Compromised

by BRK   

Ordered to recontain a damaged, wildly radioactive experiment, Warin experiences disaster when his state-of the-art hazmat suit is suddenly breached in mid-operation.

“You still read me, Warin?” came the voice in his ear.

“I read you,” Warin grumbled as he turned right down yet another truck-wide concrete passageway—the tenth so far, by his count. He was pretty sure this bunker was nothing but shadowed, thousand-foot concrete corridors, each marked with cryptic alphanumeric codes in two-foot-high sickly yellow-green lettering and flickering fluorescents at every juncture.

He glanced up at the nearest surveillance camera, lurking against the juncture of wall and ceiling like a malevolent spider’s nest. “You sure this is the right way?”

“You should picking up the effects by now.”

Warin grunted and headed down the passage. The small heads-up display in his helmet was in fact starting to tick rapidly up on some of the readings, especially the zeta-rad line added recently that no one really understood. Thank goodness for hazmat suits. The company running this installation had the most advanced tech on earth, and that included the latest in protective gear. Whatever it was that had sent the alarms going in QX-Containment Unit E5, an expanse buried in the deepest levels of the infrastructure, Warin could at least be sure he was safe.

Feeling like he’d spent too much time getting to the emergency instead of dealing with it, Warin started trotting, his footfalls echoing down the long gray emptiness.

One last descent down a forgotten-looking stairwell, another three turns, and fifteen minutes later Warin was there. His meter readings were all starting to jump, but he didn’t need displays to know that a disaster had occurred here.

“I see it,” Warin said, disengaging the foot-thick security gates and passing into the warehouse-sized underground space. He approached the wrecked contents of the room cautiously. “It’s a phanteor.” He was not too surprised. It had been fifty years since the alien meteors first started striking Earth, phasing through surface buildings as they streaked into the soil and becoming solid underground, tearing through critical buried infrastructure and secretive high-tech underground installations like this one, causing massive amounts of damage. Everyone knew what they could do. To Warin it looked like a meteor out of a cartoon, maybe two meters in diameter, round and spiky and glowing a malevolent green. Under it was the smashed remains of a metal cargo container, which meant that whatever was supposedly being safeguarded in this security zone might be completely pulverized.

“Yeah, we know,” the voice in his ear said.

Warin was eyeing the ceiling over the mess and didn’t respond immediately. There was a burned, ragged crack in the concrete ceiling where the phanteor had started to phase into high-speed, destructive solidity. It looked almost like this exact space had been targeted.

Belatedly, control’s response registered. Warin frowned. “You know? Why am I on recon if you already know what happened?” he demanded.

“You’re not on recon. You’re on retrieval.”

“What?! I’m not going in there.” He might be a tough, hairy-chested ex-Marine, not a beast like his mates but a toned and hard 5-foot-7 warrior; but fearless didn’t make him foolhardy. Or a dupe.

“You’re secure,” the voice said coldly. “You have a V4 hazmat. Your orders—”

“No way.” Warin backed away. Whatever was in that container was sealed up for a reason. And—was that a yellow haze seeping out of the wreckage? “No way,” he repeated. Didn’t they have robots for this shit?

“Your orders,” the voice repeated, more stridently this time, “are to retrieve the package. It will resemble a pulsing yellow cuboid, approximately 33 centimeters to a side. You must then fully recontain the package in a Class 3 portable containment unit. These to be found in the recesses to your left.”

Warin checked to his left. Sure enough, there was a row of large steel boxes there. They looked like high-tech versions of the zippered cube-things the bike couriers delivered his lunch in.

He drew his eyes back to the glowing, seething wreckage. “Nope. Get a Robbie to do it.”

There was a brief pause, then a crackle as the icy voice returned. “You are advised that your level will be flooded with a thousand tons of cement in ten minutes. This is tied to readings showing the package to be uncontained. This cannot be aborted except consequent to the full containment of the package.”

Warin went cold. Ten minutes. Not enough time to get out. He squared his shoulders. “Understood.”

Knowing there was now no time to waste, he jogged over to the side recess and grabbed one of the portable containment units. It was heavy, but not too heavy. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he then moved toward the wreckage, setting down the containment unit on the periphery and then moving into the midst of the toxic mess. The original shipping container was now all sheared and twisted metal, the obvious ways in mostly blocked by the phanteor that had smashed into it. Warin walked around it, concluding quickly that there was nothing for it but to try to squeeze past the spiky, glowing meteor and through the razor-sharp lacerations into the contaminated shipping container itself.

He almost made it. He was sidling sideways through the gap, avoiding the unnaturally hard mine-like protrusions the meteor threw out at handspan intervals, when he put his weight on his left foot and the whole wreckage shifted. The meteor rolled toward him with a loud grinding noise, sending Warin’s pulse into overdrive. Before he could react the nearest meteor spike jabbed into his forearm, the unknown stone-like material tearing through the rubbery surface of his hazmat suit like a knife through butter before the meteor shifted down and away from him.

Warin pulled his arm back, staring at the bleeding, exposed flesh. It burned, like the wound was instantly infected with the meteor’s green-glowing, exotic pestilence. “I’m compromised,” he told the control center, his voice sounding a little higher than it should have in his own ears.

There was a beat, then: “Eight minutes.”

Warin’s heart fell. Of course. Complete the mission. Tasting bile, he entered fully into the cargo container.

The “package” had been up on some kind of podium or plinth for easy examination, it seemed, but the support had fallen over and the “package” was on the steel floor not a meter from his left foot. It was yellow and pulsing, as described, and to Warin it looked altogether virulent. There was a lemony haze around it, as if it either leaked gas, or afflicted the air around it, turning it into something dangerous.

Get it over with, he thought. Feeling big and clumsy, Warin bent and picked up the cuboid. It felt like it wanted to burn through his gloves, and the malevolence of it seemed to seep around him, invading the gash in his forearm where his suit and skin were compromised. He turned, breathing with difficulty, and tried to exit through the tear in the container, only this time he had to bend his head and go completely sideways to get through, holding the cuboid close to his groin to get past the edges.

Something was wrong with his suit now. It felt too small. His feet were killing him, and his arms could barely move. It was like it had suddenly gone down two sizes. Gritting his teeth he pushed forward, bending with difficulty as he placed the throbbing, unnatural “package” into the portable container and, with difficulty, closed the lid and activated the seals. “Package recontained,” he told control. “Permission to withdraw to—”

“Stand by.”

The agony increased as his suit rapidly became too small for him. Stumbling to the edge of the warehouse space he dropped to his ass, desperate to pull off his boots before his toes were crushed and mangled.

“We’re reading something strange down there. Stand by.”

“Is the cement still coming?” Warin asked, wrenching off first one booth, then another.

Warin barely noticed control’s lack of reply. The relief of freeing his feet was offset by the increasing pain of the rest of the suit itself. All at once he let out a howl as the ribbed leggings started to rip apart of their own accord at the calves and thighs. Frantically he started pulling at the tears, freeing his legs, but the same deep pain was afflicting his shoulders and arms and, fuck, his crotch—

Off, it all had to come off! With what felt like unnatural strength he ripped apart the hazmat leggings right at the groin, releasing a horror-movie anaconda that Warin distantly realized had to be his cock.

“Warin, what’s going on down there?” crackled the control voice—right against his ear, the helmet now being undersized like the rest of the suit.

He ripped the helmet off and screamed, “I’m getting too big!”

“Say again?” said the tiny voice in his cast-aside helmet.

Warin was yanking at the fabric of much-too-small hazmat unit covering his expanding torso, even as his cock seemed to unspool from his groin, shoving out of him and pushing across the concrete between his mostly bared legs in curls and coils, the fat, red cockhead already too far away to reach even with his feet. “I’m getting too big!!” Warin yelled again. “It won’t stop!”

“Warin, you are out of camera range. Move to camera JJX-93 and—”

Warin freed himself from the last shreds of the suit with a roar. Angrily, he smashed his fist down on the tinny, demanding voice, utterly flattening the helmet under a fist that was now much bigger than the helmet had been.

Warin stared down at himself in rage and fear. He was easily twice the size he had been before and still visibly growing, some parts of him faster than others. His cock was lengthening and thickening at an astounding pace, literally expanding outward into the room in an increasing tumble of twisting, meter-thick phallus, and the pleasure of it of was sparking with the rawer, baser instincts and emotions that seemed to be flaring up in him. Blood pumped into his endless piles of wang, thickening and straining the kinks and coils as it strove valiantly to tumesce.

Even more alarming, the expansion of his muscles also seemed to be outpacing his overall growth. Already he felt both immensely strong and incredibly heavy, and as he grow he got the terrifying sense that his mass would soon surpass even the monumental strength he now possessed. “Oh my god!” he cried out. “I’m too big! Help me! I’m growing too big, too fast!”

His voice echoed in the subterranean space, mocking him. He was alone. Could anyone hear him? Could anyone help him?

The ceiling of the vast underground chamber was rushing toward him. With difficulty he raised his arms—even now his muscles were so dense and massive that he could barely lift them. His palms rested against the concrete surface. His pecs swelled outward, decreasing the space between his chin and his chest, and his traps were piling higher and higher, merging with his neck and expanding toward his ears like his body wanted to hem him in.

He jumped in size, his cock dragging itself to full hardness across the underground chamber, smacking hard against the spiky meteor and throwing it aside—at least now he was tough-skinned enough it didn’t even scratch him—before finding itself bent extremely painfully against the ceiling at the very center of the chamber. The growth spasm had bent his arms, and he shoved with all his new strength against the concrete above him. It broke apart in huge slabs, and he hurled them aside, but his muscles continued expanding and he fell back, utterly weighted down by the massiveness of his own size. His cock, not so encumbered, tore through the rest of the ceiling, crashing through into the level above, then, thickening and stiffening even further, it crashed through the level above that, and the one above that.

By the time Warin’s growth stabilized, he was a fifty-foot mass of vascular, steel-dense, all-but immobile muscle, with nuts the size of a Winnebago and a towering pillar of equally steel-dense, always-hard cock that pushed straight through every level of the installation and straight out into the forest of the surface world, a twenty-foot exposed dick among the oaks and spruces. He couldn’t move a lot or see much past his pecs, but he was as aroused and needy as he had ever been and it was imperative he do something about it, now. Fortunately, by flexing his hard, enormous glutes he found he could essentially fuck the entire installation, the friction thus generated providing him with so much pleasure that he was able to build up to a fantastic orgasm that lasted, as far as he could tell, close to an hour of unrestrained, inhuman ecstasy. Hah, he thought distantly through his pleasure. Fuck this place. Fuck. This. Place. I always said it—now I can do it! He moaned, sending the concrete walls around him shuddering as he came again, and again.

The massive orgasm might have been his saving grace, staving off the tons of cement they might have tried to end him—or so it seemed to him, anyway. Later, the tiny people who came to study his nearly immobile form told him that close examination of the gallons of sperm he’d produced up there had yielded a number of fascinating possibilities—muscle and cock growth sera, extra-strong virility enhancement, maybe even age defiance. The future of humanity might be utterly transformed. It was therefore in their interests, the carefully-selected head of the unusually handsome and well built, all-male team of scientists told him, to keep Warin happy and, not to put too fine a point on it, cumming.

Warin breathed out a long sigh, feeling the tightly-jumpsuited “masculinity specialists” walking across the expanse of his overly muscled flesh, taking readings and looking for erogenous zones. Had the higher ups done this on purpose, or was it just neglect and opportunism? As the trio of men assigned to his nuts started providing targeted stimulation, making his colossal erection thrum happily with anticipation, Warin decided that, at the end of the day, he was just too horny to care. He relaxed against the concrete, waiting for the next impossible orgasm.

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