminder that politics wasn’t just theoretical – it was personal, lived, and incredibly important. As the professor began to pull up slides showing trending hashtags from the elections, with some being devoted to real things such as questions about Joe Biden’s ability to serve while others were complete fantasies created by right-wing pot-stirrers and amplified by bots, Liam couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. Despite the tension, despite the vitriol, there was still a space for truth, and it seemed like both him and his professor were determined to be part of it.

Professor Townsend adjusted his glasses and tapped the projector remote, illuminating the lecture hall screen with a slide bearing bold red text: #RedWaveRapture.

“Now, this,” Townsend said, gesturing at the screen with a flourish, “is what we’re going to talk about today. #RedWaveRapture. Quite the ominous ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Liam frowned, leaning closer to his laptop as murmurs rippled through the class. The hashtag itself was enough to make his stomach twist, but the tension only grew as Townsend continued.

“This is one of the newest trending topics I found circulating on certain parts of social media,” Townsend explained, his tone calm but charged with an undertone of exasperation. “Each post has been accompanied by a link to a website, which according to users on both Twitter and Reddit, claim has the ability to unleash the viewer’s inner Conservative.” He paused for effect, raising an eyebrow. “The idea is that it’s a resource being used to indoctrinate and spread the upcoming administration’s agenda.”

Liam’s chest tightened as the words sunk in. He looked around as a few stray awkward chuckles erupted from a few of his classmates. His fingers hovered above the keys of his laptop, his mind racing. Unleash your inner Conservative? The very idea made his skin crawl. Although he knew such a thing was likely impossible, the anxiety he’s felt bubbling within him since November 5th had him unable to resist thinking about the possibility. What if there was actually some truth to the idea that someone could be manipulated into adopting values so antithetical to everything he believed in? He thought of the MAGA hats and smug stares from earlier. The idea of somehow becoming like that – bigoted, narrow-minded, hateful – sent a cold shiver down his spine.

“Now, now,” Townsend said, his voice cutting through the growing unease like a warm gust of wind. “Before anyone goes running for the tinfoil hats, let’s just call this what it is: pure fantasy. The idea that some website or hashtag can magically ‘convert’ someone into a rabid Conservative is right up there with the plot of a bad sci-fi movie.”

A few students chuckled, and Townsend smirked, clearly enjoying the lightened mood. “What’s next? #BlueWaveBrainwash? Or maybe #GreenNewDevotees? Folks, if it were that easy to sway political ideologies, trust me – my colleagues in the PoliSci world would’ve figured it out ages ago. Instead of being up here with you today, I’d be sipping margaritas on a beach somewhere instead of grading your essays.”

Liam let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing. Townsend’s dry humor worked like a charm, and for the first time since seeing that hashtag, Liam felt his pulse slow to a normal rhythm.

“So here’s what we’re going to do today,” Townsend continued, his tone shifting to one of steady authority. “We’re going to combat disinformation the best way we can: by exposing it. Your assignment for today, yes, this is a graded activity, is to open the link in question and see for yourselves just how fake and laughable this conspiracy truly is.”

He turned back to his laptop, fingers tapping briskly on the keys. “For those of you feeling concerned, please do not worry. I will also take part in the activity since I know tensions are surely quite high right now. So if you’re going down the rabbit hole, I’m going down with all of you as well,” he said, smiling at the large crowd before hitting the Enter key on his laptop. Within seconds, the classroom’s group chat pinged with a message. 

“Check your class chat,” Townsend said, gesturing at the screen. “I’ve posted the link there for you. All you need to do is click it, take a screenshot of the page upon completion, and submit a short reflection about why this kind of disinformation spreads. Folks, this is as easy an A as you’ll possibly get in this class. That is unless you still don’t know how to take a screenshot. If that’s the case though, then you’re on your own because I don’t know how to do it either.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and the weight in the atmosphere seemed to lift. Liam noticed how even the small MAGA crowd cracked a few smiles at that, their stiff postures relaxing slightly. After this, the man opened the chat on his laptop and moved his cursor above the link, his anxiety piqued but his nerves soothed. 

The man hesitated, his cursor hovering over the link in the class group chat. Around him, the lecture hall buzzed with activity as other students followed Professor Townsend’s instructions, clicking the link on their devices. He glanced at his neighbors, who seemed engrossed in their screens, their expressions ranging from amused to mildly confused. Taking a deep breath, Liam steeled himself and finally clicked.

As soon as he did, he struggled to contain a giggle as the homepage loaded. Instead of some imposing and scary website, the link had loaded a garish, poorly-designed website covered in cheesy stock photos and riddled with spelling errors. It was at this moment that Liam breathed a sigh of relief. Townsend was right, this entire website was a joke.

But just as he prepared to take a screenshot of the page, his screen suddenly burst to life with a series of blinding flashes. His eyes bulged, his body instinctively recoiling as vibrant, disorienting colors – a purposeful electric blue and searing blood red – pulsed and swirled in hypnotic patterns. His laptop emitted a faint hum that seemed to reverberate directly into his skull. He blinked rapidly, wanting desperately to reach up and shield his eyes, but something about the display compelled him to keep looking and not move.

His body, tense and rigid just moments before, began to suddenly loosen. His shoulders relaxed, and his hands fell limply to his lap, his breathing slowing as his gaze became fixed on the screen. The chaotic flashes gave way to the first set of images – flashes of Bible verses scrawled in elegant, glowing script. They appeared so quickly that Liam couldn’t read them, but the words seemed to still flash in his vision for several moments after they disappeared.

Then came the crosses. White and gleaming, they hovered against a black void, slowly rotating before morphing into freshly cleaned and pressed American flags waving majestically in the air. A video then played, the footage composed of soldiers in pristine uniforms standing at attention and saluting in synchronized and deliberate movements. The imagery was sharp, vivid, and almost too perfect… like something out of a propaganda film.

Liam’s chest tightened as the visuals shifted once again. The image of a nuclear family appeared: a chiseled, square-jawed father in a suit, a blonde woman in a crisp dress holding a casserole, and two cherubic children standing on a manicured lawn. Behind them stood a suburban house, complete with a white picket fence and a fluttering American flag. They smiled so brightly that it seemed almost artificial, their eyes locking with Liam’s as though they could see him so intensely to the point where they were actually staring into his soul.

Liam’s mind raced, overwhelmed by the sensory overload. His thoughts became disjointed, fragments of words and feelings flashing through his consciousness – God, country, family, duty. He couldn’t tell if the images were being burned into his mind or if he was imagining them. The display then crescendoed into a final blinding flash, the videos and images abruptly ending until the screen became black and Liam found himself staring at his reflection in the screen.

Blinking rapidly, Liam sat frozen for a moment. The trance-like state had finally been shattered, leaving him slumped forward and shaking his head in an attempt to drive away the pounding in his skull and the fog that clouded his thoughts. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he rubbed his temples, trying to process what had just happened. Around him, murmurs filled the lecture hall as other students looked up from their screens, some appearing ever more dazed than he felt.

Professor Townsend cleared his throat loudly, his voice cutting through the low hum of confusion. Eager for guidance, Liam and the other students turned their attention towards him in search of guidance. “Well,” he said, his usual dry humor tinged with something shakier, “that was… uh, certainly something.” He looked around at the students and attempted a chuckle. “I think we can all agree that this website was bizarre, but let’s not overthink it. The conspiracy is still fake, folks. Nothing actually happened to us.”

His tone was light, but Liam couldn’t help noticing a flicker of unease in Townsend’s expression. It was subtle – the way the professor’s hand trembled slightly as he gestured toward the screen, the way his eyes darted to his laptop as if confirming that the site was nothing more than a poorly designed site.

Around the room, students began to nod and chuckle nervously, seemingly eager to return to normalcy. Some even joked about the ridiculousness of the display. Liam forced a weak smile, but his thoughts churned. The images lingered in his mind like an afterimage, vivid and unshakable.

As Townsend moved on, trying to regain control of the lecture, Liam couldn’t help but wonder: What was that? And why do I still feel like it’s with me?

Professor Townsend, visibly trying to steady himself, cleared his throat and raised his voice over the growing hum of conversation. “Alright, folks, enough excitement for one day. Let’s get back to the topic at hand – disinformation and how it exploits emotional vulnerabilities. The website was an... admittedly strange example, but—”

A loud, deep voice interrupted from the back of the lecture hall.

“Man, I feel amazing!” the voice boomed, rich with a newfound confidence. “Can’t wait to show that site to all my dumbass libtard friends!”

The room fell silent as dozens of heads whipped around to locate the source. As Liam looked in the direction of the voice, Liam’s breath caught in his throat and his cloudy brain became even more confused. It was Peter’s seat, but the man standing up and addressing the class bore little resemblance to the man.

The small, nerdy man was now towering, his body stretching upward as if pulled by invisible strings. His red button-up shirt and his black khakis strained against his expanding frame, seams popping and fabric tearing as thick cords of muscle erupted across his arms, chest, and legs. His once-round face sharpened into angular, hyper-masculine features, framed by a clean-cut hairstyle that seemed to appear out of nowhere along with trimmed stubble. The glasses he always wore were gone, seemingly discarded or shattered during his transformation. 

Liam gasped, unable to tear his eyes away. As a result, he got a front row seat to watch as the sleeves and collar of the button up disappeared completely until he was left in a bizarre sight of a button-down shirt styled into a tank top. With his limbs now fully exposed, the class gasped as a set of massive biceps revealed themselves. Even from across the room, Liam could see the immense vascularity of his friend’s arms as veins bulged out under his now-tan skin. By the time Liam looked back up at his friend, he noticed how the man had changed even more – with his shirt finally shifting into a red cotton tank top and his khaki pants shortening and thinning to become a pair of athletic shorts. In addition, a new addition appeared on the man’s face – a smug grin that looked incredibly cocky as the man lifted up his arms and flexed his new biceps.

“Mr. Benson!” Professor Townsend barked, his voice tinged with a mix of authority and shock. “What’s the meaning of this? Is this some prank you’ve been planning? This is a serious class and not a place for theatrics.”

But Peter, or whoever he was, didn’t back down like he normally would from such a scolding. Instead, he tilted his head back and laughed, a booming frat-boy guffaw that loudly echoed across the room. “Oh, chill out, old man. Get off my jock… unless your faggy ass wants to suck it. You’re just jealous I’m not some pasty soy boy anymore!”

Liam’s jaw dropped as several students also gasped. What is happening? He felt his heart racing, panic setting in, but he couldn’t ignore the unsettling part of himself that found Peter’s new form... alluring. His broad shoulders, his impossibly perfect jawline, the sheer confidence that oozed from every exaggerated movement – it was intoxicating, even as Liam knew something was terribly wrong in terms of both how this happened and the terrible things he was saying.

Suddenly, a deep voice whispered in his mind, cold and mocking. Cut the shit out, fairy. You’re a goddamn embarrassment.

Liam’s head snapped to the side, his pulse pounding in his ears. He looked around wildly, expecting to see someone leaning over to whisper in his ear, but no one was there. The voice hadn’t come from the room. It had come from inside his head.

As he looked around, he found that chaos was quickly erupting. While he had been so busy looking at what was happening to Peter, the man hadn’t noticed how even more students were shifting in their seats. Before his eyes, he watched how their bodies convulsed subtly before giving way to rapid and bizarre transformations.

For whatever reason, it seemed as though the other male students were changing first. He could only watch in disbelief as baseball caps and snapbacks warped and reshaped themselves into bright red MAGA hats, perched atop heads that were suddenly adorned with buzz cuts or slicked-back hairstyles. Their physiques morphed wildly: some swelled with muscle, their t-shirts ripping as their biceps and chests ballooned; others grew stockier, their faces gaining a rugged, confident edge as their bodies shifted firmly into the overweight category. Even the lanky tech nerds weren’t spared, their thin frames filling out with sinewy definition as their smirks grew cockier.

While he continued to look around unsure of what to do, Liam finally began to see how the women were changing too. Yet while the changes occurring to them weren’t as physically intense as the men’s, the superficial changes were even more unsettling. Every lady who had clicked on the link were beginning to look like they would fit perfectly in the Stepford Wives. Their hair, regardless of its original color or texture, turned a uniform shade of platinum blonde, styled in voluminous waves. Their faces became eerily symmetrical, their cheekbones high and their lips full to the point where they resembled sex dolls more than human beings. This was further emphasized by how their clothes shifted into tight, revealing outfits that clung to exaggerated hourglass figures.

“Oh my God,” Liam whispered, his voice trembling. The room was filling with people who looked like caricatures of Conservative ideals – hyper-masculine men and hyper-feminine women, all radiating an unsettling mix of confidence and disdain.

Professor Townsend backed away from his podium, his face pale and his hands shaking. He scanned the room, his eyes desperate as he looked for any students who hadn’t changed yet – ultimately staring directly into Liam’s wide, terrified eyes.

“This... this can’t be real,” Townsend muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. “It– it was just a trend, it wasn’t supposed to actually work!” He stumbled over his words, his usual cool composure completely shattered. “I– I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, I– I didn’t know. Forgive me. This isn’t what I wanted!”

Liam’s heart thundered in his chest as he met Townsend’s panicked gaze. All around him, his classmates continued to transform, with those who finished their transformations waking up from their slight daze to crack misogynistic jokes or discuss their dreams of creating a family after college. Amidst all of this chaos, a dark thought crept into Liam’s mind: It’s going to happen to me too, but when?

Liam’s breaths came in shallow gasps, his panic rising like a tidal wave. He could feel the tension building inside him, like something foreign clawing at the edges of his mind, threatening to take over. The flashes from the video haunted him – the Bible verses, the rigid gender roles, the overwhelming nationalism. It was a personality so alien to him, so diametrically opposed to everything he valued, that the mere idea of succumbing to it made his stomach churn.

“No,” he whispered under his breath. His hands trembled as he shoved his laptop into his bag, his pulse pounding in his ears. I’m not going to become like that. I won’t.

Without waiting for Townsend or anyone else to notice, Liam stood abruptly. He ignored the confused glances of the few remaining students who hadn’t yet transformed, his focus solely on the door at the base of the lecture hall. His legs wobbled as he hurried down the stairs, the enormity of what was happening pressing down on him with every step.

Yet just as he reached the bottom and his fingers brushed against the handle of the door, a deep, guttural grunt echoed from the front of the room.

Liam froze, turning back slowly.

Professor Townsend was clutching the podium with both hands, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and confusion. “No... not me,” the professor groaned, his voice cracking. His forehead glistened with sweat as his body began to shudder violently.

Liam watched in horror as Townsend’s transformation began. The man’s pudgy frame seemed to deflate, his extra flab melting away as if it were being sucked into some unseen vortex. His oversized polo shirt hung loosely on his shrinking torso, the fabric billowing in the wind and giving Liam glimpses of the lean and unexpectedly toned arms of his transforming professor.

“Liam...” Townsend’s voice was softer now, tinged with regret. His eyes met Liam’s, wide with sorrow. “I’m... I’m so sorry. You were my favorite student. If I’d known, I’d never have condemned you to this.”

The apology hit Liam like a punch to the gut. “Professor, no– don’t say that,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “You’re not– uh, this isn’t your fault. We can still stop it. We just need to–”

But Townsend shook his head, his expression crumpling as his body continued to change. He grew taller, his posture straightening as his figure filled out into a lean, youthful physique. His shortly cropped head of grey hair sprouted out longer dark brown strands that magically became swept back in soft waves. His cheeks hollowed slightly, his jawline sharpening to perfection, and even his once-weathered complexion took on a smooth, glowing radiance.

The professor’s now-oversized pants slipped dangerously low on his hips, held up only by the remnants of his old belt. “It’s too late,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can feel it... slipping away. Everything I was...”

Liam could only watch, paralyzed by awe and horror, as Townsend’s transformation took a sudden, jarring turn.

The youthful glow of Townsend’s face deepened as his features regressed further. His broad shoulders narrowed slightly, his frame shrinking to that of a lanky, awkward teenager. His brown hair became shaggier, slightly unkempt, and his new, chiseled build seemed to lose its maturity, leaving him looking no older than 19.

The professor’s polo shirt shimmered and shifted, morphing into a white dress shirt complete with rolled up sleeves. His dress pants remained consistent, although they shrunk several sizes to fit his leaner frame and also manifested a pair of suspenders that flew up and around his shoulders to complete his transformation into what looked like a modern-day nerd. As this transformation completed, Liam could only watch as Townsend closed his eyes as his once-anguished expression went slack for a moment.

Liam took a cautious step forward. “Professor?”

In an instant, Townsend’s eyes suddenly snapped open. The warmth and intellect Liam had known in those irises were gone, replaced with a cold, almost sneering gaze. The man – no, the boy – smirked, his lips curling with disdain. “Ugh, women, am I right?,” he muttered, his high-pitched nasally voice dripping with bitterness. “All stuck-up bitches who don’t appreciate a perfect guy like me. They say they want nice guys, but they always go for the assholes.”

Liam recoiled as if struck across the face by the brash declarations by his former professor. “Wha... what are you talking about?”

The boy – Professor Townsend? – turned his gaze to Liam, his expression softening slightly. “Oh, uh, sorry, sir,” he muttered, his tone suddenly deferential. He gave a small, awkward bow, his shoulders hunching as if afraid of reprimand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’ll just... uh... go sit down.”

Before Liam could respond, the newly transformed nerd shuffled past him, his head down. He climbed the stairs slowly, eventually slipping into Liam’s vacated seat near the middle of the lecture hall.

Liam stood frozen at the door, his mind reeling. Although he had known from Peter’s transformation that the changes weren’t just physical, it was a devastating blow to witness how Townsend, the brilliant, progressive professor Liam had admired, was gone. Instead, a bitter, awkward probable incel stood in his place.

Around him, the room continued to descend into chaos as more students finished transforming, their laughter and taunts growing louder. While this was happening, Liam was in his head where all he could think was: How do I stop this? At least, how do I stop it before it happens to me?

Liam’s chest heaved as he scanned the lecture hall, his eyes darting from one transformed classmate to the next. Every seat was now filled with an exaggerated caricature of Conservative perfection. The men were all doing their best alpha male impersonations, with some doing it far more successfully in comparison to the thinner or pudgier others. Despite this, most of the men in the crowd had seemingly found themselves in possession of MAGA hats that they all perched confidently on their heads. In their seats, manspreading was the universal sight to Liam as stared at spread-out legs and outstretched arms in search to take up as much space as possible. Meanwhile, the women looked like plasticized models, their blonde hair shining unnaturally under the fluorescent lights while they absentmindedly squirmed in their seats due to the skintight dresses that adorned their immensely busty and curvy figures. 

As he did one more scan of the room, a devastating realization hit Liam. He was the last one left.

Liam’s palms were clammy as he clenched his fists and left his knuckles white. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t too late, that he could somehow escape if he just got out of the room. That somehow he could somehow shake off whatever force was infecting everyone once he made enough distance. But to his horror, such thoughts were too late as he could feel that the warmth inside him was spreading.

It started in his chest – a low, insidious heat that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. Liam clamped a hand over his sternum, gasping as the warmth expanded outward, tendrils of heat snaking through his limbs and pooling in his core.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the droning hum of the classroom. “Not me. Please, not me.”

But his body betrayed him.

The first thing Liam noticed was the way his stomach felt strange and tingly. He looked down, horrified to see his once-pudgy belly flattening before his eyes, the softness melting away as if consumed by the heat coursing through him. His love handles disappeared, his torso shrinking until it was practically concave. Although such a sight would have been a relief given his struggle to lose weight, the gravity of the situation provided no such enjoyment.

Then, the process suddenly reversed.

Liam let out a choked gasp as his chest suddenly began to push outward, the skin stretching over growing mounds of muscle. His pecs ballooned forward, thick slabs of flesh that rose and fell significantly with his panicked breathing. They were so large that he couldn’t see past them when he looked down, their bulk obscuring the rest of his body.

His abdomen followed suit, the once-smooth skin contracting into a tight, chiseled six-pack. Each individual muscle popped into definition, the grooves deep enough to cast shadows under the harsh classroom lights. His arms were next then, with his biceps swelling rapidly until his skin was taut and thick veins snaked across the surface. Liam stared, slack-jawed, as his forearms thickened and his hands grew calloused, as if they’d spent years lifting heavy weights instead of typing on a keyboard.

The warmth surged down to his legs, which each began to tremble and expand. His thighs thickened into trunks of muscle, ripping through the fabric of his jeans. His calves bulged, hard and round, as if sculpted out of marble or the gods themselves.

He stumbled backward, slamming onto the whiteboard behind him as the transformation continued.

“No, no, no!” Liam cried, his voice cracking. He clawed at his chest, as if trying to suppress the changes, but it was no use. The warmth in his core was unstoppable now, burning brighter and hotter with every second.

Then, he felt it – his entire frame began to stretch.

His sneakers squeaked against the floor as his height shot upward, his vision rising as the ceiling seemed to draw closer. His limbs elongated, his torso expanding to accommodate his new size. He hit 6’3” and kept going, his head nearly grazing the low-hanging light fixture above the door until he settled at 6’5”.

And still, the muscle piled on in the midst of this.

Liam’s shoulders broadened, his traps rising like mountains on either side of his neck. His chest puffed out further, his pecs now comically oversized, their sheer mass making it hard to move his arms without brushing against them. His back widened and his lats flared out like a cobra’s hood, giving him a hulking, V-shaped silhouette.

It was at this point where every seam of his clothes finally gave way, the seams bursting as his body outgrew them. His shirt split down the middle, the shredded fabric hanging uselessly from his massive frame before falling away entirely. His jeans tore apart at the seams, leaving him clad in only the remnants of his boxer briefs, which stretched obscenely over his impossibly thick thighs.

Liam stared down at himself, his breathing ragged. His once-familiar body was gone, replaced by an obscene parody of masculinity. Every inch of him was covered in rippling muscle, his skin smooth and tanned as if he’d just stepped off a bodybuilding stage.

He was massive. Immense. A living monument to physical dominance.

To most, this would have been a dream come true. But to Liam, it absolutely terrified him.

With trembling hands, Liam pulled his phone from the remnants of his shredded jeans, desperate for some clarity. He opened the camera app, his thumb hesitating over the screen before switching to selfie mode. His heart sank as his reflection came into focus – or rather, the brand new man who was now staring back at him.

His face, once average and unassuming, had transformed into a model of masculine perfection. His jawline was razor-sharp, chiseled to a level of symmetry that seemed almost otherworldly. High cheekbones and a perfectly proportioned nose completed the picture, while his deep-set, piercing steely blue eyes gazed back at him with a newfound intensity. Liam barely recognized himself.

For a moment, he was frozen, awestruck by his own visage. His reflection was like something pulled straight from the cover of a men’s fitness magazine – impossibly attractive, almost unreal.

But then, as he watched, his face began to change again.

Wrinkles crept around the corners of his eyes, subtle but distinct, adding an air of rugged maturity to his youthful features. The smoothness of his skin grew faintly weathered, as though kissed by years of sun and hard-working life experience. Strangely, this didn’t diminish his beauty though; if anything, it just further amplified it. The small imperfections made him appear even more commanding, more powerful – a man in his prime, someone who had lived and thrived.

“No… this isn’t me,” Liam whispered, his voice shaky as he watched the transformation unfold.

The ache of change rippled through him again, and his light brown hair darkened before his very eyes, deepening into an inky black that glistened under the fluorescent lights. Although most of the men who had transformed had seemed to gain some semblance of facial hair, the changes occurring to Liam were leaving him completely clean-shaven. The faint and thin facial hair that he had attempted to grow had been completely removed, leaving in its place clean-shaven yet scratchy cheeks that further emphasized his masculine excellence by proudly showcasing his cheeks and perfect chin. His reflection was now that of an older, impossibly handsome man – a figure that absolutely could command a room without saying a word. It reminded him of Professor Townsend, just in a completely different way.

Liam’s breathing grew shallow as his eyes roamed lower, taking in the hulking mass of his body that complemented his now-prime masculine face. His chest heaved, pecs straining against the tattered fabric that once covered them. His arms were thick, veined, and powerful, his broad shoulders giving him an aura of dominance that made his own stomach churn with equal parts fear and... desire.

The fear deepened as a sudden, sharp ache flared in his mind.

Liam gripped his temple with one hand, his phone slipping from the other and clattering to the floor. His thoughts became tangled, a storm of conflicting ideologies and values clashing violently inside his head. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus, to hold onto the principles he had lived by his entire life.

“I believe in inclusivity,” he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible amidst the chaos of the transformed lecture hall. “I believe in equality…”

But the words triggered something else entirely.

A voice boomed inside his mind, deep and resonant, drowning out his thoughts.

“Inclusivity?” it sneered. “You don’t want inclusivity. You want exclusivity. Brotherhood. Strength in numbers. Surrounding yourself with men like you – like-minded, strong, white. None of those weaklings, none of those who’d poison your family or your community.”

“No!” Liam gasped, shaking his head violently, as though trying to shake the thoughts loose.

But the voice pressed on.

He tried to reaffirm his support for gay and trans rights, forcing the words to the forefront of his mind. Instead, the voice retaliated, its tone dripping with derision.

“They’re grooming your children,” it said firmly. “They’re trying to destroy what you’ve worked so hard to build. You’re a family man now. You have responsibilities – to your wife, to your kids, to your country. Stand up. Speak the truth. Protect what’s yours.”

Liam’s eyes shot down to his hand. He let out a strangled cry as he saw a silver wedding band materializing on his ring finger, its surface gleaming mockingly under the lecture hall lights. He tugged at it, desperate to rip it off, but it wouldn’t budge. It felt as though it were fused to his skin, a physical representation of the life he was being forced into.

“I’m gay!” Liam shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to drown out the invasive thoughts.

The words tasted foreign on his tongue now, and the voice laughed cruelly in response.

“Gay? Don’t make us laugh. You’re nothing like that type of scum. You’re a real man. An alpha. Strong, straight, dominant. You’ve got no time for their degeneracy.”

The venomous words rang in his ears, their weight pulling him down like an anchor. His reflection in the phone’s shattered screen mocked him, his new, imposing visage radiating a confidence he didn’t feel nor want.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, Liam could feel the man he once was was fading, slipping further and further away with every passing moment.

Liam’s resistance waned further as his thoughts were overtaken by vivid, intrusive memories of a life that wasn’t his yet felt impossibly real. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling with deep, deliberate inhalations as his vision blurred. For a moment, he was no longer standing in the lecture hall but transported to a different time, a different place, a different him.

He saw her – Gwen.

It was as if he’d stepped back in time to the early 2000s. He was on campus, walking out of a political rally his fraternity had helped organize, and there she was. A vision in a flowy floral sundress that hugged every curve of her busty body. Her long blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her piercing blue eyes met his as she handed out pamphlets for the Young Conservatives Club. He remembered the first thought that crossed his mind, unfiltered and unapologetic: I need to get my hands all over her.

He relived the moment, clear as day, as though it had only just happened. The memory was dripping with raw, physical desire. He imagined pulling her close, his large, calloused hands running down her slim waist to rest on her hips before sliding even lower to squeeze and slap her ass in addition to playing with her pussy. He could almost feel the heat of her body as he envisioned her laughing flirtatiously while he whispered something cocky and incredibly horny in her ear. The thought of stripping her out of that sundress, leaving it crumpled on the floor of the frat house, and claiming her as his made him grunt softly.

The warmth spreading through him turned into a blazing fire, feeding on memories of his old life to give way to these fabricated memories as his new identity solidified.

And then there were his children.

Chad came to mind first, his eldest son and his pride and joy. Liam’s heart swelled with paternal pride as he envisioned Chad standing at a podium, giving a fiery speech as a state representative for Florida. At only 23, he was already a rising star in conservative politics, following in his father’s footsteps. Liam couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Chad’s unwavering loyalty to their shared beliefs, his strong jawline, and his perfect family composed of a wife and a young son – everything Liam could have hoped for in a first born.

But then, Logan’s face appeared, and Liam’s smile unconsciously twisted into a sneer. His middle child had turned his back on the family, rejecting their values and falling into the clutches of liberal propaganda. Logan had the audacity to come out as gay and move to New York, cutting all ties with his parents. The thought infuriated Liam, his fists clenching as he imagined the relationship and conversations that they could have had if Logan had just stayed on the right path. Logan’s betrayal felt like a stain on an otherwise perfect legacy.

Finally, there was Becca, his youngest and his little princess. At 18, she was thriving as a freshman in college and already a proud member of a sorority. Liam pictured her dressed in pearls and a pastel dress, smiling sweetly as she mingled with future leaders and their wives. He knew she’d grow into a perfect conservative woman – graceful, poised, and ready to support her husband when the time came. After all, Gwen had taught her well, and Liam had made sure she knew the importance of family values and tradition from her youth.

The warmth in Liam’s body surged as these images danced in his mind, solidifying his place as the head of a picture-perfect family. His lips curled into a smirk as he envisioned himself as a role model – not just to his children, but to the students he taught as a Political Science professor.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, his voice now beginning to sound deep and gravelly, “I’ve raised them right. Gwen and I did everything we were supposed to. They’ll carry on the legacy. I’m so proud of them all, they’re the future this country needs!”

He couldn’t stop himself as his hips bucked slightly, a low grunt escaping his lips. The pride coursing through him was intoxicating, each fabricated memory bolstering his belief that this was who he was truly meant to be. In the midst of this, the last fragments of Liam’s true self flickered away weakly, dying off as the identity of a strong Conservative man took over. As this occurred, the man’s eyes rolled back as he suddenly grunted and unleashed a torrent of jizz out onto the lecture hall floor. With each spurt of cum that escaped from his meaty and impressive cock, the middle-aged man was expelling his former self and solidifying his transformation into someone new...

Leonard Hartland blinked a few times, shaking off the haze clouding his thoughts as he refocused on his surroundings. Standing at the head of the lecture hall, he adjusted his footing, the heels of his polished Oxford shoes clicking lightly against the hardwood floor. He took a moment to take in the sight of the classroom – a sea of young, eager faces all turned toward him, hanging on to witness his first move. With this realization, his lips cockily curled into a self-assured smirk.

Yet out of nowhere, something suddenly felt... odd. For a split second, a strange sense of vulnerability rippled through him, like a nagging thought just out of reach. He looked down instinctively, a flicker of panic jolting through him, only to sigh in relief when he saw the smooth fabric of his custom-tailored black suit stretching over his broad chest and muscular arms. The suit was impeccably cut, hugging his massive frame while leaving just enough room for the crisp white dress shirt underneath. A bold red tie sat neatly knotted at his neck, its vibrant color proudly displaying his political ideology while also complementing the polished gold cufflinks gleaming at his wrists.

Leonard tugged at the lapels of his jacket, straightening it over his bulging pecs before running a hand over his chiseled cheeks and jawline. Everything was as it should be. He felt powerful and commanding – a real man. His confidence only grew as he thought of the countless times his students had told him how inspiring and "presidential" he looked.

Still, a strange itch lingered at the back of his mind. He couldn’t shake the vague sense that he had forgotten something. It was almost as if he had just woken up from a dream, but the details slipped away the harder he tried to grasp them. With a dismissive shrug, he banished the thought. Whatever it was couldn’t possibly matter. He had work to do.

His gaze swept across the room, lingering here and there. He couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to a few of the young women in the front row, their polished appearances catching his attention. For a moment, he caught himself imagining how much better they’d look if they weren’t covering up their assets in tight dresses. He chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. His wife, Gwen, would just roll her eyes and laugh if she caught him looking or lusting towards another woman. She always said it didn’t bother her – after all, she had agreed with his observation that she’d let herself go since having the kids and thus meant that he should be allowed to fuck anyone he wanted until she took better care of herself.

He straightened his tie and cleared his throat, his deep, booming voice silencing the quiet murmurs that had been buzzing through the room.

“All right, everyone, settle down,” Leonard began, his tone authoritative yet casual. “I have to say, this is shaping up to be the best class I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching.” He paused for effect, letting his words hang in the air before adding, “And it’s not just because you’re all paying attention for once. It’s because you’re the right kind of thinkers. You see the world the way I do, and that’s exactly what we need more of right now.”

The students erupted in scattered cheers and applause, their faces lighting up with pride at his words while a few loudly chanted U-S-A a few times.

“Now, as you all know,” he continued, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back, “our president – the rightful leader of this great nation – was finally able to stop the steal and take our country back from those disgusting Democrats. But that doesn’t mean we can let our guard down.” He paused again, narrowing his sharp blue eyes. “There are still plenty of libtards out there – radical leftists, woke lunatics, ANTIFA, and other degenerates – who want to spread their fake stories, their lies, and their so-called ‘progressive’ values.” While speaking, he spat the word “progressive” out like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Leonard placed both hands on the podium, leaning forward as he addressed the room. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his jacket, and his commanding presence made the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“It’s our job – no, your job as the next generation – to fight back,” he said, his voice rising. “To combat this nonsense and ensure that the values we hold dear – God, country, family – stay intact. I know you’re up to the task because you’re the smartest, strongest, most like-minded group of students I’ve ever had.”

The classroom erupted into cheers and applause, and Leonard grinned, his chest swelling with pride. He raised a hand to quiet them, waiting for the room to settle before continuing.

“Now,” he said, his smirk returning, “are you all ready for me to teach you how to take back the narrative and wage war against the woke radical left?”

“Yes, sir!” the students shouted in unison, their enthusiasm shaking the walls of the lecture hall.

Leonard chuckled deeply, his laughter warm yet tinged with a hint of arrogance. “Good,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get to work, then.”