Chris had grown up on a farm. He was a small boy and bookish. He felt he was a disappointment to his father, never living up to the man's expectations. He had graduated high school in June of 2001, and planned on taking up farming like his family. That changed on September 11. Chris's patriotic spirit took over and he enlisted to fight his country's enemies.

Boot camp was hard for him. Chris had never done a push-up in his life, let alone fifty or a hundred. Whenever his body wanted to stop, rebelling against the shouts of his Drill Sergeant, his mind rescued him. He thought of the towers collapsing and the faces of the dead, their stories told in newspapers, and he pushed himself beyond his limits. Chris's commanding officers saw this drive in him. That's why he was selected.

That's where Chris met these men. None were exceptional in anyway then. In fact, all had joined after 9-11 and each had difficulty with boot camp. They were all thin and lacked muscular size. The weeks of training had put each of these boys into the best shape of their lives, but they were still at the bottom of the food chain when it came to the other men.

"That's about to change," said the Colonel. That's when they were told of their mission. The Colonel held up a comic book, a first edition Captain America. "You boys are going to be our Captain Americas." That's when they were fitted with pumps and given the serum.

Chris remembered the pain after the pump had been installed. His thin forearm was scarred and there was a distinct bump where the instrument had been inserted below his skin. That changed two weeks later, after the incision had healed and they filled the reservoir for the first time.

"You might feel warm or hot, then maybe euphoric like you can take on the world. That's normal, " said the doctor as he held the vial of the yellowish serum. "It's your body changing."

"Is the change permanent," someone had asked.

"Yes, this first time it is," replied the doctor in a clinical voice. "But future enhancements are only temporary. They will last at most one day, depending on the dosage of the prescription that you administer."

Chris's memories of that first dose were vivid and intense, as well as erotic. He remembers feeling awkward standing in just an oversized jock strap that barely clung to his body as the doctors fiddled with their drugs. After the reservoir had been filled, he started the pump to inject the drug into his system. He did feel hot and warm, but he also felt something else. He liked the feeling of his muscles swelling and pushing against the confining skin. He felt heavier and bigger. His body and penis began to fill the jock, then began to press on it as the fabric strained to contain him. The feeling of being weak and small left him, replaced by a self-assurance. He felt strong and big and heavy. His legs swelled and he was forced to adopt a wider stance. His balls throbbed as they expanded and filled with his juices. Instinctively, he raised his arms to the sides of his head as he sucked in his hard waist and puffed his expanding chest, screaming in ecstasy as his power grew. Chris felt lost in his growing power and strength, living his dream for a lifetime before the feeling slowly stopped. When he returned to earth, he had more muscles and strength than the biggest bodybuilder or powerlifter.

Adam could see in Chris's mind how much he loved the power.

Like Joe and Roger, Chris could use the formula to increase his strength at will. Reservoirs of the serum were implanted in their arms, and they carried refill cartridges if necessary.

"Whoa!" Adam's concentration was interrupted by Jim, who had a surprised look on his face.

"Guess we are kinda a sight," said Chris, reacting. Adam turned to Jim and knew it wasn't what made Jim exclaim. Less than a moment had passed, but Jim had read the same thoughts Adam had.

Adam concentrated. "We'll talk about this in a second," he projected at Jim. "Be cool for now until we know what they want."

Jim responded, his thoughts flooding Adam's mind. "So, that's how you did it. Wow. This is so cool." Then, Jim projected what he had learned from Joe and Roger.

Jim had seen it just as clearly as Adam had seen Chris's memories. Joe and Roger had the same initial experience, but their loyalty wasn't to the unit or their country. They wanted power and they wanted money. Once they had the power, they began to plan how to use it to get everything else.

The unit had been stationed in Afghanistan, taking out Al Queda and other terrorist operations. Covertly, the special operations force identified cells and units. Then, using their power, they took them out. They were fast and strong, and the unsuspecting terrorists didn't stand a chance. Their thick muscles were resistant to most bullets, and their strength enabled them to take on and destroy any obstacle. The unit was unstoppable.

It happened when Roger and Joe were on guard duty. Intelligence had identified their prisoner as a low-level operative. They were wrong. One among many intelligence failures that the unit had grown use to. The prisoner, while not high-ranking, was connected. He promised Roger and Joe riches if they would turn over the secret of their strength and power. Ron was the middle man. Schematics, formulas, processes, everything had been delivered to the other side, except Ron had skipped out with the money. Roger and Joe had deserted with their own supply of the formula -- enough to keep them powerful and take on any enemy. Anyone except Brawn.

"Ya," Brawn replied to Chris. "Pretty impressive. Guess you want these traitors?"

Chris had a good poker face, but his thoughts betrayed his surprise at the term. He wondered if Adam had been given the formula.

"No worries soldier," Brawn responded. "I'm one of the good guys. Me and my sidekick here. But I think you do have some problems." Brawn walked over to Joe and Roger and shoved each one hard to the special forces soldiers. The traitors flew into them, but were caught and overpowered by the eagerly waiting men.

Chris looked at Brawn, then extended a hand. "Name's Lietenant Smith."

Adam took his hand. Chris's forearm bulged as he squeezed, testing Brawn's strength. Adam grinned, then squeezed back. Both men's forearms swelled with muscle, veins pusling below the skin. They held the grip for five seconds, then ten, until Chris's face finally began to grimace at the might contained in Adam's powerful paw.

"Nice to meet you, Smith," said Adam, squeezing just a bit harder before letting go. "You can call me Brawn."

"Heh," said Chris, shaking out his hand, "nice name. Nice duds too."

"It's a look," replied the powerful muscleman. "Pup appreciates it, don't you boy?"

Jim walked over, extending his hand to Chris. "Yes sir, I do." Jim then projected to Adam, "and now I know why." There was a twinkle in Jim's eye as Chris gently took his hand.

"Lietentant, I think there is something we need to talk about, but not here." Brawn said seriously. In Chris's mind, Adam picked out the location of their base. "Pup and I will meet you at Crystal Palace in twelve hours where we can discuss this mess."

Into Jim's mind, Adam projected, "Time to learn some secrets man, unless you don't want those big muscles you got now?"

Jim projected pleasure at Adam, "I'm your boy now, and I'd love to be your sidekick. Every good superhero needs a sidekick, if only for homoerotic ambiguity."

Instantaneously, Adam filled Jim's mind with his story -- the strange meteor, the power, the cave and the metal. Adam felt Jim's mind search his body, and Jim understood. He needed a costume too, one made from the metal. Without it or proximity to Adam, he'd weaken.

"Dude! Let's go to my shop. I know just the look I want for your Pup." Jim projected.

"Then to the cave." Adam added. "Twelve hours, soldier," Brawn said to Chris.

"But..." Chris Smith tried to say, but both men were gone in a blur.

[Before...]

In the Hindukush range is a secret base hidden in the caves. Achmed bin Mohammed sits on a bench, 300KG of weight on a bar. He lies down and places his arms on the bar. His chest flexes, huge pecs pressing the weight upward. The bar is his to command as he lowers the weight to his chest, then slowly raises it, controlling the weight against gravity. For ten reps, the muscular man controls the bar, commanding it to move.

Achmed began lifting weights thirteen years ago, when he was ten. He hadn't yet grown to his full 175 cm height. Then, he had no time for religion, for Allah. He was preoccupied with his own selfish desires, his own obsession with becoming a man. Then, he was determined to build a supreme body and to capitalize on it in Hollywood. He would escape the poverty of his homeland, and the oppression. He would meet a Hollywood starlet and marry her, living in Beverly Hills, own a big car and have a swimming pool.

By the time Achmed was thirteen, he was the strongest boy in his village. His father taught him the ancient technique to augment his manhood. Achmed would stroke and squeeze his organ two or three times a day. He would be a superior lover too.

Achmed sits up. His chest is pumped. His sweat-drenched hairs cling to the muscles, making his brown skin darker. The pungent smell of a man working his body fills the room.

By the time Achmed was eighteen, no man in the village could compete with him. He was the strongest. In the baths, his manhood was superior. He liked it when the older men touched him, worshipping his body. They would try to flex, show him how strong they were, but they were weak. He was bigger and stronger. They longed for his youth, his fine black hair and sky blue eyes. His body was wide and thick while their's was thinner. It made him feel superior, and it made his organ hard. Most could not believe his thirty-four centimeters of thick manhood, and they would comment on how lucky his wife would be as they begged to touch it or suck it. When they revealed their smaller, thinner organs, Achmed knew that he was the superior man. He used the other men and boys as play things while he waited for his dream to come true. Achmed had been a fool.

Achmed flexes his chest, squeezing it as he lies on the bench preparing for another set. Yes, he knows he is strong and his manliness unmatched. But it is not for him that this is true. He is a servant of Allah and Allah's will be done.

When the infidels had invaded, the prophet fled and hid in Achmed's village. That is when he heard the words that changed him. He realized that his strength and beauty were not his, but a gift of Allah. He realized that Hollywood was not the savior, but the devil's tool. The invaders came to destroy his people. They had corrupted him with their lies, and now Allah called to him through the Prophet. Allah needed him to fight the invaders.

Achmed would have given up his body and soul, but the Prophet said no. Allah had given Achmed his strength as a gift. The Prophet's generals told Achmed of a group of invaders whose strength defied description. These invaders could single handedly defeat whole groups of Allah's fighters, martyring them in their defense of the true religion. The generals wanted Achmed to continue his training. Soon, it became clear that the generals had a plan. There were traitors among the infidels. They had supplied information about the process that create the supermen. The Prophet now had that information, and his own scientists were analyzing it.

The infidels are stupid. They fear the power, and give it only to their weakest. The Prophet learned that the process could be refined to make a man thousands of times stronger, yet the infidels limit it. The Prophet said that power would be Achmed's, and the time was now.

A man in a white coat comes to Achmed. "We are ready." Achmed nods. "You understand, we can only guess at the results. You are much stronger that the original subjects. Plus, the serum we are giving you is ten times more powerful than the one the Americans use. Your body may not be able to handle it."

"Allah will protect me," Achmed replies.

"Allah be praised," replies the scientist, who hands Achmed two vials of a yellow serum. "Your more muscular forearm allowed us to implant a reservoir twice as large as in the Americans. Fill it now and begin when ready."

Achmed takes a vial and empties its contents into his forearm. A dial on his wrist reads half full. He empties the other vial. Achmed turns and looks in a mirror one last time. He strikes a most muscular crab pose, noting his massive development that any bodybuilder would be proud of. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes the scientist adjusting a growing bulge in his pants. Achmed smiles. "Allah is great!" he shouts and started the pump.

A warmth flows from Achmed's forearm up his arm and into his chest. The heat radiates down his other arm, into his abs and loins, then down his legs. Achmed closes his eyes as a feeling of power comes over him. There is a buzz around him, "what's happening!" "growing" "not planned". Achmed feels good and ignores the scientists. His mind tells him they are nothing but flies. He relaxes and tries to lower his chin, but finds that his swelling chest blocks it. He feels his lats pressing against his thickening neck. His arms are being forced away from his body both by their growing mass and his thickening lats. He unconsiously changes his stance as his hams and quads demand more room. He hears the word "stop" and feels a hand against his wrist trying to interfere with his growth -- with Allah's plan. He raises his hand so quickly the scientist who tries to interfere was thrown against the far wall. Achmed feels nothing, lost in a euphoria of his strengthening, growing muscles. Something deep inside him is being fulfilled as his strengthening body finally is able to experience his lifelong dream.

Achmed faintly hears a ripping sound as his loin cloth falls from him, unable to contain neither his expanding glutes nor his powerful cock. His thirteen-plus inches of thick meat is growing harder and presses into the deepening cavern between his cinderblock-like abs. Instinctively, Achmed moves a big hand over his abs, marvelling in their hardness. He feels the touch, but his mind no longer recognizes his body. It is growing so much larger. He feels his manhood press between his pecs. Raising his hand higher, he feels boulders-sized pecs rising from his chest. He flexes them, feeling his steel-hard cock squeezed between his growing muscle.

Gradually, Achmed becomes conscious of the activity around him. He hears a man say, "put the stretcher here." "What about him?" "No, stay away. We don't know what he's capable of." He hears someone whisper, "so much muscle." Achmed opens his eyes.

In the mirror is a huge figure that Achmed does not recognize. Once, he remembers seeing an American comic book about a green giant possessing super-human strength. The artists drew the character with massively enlarged muscles. The figure staring at Achmed from the mirror makes this character seem puny. The huge man is easily over two meters tall, a meter and a half wide and insanely thick. As Achmed raises his arm, so does the behemouth in the mirror. He flexes his arm, and demands that the soccerball sized bicep rise. Thick-ropey striations push veins high as the muscle grows in a display of manly strength. Achmed forgets about his swollen cock, which begins to shoot jism high into the room. He realizes that no man can now match his power.

"Are..." a man in a white coat approaches. "Are you OK?"

Before Achmed can answer, the ground begins to shake, throwing the men in white coats off balance. A loud explosion follows moments later. In the distance, Achmed hears, "The Americans are bombing us. The entrance to the cave has collapsed."

"It is a test," says Achmed. He grabs a white coat and quickly creates a loin cloth big enough to contain his new size. He grabs two vials of the muscle enhancing formula. Achmed refills the empty reservoir as he pushes past a barrage of panicked people. Where the entrance to the cave use to be is now a stack of rocks. The smell of noxious gas fills the area. Half a torso of a dead girls lies visible, crushed under the tons of rocks now blocking the entrance.

Achmed's eyes blaze with anger. "Stand back," he says, forcing serum to pump into his veins. Instantly, his massive frame pumps with strength, energized by his righteous anger. Achmed powers forward, driven by rage and a feeling of invincibility. He raises his fist and powers it into a large rock. The sound of earth shattering reverberates through the cave. The rock is instantly propelled at supersonic speed by the power in Achmed's arm. The pulverized rock particles ricochet forward, vaporizing the rock before them. The American planes circling the battle area see a plume of rock and earth explode from the cave that they had just bombed.

In the now clear entrance, Achmed stands menacingly. Inside the cave, the crowd grows silent, awed by their hero and wondering what he will do next. Achmed looks up at the three circling fighter jets. He reaches down and grabs three small rocks. He finds the farthest plane and anticipates its path. Achmed takes a single rock in his hand. He aims, and pitches the stone with all his might. The rock blazes like a meteor directly toward the plane and rips through its wing and fuselage. The plane explodes into a fireball and begins to fall from the sky. Immediately Achmed takes a second stone, repeating the performance on a second plane. Achmed then takes aim at the third plane with the remaining stone. As he launches the rock with the incredible power of his arm, the plane fires its last missile. The rock finds its target, but too late. From the third fireball in the sky, a blazing trail heads toward Achmed, the cave, and the people.

Without thinking, Achmed squats, forcing power into his legs. Mighty thighs and calves explode as he leaps toward the missile. Achmed forces more enhancement serum into his body. His muscles grow and harden as he flies toward the incoming projectile. As he nears it, he extends his arms and grabs it. It's rocket engines fight him, but Achmed grabs the base of the cylinder and squeezes. The engine coughs, then flames out. Achmed pulls the rocket into his torso and squeezes.

From the ground, the crowd watches as the muscular giant seems to fly away. Suddenly, there is a flash of light followed by an earth-shaking explosion. A few people gasp, then the crowd goes silent. They see nothing. Seconds tick by slowly, and a few people begin to sob. "Wait! Look!" shouts a young man, pointing toward a dot in the sky. The dot grows at it approaches them, taking the form of a man, then the giant. The ground shakes as he lands, his massive legs absorbing the impact. A cheer rises from the crowd.

Achmed is covered with blackened soot. On his massive torso where the missile had exploded, a white blistered outline is visible. Shrapnel and TNT, unable to damage his thick powerful muscles had had an effect on his skin. The scarring came to a point between his massive pecs and expanded in a triangular shape down his torso, then stops, narrows and thins. "He is marked with the sign of a sword," he hears someone mutter.

"I am reborn," replies Achmed. "Allah, through his great Prophet, has anointed me to be his servant on earth, and his will be done."

"Allah be praised!" screams the crowd.

"I now bear the mark of the Prophet Mohammed, wielding his sword for truth and the righteousness of our people. Before you, I accept the power he has given me. I promise you, with my might and my strength, I will bring destruction to our enemies and freedom to our people!"

The crowd chants, "Praised be Allah. Praised be the Sword of Mohammed." as they walk to their savior, touching him and bowing to him. •