(Note: This chapter uses some minor retcons)
“If only real life had wall glitches,” Simon thinks to himself. "Then maybe I could escape these goons somehow.”
He looks around at the 26 Varsity football players holding him prisoner. Simon’s League of Legends team recently qualified for the Challenger Tier, so he was bragging around school to anyone who’d listen. To segue into such a topic, he was bringing up the football team’s recent losing streak, calling them "neanderthals too dumb to use strategy” or “muscle obsessed meatheads.” It didn’t take long for Luke Hammond (the team’s wide receiver) to surprise Simon with a gut punch, and drag him into the team’s locker room. Luke then stripped off Simon's Riot Games hoodie, and the t-shirt that had his team name on it, while other players were holding him down. Simon could hear the showers turn on after someone took his clothes in there. Crap.
Simon is now shivering in just his white tank top. Mark Tetley, the team captain, walks towards the lone geek in the room, sizing up his prey. Simon defiantly stares back.
“Nice tattoo,” Mark says to Simon, pointing at the Triforce on the geek’s underdeveloped shoulder. “I’m genuinely surprised a prissy homebody like you has the pain tolerance for getting ink.”
“Nice haircut,” Simon replies, taking note of Mark’s buzz cut. “Plan on joining a skinhead gang sometime soon? Or are you just trying to streamline your dense skull—lighten the load a little? Too bad you can’t just add RAM to your brain; you could use the extra processing speed on the field.”
Mark laughs. He tells one of his fellow jocks to bring a tarp, and starts pacing around Simon.
“No need to be so rude,” says Mark. “We’ve heard plenty of your trash talking already today. So you and your friends are real good at clicking things on the screen. You even are one of the best screen-thing-clicking teams this season. Good for you. I’m only Platinum at League right now, so I can guess how reaching Challenger must feel. But do you know how we jocks feel, carrying the hopes and dreams of the student body—the entire town, even—while giving ourselves over—body and mind—to the game? Do you know the glory of bleeding for your team? The answer is obviously no, as you sit at lunch bringing down the team with your words, and killing everyone’s school spirit.”
The jock who left returns with a tarp, which Mark starts wrapping around Simon’s body. Simon squirms in terror.
“I hurt your feelings and your school spirit, so you’re gonna beat me up? This proves you guys are nothing but neanderthals if you have to resort to violence.”
“Simon, we’re not gonna beat you up,” says Mark. “We’re just gonna make you know how it feels to be us.”
“How? Are you reading me your diary?”
“No. We’re gonna make you one of us.”
Mark pulls out a clipper and turns it on. Simon winces as it lunges towards his head and makes contact, buzzing off a large chunk of his hair from the middle of his forehead. Mark makes quick work of the entire head before switching to a lower guard.
“Every summer, we mark the start of our two-a-days by shaving all our heads. It’s how you’re initiated into the current team. Which is why my head’s like this now, too. We’re in this together.”
The tarp is pulled off Simon and he stands up. He wants to tell Mark off but he can think of nothing but how violated he feels. He stares the captain down before being told to go shower. The jocks promise him he can go home once he’s done with his shower.
In the bathroom, he sees his reflection and grimaces. He looks like a dumb thug. A mindless meathead. A jock. Ugh. A shower actually does sound like a good idea right now. The football players got their smelly sweat all over him when they grabbed him. Plus, there was an odd smell like tar coming off of the clipper, and it got rubbed into his scalp. He takes off his shoes, jeans and underwear.
In the showers Simon sees four of the jocks flanking a metal tub full of water. They must’ve been filling it up when Simon heard the showers turn on. When he approaches it, he sees there’s a thermometer indicating that the water’s 32 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s only then that he notices that there’s ice in the tub.
The four jocks, who are all shirtless, explain that this is a cold water whirlpool tub from the trainer’s office. It’s usually for rehabbing injuries. But as part of his initiation, Simon must be baptized in this tub. This means spending twenty minutes submerged up to his neck in ice water.
“This is meant to build up your resilience to pain and fatigue,” explains Mark, upon entering the showers. “But don’t worry, you won’t die of hypothermia. Not as long as you take these pills beforehand.”
Being outnumbered 5 to 1, it looks like Simon doesn’t have a choice but to go into the tub. And not wanting to die, he takes the pills.
He jumps in the tub and—
*COLD! CAN’T CONTROL LIMBS!*
*BODY LIMP AND QUIVERING!*
*VOID GROWING! I AM DYING!*
*NO THOUGHTS! NO MIND!*
*I AM NOTHING!…. But this voice is something I can hold onto. I will do whatever you say, Mark. I will be whatever you need me to be, Coach Redman. I am nothing but a football player. A jock warrior for the school. Football is my life. The Varsity bros are my family. Everything you teach is the only thing I need to learn. In everything else, I am useless, because I am a dumb, mindless, meathead jock.*
Simon feels something tube-shaped exit his throat and his mouth.
“… We just ran out of ice, but his metabolism is cranking back down so he’s in no danger of overheating. Anabolic processes are still underway, but I figure he can just eat breakfast soon, so I took out his feeding tube… Thank you sir. First period gym class with you is usually my favorite class of the day, but I will appreciate the sleep. Good night… or morning.”
Simon hears a beep.
"Hey bro, you can get out now.”
Simon gasps as he opens his eyes. Did he fall asleep?
“Fuuuck…” groans Simon, as he’s helped out of the tub by Mark, who hands him a towel. Simon receives it clumsily in his hand. As he tries to dry off, he finds it hard to reach around his body as easily as normal.
“Shit, my limbs are still jacked up from that ice water… They feel heavy… and sore as fuck.”
“Bro, where’s my clothes?” he asks Mark.
“In your locker, like always, dumb ass,” replies the QB.
“Huh huh, oh yeah. Thanks, bro.”
As Simon exits the shower, he notices a hoodie and t-shirt in the trash can. Huh huh. Weird.
Simon finds his locker and puts on his jockstrap and compression shorts. Then he puts on his super low-neck tank top. All the bros on the team call him Slutty Simon for liking these tanks, but they’re all just jealous cuz they don’t got the beastly body he got. He catches his reflection in the mirror and stops to stare as he instinctively flexes. It’s like he’s seeing his muscles for the first time. He loves how his massive pecs and delts together form a wall of four boulders in a row.
“Fuck yeah, I’m swole as shit!"