Strong. Super Strong.

A quick scan of your dorm key card opens the door to the gym, and - pretty much already wearing a good workout outfit - you walk over to a free beach press as all the gym rats stop and stare. It feels kind of good, actually… as you idly pick up the empty bar with one hand, finding it feels light as a feather, a voice speaks up behind you, “Need a spotter?”

You take a moment to look him over: About six five (shorter than you), and he certainly works out: His biceps are nice and big. Black, bald… a good clean smile… “Sure,” you smile back, “It's been a little while since I was at a proper gym… I'll need to figure out my actual lifting capacity.”

“Happy to help,” he smiles, “I'm Charles,” he holds out a hand.

You shake it… his hand seems slightly small, but the contact makes you feel warm, “Anvil,” you answer automatically, using your ‘hero name’ from your childhood games.

“Well, nice to meet you… let's see just how much you can take of the old iron, eh?” Oh, man that double entendre is bad.

Still feels good, “Sounds like a plan.”

You lay down on the bench, and watch as he loads two of the big forty-five pound weights on each side, “That should bring it to two hundred twenty seven,” he looks down at you, hands lightly resting on the bar.

You grip the bar with both hands and push up, easily holding it, then set it back down, “More.”

The man nods and loads another forty-five pound weight on each side, “Three seventeen.”

Realizing just how light the first bar felt, this time you grip it with one hand, pick it up, and run it through a few reps before setting it back on the bench, “Seriously, more please.”

It takes Charles a minute to pick his jaw up off the floor, “Yes ma'am.” He proceeds to add three more of the forty-five pound weights to each side, and announces the total, “Five eighty seven.”

Again, a single hand sufficies… you can tell there's weight there, but it's like moving a baseball around… trivial. You speak just one word: “More.”

At this point, the entire gym has stopped and is just looking at you… a warm feeling grows inside. The black man who stepped up to help wordlessly adds more weight, and announces the new total, “six seventy seven.”

The room is dead silent as you again pick it up with a single hand, “More.”

The man adds another weight to each side, “Seven sixty seven.”

He just stares at you as you again pick the bar up single-handed… and the bar bends at your hand, the clips give out, and the weights clatter loudly to the concrete floor while you're left holding a folded steel bar. The ring starts laughing in your ear as the assembled gym rats stare. One starts slowly clapping. Soon enough, the others join in.

“Yeah… so: You're strong. How's it feel?” The ring chuckles in your ear.

“Amazing…” Charles finds his tongue before you do, “...but we might want to get you out of here before the manager figures out we broke his gear. The beer is on me. Come on….”

You dumbly follow as your body mate explains, “Super Strength and Durability: Big, Strong, and tough, just what you ordered. Find the right grip point, and you could play catch with cars… but don't: That car is somebody's way to get back and forth to work, and a lot of people don't exactly have much savings. Destroying it may very well mean someone gets fired because they can't get to work, which could then get them evicted due to being unable to pay their rent. Not something you want on your conscience.”

The man leads you to a pub just off campus, and you follow him in. The place is basically empty: The bartender (college age, clearly bored, and clearly here for the paycheck), Charles, and yourself. “Hey, David, pitcher of beer, two glasses, and a plate of cheesy fries.”

You can only see the back of Charles’ hand when he waves with his left hand, but weirdly his ring finger is folded down and his thumb is folded in.

The ring picks up on it, “Hand sign, some kind of idiot code to a compatriot. There's no telling what exactly it means. Could be something innocuous like ‘give us space’ or it could be something malicious like ‘spike the drink’. Whatever message it is, however, it means there's some kind of standing plan here.”

Charles holds a chair out for you, and you sit down… you could probably throw him through a wall, so he shouldn't exactly be dangerous, “So why here?” You ask, watching the man, that tension from the transformation still running through you.

Charles shrugs, “It's close, and the barkeep is in my frat. Where are you from? I haven't seen anyone that strong outside the news.”

The barkeep sets a frosted glass with ice down and a salad plate in front of you, another pair in front of Charles, drops a big plate of fries drowning in melted cheese and bacon bits, pours you both a glass of beer from the pitcher, and sets it on the table… then silently heads back to the bar.

Charles grabs his beer and takes a decent sized gulp, “Good stuff.”

You take a sip yourself… it's just house beer. Doesn't taste particularly odd, and you watched the bartender pour both from the same pitcher, so you have a decent drink. “A little early, but I'm in the mood to celebrate,” you smile.

“Oh?” He smiles warmly as a warmth builds in your belly.

“Yeah, I just…” you begin.

“Stop. ****. Seconds left. I can cover. Requests?” The ring interrupts.

“Wreck the bastards…” you whisper as the lights go out.