Seanday Break: Jock Enhancement

I'm taking a break for a while, but just to entertain you I'm reposting some of my favourite stories -- I hope you enjoy them as well.

Sean.

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Deep heavy breathing, a huge rush of air with every breath a tightness across your chest, the rush of blood in your ears, something unfamiliar to you. With a groan your head rolls to the side, your vision starts to clear, and you blink a couple of times.

Through obscured vision you see feet, lots of them shuffling, walking, jogging. The throbbing in your head beats in time with your pounding heart; through the noise something catches your attention

“Jason, Jason!” You turn your head to face the voice and blink. Someone crouches in front of you and a helmeted face comes into view. “Jason you OK?” The guy waves his hand in front of your face and you jerk a little. He stands towering over you, still slightly dazed you see him wave at something to your right.

You let out a long sigh, and close your eyes hoping it will help the throbbing in your head, “No-no-no, stay with me bro’, keep your eyes open,” you blink again and try to focus on the face of the guy kneeling again in front of you, “that’s it stay with me.”

You’re looking up and someone else comes into view; dropping a bag. He’s checking you over, the voices are muffled but you think you hear him say, “Did he lose consciousness?”

“I’m not sure, it was one hell of a tackle, helmet-to-helmet, damn!” The guy kneeling next to you replies. You let out a groan and try to sit up, “No, lay still for a moment,” He pushes on your chest, “the medic is here he’s just going to check you over.”

“Hey buddy, do you hurt anywhere?” The medic asks.

“No,” you mumble, “just got a throbbing headache.”

“Well, there doesn’t appear to be anything broken. Do you think you can get back on your feet?” You slowly push yourself up and discover you’re sitting in the middle of a football field. You look up at a concerned face, and something in the back of your mind tells you it’s Conner; one of the linemen. You give another sigh and raise your hand to your face, and clumsily knock the helmet you’re wearing.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Conner smirks as he pulls at the strap under your chin slowly pulling off the helmet.

You look down; seeing the white and orange of your uniform, tight pads across your chest, and the realisation snaps at your memory; I was playing football? Suddenly you feel hands grab you under your arms and you’re hoisted to your feet, a cheer echoes around the field. Instinctively you raise a hand and wave at the distant faces at the bleaches.

Hobbling over to the benches, you’re greeted by an arm around the shoulder; you know its coach. You squint, and frown; something doesn’t feel right as you look down and pull at your shirt. “Son, that was a valiant effort, but next time heads up OK?” You say nothing only nod, still a little dazed. “Now get yourself to the locker room, I want the medic to check you over.” A look of concern comes over his face, “Did you lose consciousness? It’s important.” You think for a moment and shake your head, and then make your way back to the locker rooms.

A rhythmic ‘clomp, clomp’ echoes through the empty room; your boots on the cold concrete floor. You pause and turn to look in the mirrors above the wash basins; your mouth drops open as you stare at the reflection.

Deep black marks underline your eyes, the line blurs as you pull a finger across your cheek; the word Texas and the number twenty-one. You wince at the reflection, this is not yours. The muscular build, the tight cropped hair; you rub your face again, the stubble.

“Hey Jason,” you turn to see the medic, “come in here for a moment, let’s get you checked out.” He helps you remove your shirt, pads and boots. It’s a good thirty minutes of questions and a thorough examination but in the end he gives you a cheery slap on the back. “Well, you seem fit.”

“Apart from this headache,” you moan.

“Take some pain killers, you’ll be fine in a couple of hours.” He retorts sounding like he’s losing interest quickly.

You return to the mirror, and you’re eyes follow the reflection of the medic as he leaves. There’s a crash as the door slams; it echoes around the empty locker room and snaps your mind out of a thick mire.

Jason, Jason? you look at the reflection giving long slow blinks, wait, my name isn’t Jason; its…

You reach up and feel the scratch on the back of your neck; almost healed. Looking close at your reflection your lip curls into a smile as you stroke your chin. “About fucking time.” You murmur to yourself.

Still scratching at your chin you turn and walk to Jason’s locker; inside you reach for his mobile, from memory you dial a number.

“Hello?” The voice at the other end sounds distant, but familiar.

“That’s Damien right? It’s me, erm, Jason.” There’s a long pause.

“Jason?”

“Yeah. Jason Taggart.”

There’s a long pause, and you hear what sounds like a tapping on a keyboard, “Jason Taggart? Trouble with algebra?”

“Yup, you got it!” You reply, with a grin.

“Fuck, you’re not shitting me right?”

“First thing I did was check the back of my neck.”

“You know you’re the first? Right?”

“You’re kidding me?” You count the weeks off on your fingers, “What that must be four weeks?”

There’s a laugh, “Yeah, I didn’t think it was going to work. We need to know how it was triggered.”

“Well, I must have been in the middle of a game, and I think I was taken out with a sacking; helmet to helmet.”

“Ouch!”

“Yeah, the next thing I knew I was coming to, sort of surfacing from a fog. They were all asking me if I lost consciousness, I thought it would be best not to say anything so I told them I was OK.”

“Ok, let me think,” You wait for what seems like ages, “right! I think I’ve figured it out, it has to be the combination of the adrenaline of the game and being knocked unconscious–it’s the only thing.”

You’ve returned to the mirror, and closely inspecting your face. “It’s the same conclusion I came to.”

“Of course you would.” Damien replied.

“So what was Jason’s IQ after the treatment?” You ask.

There’s a pause, “Jason, got an increase of 37%.”

“Not bad–have you improved on the formulae?” You ask.

“Yeah, a further 20% increase. Most of the jocks have had the formulae now, thanks to the coach. I mean how could he refuse? A simple injection into the back of the neck and twenty-four hours later they have the brains to pass most, if not all the tests the lectures throw at them.”

You let out a chuckle, “Yeah, and it’s totally undetectable so coach was up for it, and so where the jocks. You nailed the formulae, did your–our neurones bind successfully with those synthetic protoplasmic axons?”

“You are smart!” Says Damien

“I should be, it’s your,” you stumble over your words, “…our neurones that are now in control of Jason.” You pick at the football jersey you’re wearing. “How many more are out there?”

“Most of the football team, and I think coach is spreading the word about my little discovery. Look, come over and see me. We’ve got plans we need to make.”

“Gotcha,” you pause for a moment searching your memory, “661 Pontiac Drive?”

“Yup, you got it.”

“OK, need to clean up and shower,” you pause for thought, “yeah, a shower. I might be a while.” You laugh.

“Sure, I know I’d be doing the same.” Damien pauses, then laughs.

You hang up and start to get undressed, only dreaming about what you’re about to discover.