The clinic III

ALEXANDER, 25, wiry and pale, sits stiffly on a minimalist plastic chair. His khakis are crisply ironed, his tucked-in shirt two sizes too big. Glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them back up for the third time in a minute.

His foot taps uncontrollably.
He clutches a manila folder — Consent Form, Identity Lock Agreement stamped in red on the cover.

Around him, the room buzzes softly with ambient music and the faint scent of antiseptic. A digital sign scrolls “Welcome to SomaCore | Your Day, Your Body.”

He stares at a poster across the room:

“Ever wondered what it’s like to be someone else? Live the fantasy. Reset by morning.”

He swallows. Hard.

His thoughts race.
What if it goes wrong? What if I get stuck? What if I like it too much?

Across the room, a receptionist with a bright synthetic smile glances up from her terminal.

RECEPTIONIST
Alexander Weber?

He jerks upright.

ALEXANDER
Y-yes, that’s me.

She gestures toward a frosted glass door sliding open.

RECEPTIONIST
Dr. Lee will see you now.

Alexander hesitates for half a second—then rises.
His knees crack.
He walks toward the door.

This was supposed to be a joke. A dare to himself.
One day as a muscle-brained himbo.

Just to see what it feels like to be adored. Touched. Wanted.

He exhales, stepping inside.
The door hisses shut behind him.

Alexander shifts in his seat, trying to suppress the swirl of doubt and anticipation. Dr. Lee sits across from him, a vision of calm precision, hands folded neatly, eyes warm — and unreadable.

ALEXANDER
So, the reversal process… it’s automatic?

Dr. Lee smiles gently and leans forward.

DR. LEE
You could say that. The system is fully self-regulating. Once your subjective time period elapses, the embedded nanite protocol transitions from augmentation to restitution. A kind of reboot, if you will.

ALEXANDER
And that works reliably?

DR. LEE
In all documented simulations, yes. The poly-nanites are coded with layered redundancies. Triple keys, time-locked instructions, reactive enzyme gates. Very clever chemistry. You don’t have to do a thing — the restoration phase is... inevitable.

Alexander furrows his brow.

ALEXANDER
But it’s not chemical in the traditional sense?

DR. LEE
No — not in the reductionist sense. Think of it more like a recursive morphogenetic feedback loop, written into your biology temporarily. We call it adaptive self-resolution. The moment your system detects the end of cycle input — whether through hormonal markers, metabolic half-life, or simply elapsed time — the swarm switches directives.

He gestures with an elegant, circling motion, as if the idea is simple.

DR. LEE (CONT'D)
In essence, you are rewritten — and then restored. All within physiological parameters. No scars, no surgery, no hangover.

Alexander looks unconvinced.

ALEXANDER
And there's no way it could… malfunction? Say, if the signal doesn’t reach the swarm?

Dr. Lee chuckles softly — a sound as smooth as glass.

DR. LEE
Ah, the classic paradox of the failsafe. Yes, yes — many clients ask the same thing. But rest assured, the recall protocol isn’t remote. It's internal. Intrinsic. Once the system completes its experiential cycle, the return is a built-in imperative.

He pauses, then adds, with soft emphasis:

DR. LEE (CONT’D)
The body always finds its way home.

Alexander blinks at that. The wording strikes him as both poetic and strange.

ALEXANDER
What if I want to end the cycle early?

DR. LEE
You won’t. Once inside the experience, your neural model adapts to it. Cravings, cognition, self-perception — all tuned for immersion. There’s no discomfort. No urgency. In fact, most participants are surprised how natural it feels.

Alexander fidgets with the hem of his sleeve.

ALEXANDER
So you’re saying I won’t even care?

DR. LEE
You’ll be content. That’s the point, Alexander. For once, you’ll simply be. Not analyze. Not anticipate. Not calculate your way through the moment.

A beat.

DR. LEE (CONT’D)
You asked to be someone else. We offer you the most honest version of that wish.

He taps the tablet again. The musclebound silhouette ripples into focus. Hulking, relaxed, grinning dumbly.

DR. LEE (CONT’D)
Shall we begin?

Alexander hesitates. Then nods, almost imperceptibly.

ALEXANDER
Yes. Let’s begin.

Alexander sits stiffly, fingers laced, staring at the floor. The sterile room is quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. His mind, usually his greatest asset, is now a cage full of anxious noise.

What does it mean to be stupid?

Not just unknowing — that, he could handle. But unaware. Unguarded. Ungrounded.

No endless spirals of logic. No racing thought patterns. No need to overexplain his every gesture or calculate the social dynamics of a three-word conversation.

Just… slow.

Dull, even.

He swallows hard. This wasn’t supposed to be scary — it was supposed to be liberation. Freedom from overthinking. From the constant static of inadequacy. From always feeling less than because he was never strong enough, charming enough, normal enough.

But what if he lost himself in the slowness? What if, in chasing simplicity, he erased something essential?

He shifts uncomfortably.

Would he still remember number theory? The way it feels when a proof clicks into place like a cosmic lock turning?

Would he still recognize the elegance of complexity?

Would he even care?

That last thought hits hardest. Would he care?

Alexander breathes in through his nose. The gown rustles slightly against his skin.

There’s a knock. A nurse peeks in gently.

NURSE
We’re ready for you, Alexander.

He stands, unsteady, but determined.

One last whisper of a thought floats through his mind before the door closes behind him:

What if I like being stupid?

And then — silence.

The sterile chill of the medical room is a stark contrast to the heavy, flushed heat radiating from Alexander’s new frame. Sweat clings to his sculpted chest and arms. His muscles twitch slightly, like they’re waking up on their own. But his eyes are alert — too alert.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“This is… absurd. The transformation is real. Mass. Volume. Strength. All exactly as described. Maybe even beyond. The nanites seem to be perfectly in sync with my metabolic clock. I can feel the tension in the tendons, the density in the biceps. My heart beats with a calmness I’ve never had. And yet…”

He lifts his hands, clenches them into fists, then lets them relax again. He studies them like tools he doesn’t fully understand.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“...my mind is untouched. Clear. Linear. Sharp. I’m not dumb. Not yet. I can still walk through the structure of a differential equation. I still remember the Euclidean lemma in full. It’s like I rented a body — but kept the user.”

A nervous flicker in his right eye. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe more.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“Dr. Lee spoke in loops. Nanotechnological resonance bridges. Cellular reprogramming. Temporal synaptic filtering. A lot of talk — very little content. Not a single definitive answer. But he didn’t lie. That was the trick. Everything was phrased just so. Just vague enough that I, as a scientist, filled in the gaps myself. That’s the worst kind of deception — the kind you cooperate in.”

He breathes in deeply. His new lungs pull in air like a furnace. It feels easy. Too easy.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“Why isn’t it working? Why am I not stupid? I wanted... no, I needed this experience. A shift in perspective. To understand what it's like to simply be. To not strive. To live without intellect. Without depth. What does it feel like when words are just sounds and thought is just reaction?”

He stares at the floor. His powerful neck strains slightly as his head dips forward. The body asks one question; the brain answers another.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“Or... maybe it just takes time. Maybe it’s not instant. Maybe the real rewiring happens slowly. Like a fog. A creeping dullness. A... gentle forgetting.”

Pause.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“Is this clarity just a final flicker before the light dims?”

He shifts in the chair. It creaks under his weight. His breath catches for a second — not from panic, but anticipation.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“I feel heavy. Not just physically — mentally. This flesh... it’s dense. It drags on me. Not in motion, but in intent. I don’t want to think. I should think, but I don’t feel like it. I want to eat. Just eat. Anything.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A micro-expression. Somewhere between grin and grimace.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“There. That was it. I felt the impulse. I can name it. I didn’t summon it. I didn’t stop it. That wasn’t me. Or… was it?”

His stare lingers in the middle distance. Not blank. But it lingers.

ALEXANDER (V.O.)
“I hope... I was smart enough to say no. I hope... I’m brave enough to carry this yes. I hope I forget what I hoped for.”

Alexander sits upright in the white chair, his massive new body still unfamiliar. His breath is shallow. He stares at his thick forearms. His brain is racing.

He tries to focus. Tries to recall the Fibonacci sequence. Tries to remember the proof for Euler’s identity.

Nothing.

The numbers blur, like they’re being erased from the chalkboard in his mind.

“Wait,” he mutters. “Wait, something’s wrong.”

He touches his forehead like he could massage the thoughts back in. But the pressure inside is building. The world is getting louder—not literally, but noisier somehow. The clarity, the precision, it’s slipping through his fingers.

“I—I can’t remember the steps,” he says out loud, to no one. “I knew them. I know them. I just... I just had them.”

He looks around the room. The medical chart on the wall is suddenly confusing. Words he’s read a thousand times—"cerebellum," "neuroplasticity," "synaptic"—look too long, too tight. Like his brain doesn’t want to reach for them.

The panic rises in his throat.

“What’s happening to me?” he whispers.

And then, like a switch thrown in a power grid, the lights go out.

Not literal lights—but the mental ones. The storm stops.

His mind goes... quiet.

He blinks.

His heart is still pounding, but something else is surfacing now. Simplicity. Calm. The math is gone. The theories, the models, the proofs—all silent.

He exhales, and the tension rolls off him like sweat.

His lips part slightly, and he lets out a soft, confused chuckle.

“Huh,” he mumbles. “Kinda... warm in here.”

His own voice sounds different to him. Slower. Rounder. Less sharp. But comforting.

He looks at his arms again—huge, veined, stupidly strong—and instead of fear, he feels a swell of pride.

“Dang,” he says with a grin. “Guess I’m, like, real strong now.”

His thoughts are simpler now. Fewer layers. No second guessing. No theories to prove. No reputation to uphold. Just sensations, needs, reactions.

A part of him—some dim spark—remembers what was. But it no longer matters.

He leans back, relaxed.

“So... I get food now?”

He laughs. A warm, dumb, happy laugh.

For the first time in his life, Alexander doesn’t feel judged. Doesn’t feel like he has to prove anything. Doesn’t feel alone.

Just hungry. And big. And fine with that.

Alexander steps out into the sunlight, blinking like he’s seeing the world for the first time. The warm breeze runs over his skin. His tank top stretches tight across his thick chest. He feels it. All of it. Every step, every breath, every muscle in motion.

And he smiles.

No thoughts. No analysis. No second-guessing.

Just being.

He flexes without thinking about it—his biceps bulge, and it feels right. A couple passersby glance over, but he doesn’t register their looks. He doesn’t need their validation. He doesn’t even want it.

He’s too busy feeling good.

His stomach growls. He laughs.

“Guess I need food, huh,” he mumbles to no one. He rubs his abs—still rock-hard—and then lifts his arms in a big stretch, completely unbothered by the world around him.

In the old days, he’d be spiraling into thoughts. He’d be analyzing protein intake, muscle group splits, metabolic timing. He’d worry if he should eat now or after his lift. If the weather would affect his mental rhythm. If people were judging him.

Not anymore.

Now? The sun is warm. The gym is close. His body wants to move.

And that’s enough.

He turns his head, squints across the street, and spots a sign: MAX’S GYM.

He grins again—wide and open and real.

“Yuh,” he says. “Workout time.”

And off he goes—jogging a little, feeling the bounce of muscle, the pull of gravity on a body that was built for it. The simplicity of the moment swells inside him like a quiet joy.

No equations. No plans. No past.

Just right now.

And it feels amazing.

The gym is buzzing. Weights slam. Music pounds. And in the middle of it all, he stands — grinning like he owns the place.

And maybe he does. Not legally. But spiritually? Absolutely.

Alexander — or Lex, as he now prefers to be called (shorter, easier) — is an icon in this iron sanctuary. People gather around him, not because he’s the smartest guy in the room, but because he radiates pure, unapologetic certainty.

“Bro, you gotta superset chest and tris, otherwise your pump’s gonna flatline halfway,” Lex explains, voice booming with authority. “And always hit a double scoop of whey right after you lift. Not before. Not during. After. It’s science.”

The others nod. They don’t question him. Why would they? Look at him. He’s massive, tan, veins like steel cords, a permanent pump. And when he talks, it’s not nuanced or technical — but it sounds right. Feels right. That’s all that matters here.

One guy asks, “Wait, do you still count macros?”

Lex scratches his buzzed head, thinking real hard. “Kinda. I just eat a lot of protein. Like, a lot. Chicken, steak, shakes, those tuna packets. Broccoli too, ‘cause it’s green.”

They laugh. Lex laughs louder.

And when someone asks how he got so big, he just shrugs and says, “Clinic stuff. Science junk. Didn’t ask too much. They said I’d get huge and I was like, cool.”

He does remember more. Faint echoes of numbers, formulas, theorems. Once, he might’ve been able to prove a hypothesis about the fourth dimension. Now, his biggest concern is whether he should go with flat bench or incline today.

And he’s never been happier.

No anxiety. No pressure. Just heavy weight, heavy eating, and the joy of being the alpha in a place where effort speaks louder than IQ.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, flexes, and winks.

“Lookin’ swole, dude,” he mutters to his reflection.

And his reflection grins right back.

Lex stands behind the counter, hulking and grinning in his tight yellow tank that proudly reads “MEGA GYM.” He’s already helped three people with memberships today — all of them asked to take a selfie with him afterward. Not because he explained the contract well (he didn’t), but because he’s built like a Marvel character and always so damn cheerful.

“Hey hey! Welcome to MEGA,” he beams at a newcomer, flexing absently as he types something into the system. He's not sure what, but the screen flashed green, so it must be fine.

His coworkers love him. Members adore him. He high-fives everyone, always smells like protein powder and coconut oil, and can deadlift a smart car. Life’s good.

Then the phone rings.

Again.

Lex frowns slightly. Same number as yesterday. And the day before. It’s always some guy with a weird name — Professor... something? He talks real fast, like super complicated stuff, and keeps saying things like:

“Alexander, please, we have to speak. You missed the grant meeting. The simulations—are you even checking your email?”

Lex doesn’t remember any grant. He doesn’t really check email. But he always promises politely:

“Yeah, sure, uh... I’ll call you back, Mister Professor Dude.”

He never does.

That morning, he opened the mailbox and found a formal-looking letter. Thick paper, big words. “Termination of Employment Due to Absence and Incommunicado Status.”

Lex chuckled as he read it, slow and careful.

“What’s incommunicado mean again? Is that like... being on vacation?”

He tossed the letter in the trash. University? Whatever that was, it sounded like nerd stuff. He probably couldn’t even spell “university” now without sounding it out on his fingers. But who needs that when you’ve got biceps the size of bowling balls and a full-time gig spotting dudes at the bench press?

Somewhere in his subconscious, a voice had once whispered about math proofs and thesis deadlines. But now it was drowned out by pre-workout buzz and Lex’s favorite mantra:

“Lift heavy. Eat meat. Be happy.”

And damn if he wasn’t all three.