In the Muscle Silo, some problems you can’t solve with words. Good thing Shep speaks fluent muscle.

[Sometimes Shep lets himself be a test subject for Wes’ new muscle growth theories. He’s coming off hot from a new treatment here]

SCENE: The Silo – Med Level Alpha

“Goddammit,” Cherie muttered, throwing a look at the vitals monitor, then at the flickering cell cam. “You better not break that door.” The subject inside—224—was pacing. No. Pacing was the wrong word. He was rattling the walls.

The concrete at the base of the cell had hairline cracks forming. Again.

Cherie tapped her comms. “Dispatch Shep to Med Alpha. Now.” She crossed her arms, took two steps back, tried to look unfazed. Tried.

Because 224 wasn’t just big. He was nearly bursting. Still mid-treatment. Veins like hydraulic cables. Eyes wild.

And she was not stepping in that cell alone.

Then— Thud.

A familiar step. Thud-thud.

And— Oh.

OH.

Shep walked in.

Except it wasn’t just Shep.

Cherie blinked once. Twice. Stepped back a half-inch, involuntarily. “What in the name of all hypertrophic hell did you do to yourself?”

Shep grinned—slow, warm, indulgent. Like he knew. “Afternoon, Doc.”

Cherie stared. “You’re—” Her gaze dropped. Chest. Lower. Back up. “—a fucking monument.”

Shep rumbled. “Might’ve had a little growth spurt.”

“A little?”

Cherie snorted, stepping in a circle around him now, inspecting like she was about to grade beef. “You were already a damn ox. Now you look like someone put a freight engine in a fur suit.”

She flicked a glance at his biceps—still swollen, she noted. Still twitching just a little with pulse. “Jesus. You’re still running hot?”

Shep shrugged, which made his pecs jump, which made her squint.

“You here to help or to bust through my walls too?”

Shep just chuckled. “I’m here ‘cause you called.”

Cherie rubbed her face. Then pointed toward 224’s cell, where the subject inside had now noticed Shep through the one-way glass—and had gone silent. Cherie smirked. “Well. Ten seconds ago, big guy in there was about to peel the walls like tinfoil.”

She glanced at Shep again. Then back at the cell.

Shep shrugged again. His pecs jumped.

Cherie squinted, one brow arched so hard it was practically structural. “Okay, you gotta warn people now. That’s not a shrug. That’s a seismic event.”

Shep just smiled—slow, harmless. Like his body wasn’t currently throwing off enough heat to interfere with the infrared cams. “I thought you liked me built.”

Cherie huffed. “I like you containable, Sheppin’. You walkin’ around lookin’ like the before and after photo of your own species is making it real hard to focus on patient care.”

She tapped her tablet. The schematics for 224’s restraints flicked up. “Now listen. 224 was already pushing close to redline. I’ve been dosing him steady all morning and he’s still pacing like a pissed-off rhino. You go in there, and he sees you—” She paused, flicked her eyes down his torso again. “—like that—and we’re either gonna see a surrender or a fucking contest.”

Shep snorted. “You want me to flex in or ease in?”

Cherie didn’t even hesitate. “Ease in. Save the flex for later. I’m already having chest palpitations just looking at you, and I know what species you are.” She turned the tablet so Shep could see. “Vitals on him are unstable. Respiration up. No verbal out of him yet, but he understands language. Gets real reactive to tone. I want calm. Presence. Not intimidation.”

She looked up again—narrow-eyed. “Which means no looming. No chest puffing. And for the love of all things breathable, stop shrugging.”

Shep gave her a deliberately slow blink. Then… shrugged. Pecs bounced. Cherie dragged a hand down her face. “I’m gonna write you up,” she muttered. “I swear I’ll do it. ‘Subject presented with chestal aggression and criminal vascular display.’”

Shep grinned wider. “You gonna cite me for being a public growth hazard?”

Cherie tapped the door unlock. “Get in there, wall-boy. And be nice.”

SCENE: “Soft Entry”

“Get in there, wall-boy. And be nice.”

Shep just nodded once, all calm and thick muscle, and moved toward the cell door like he wasn’t carrying a living armory on his frame.

Cherie crossed her arms and leaned against the console, one brow still raised like it was stuck that way.

The door hissed. Opened. And Shep stepped in. No sound. Just heat. Just presence.

The cameras inside the cell flickered once—standard glitch when too much mass passed through a single entry field—and then reset.

224 had been pacing. Shoulders rolling, fists flexing. Like a man ready to throw a wall just to see what would happen. He froze the second Shep stepped in. Cherie watched the body language shift—not aggressive. Not yet. But not relaxed, either.

Shep stood there, hands open, breathing steady. Chest rising slow, the kind of rise that made you realize how much space one man could take up without trying. Cherie muttered under her breath. “…Goddamn shelf of a man.”

One of the guards beside her shifted nervously. “Is it supposed to work like this?” Cherie didn’t blink.

“With Sheppin’? Yeah. He walks in like gravity.”

She glanced at her tablet again— 224’s vitals were already dropping. Heart rate stabilizing. Shoulders unlocking. Still staring at Shep, but the tension was softening like melted rebar. Cherie smirked. “And that right there? That’s why I keep him on-call.”

Scene: “No One Prepped Me for This”

224 twitched. Not just a step—snapped forward. Shoulders hunched, teeth bared, like he was about to go full breach. A sudden, desperate crack of something barely held together.

He lunged.

Cherie tensed—and Shep didn’t move.

Not a step.
Not a shift.

Just a sound. A grunt. Low. Deep. Like it started in his spine and moved outward like a fault line.

MMMMRHHHNNGH.

The whole room felt it. Even through the reinforced glass, the sound rolled—dense and guttural, like muscle itself was speaking.

And across the cell?

The crack in the corner wall widened. Hairline turned to spiderweb. Concrete sighed.

224 froze.

Not scared. Not quite. But his limbs locked like some primal part of him had just registered a bigger animal in the room.

Cherie blinked once. Twice. Then checked the seismic readout.

Yep. Registered.

To her left, one of the junior staffers stood stiff as a frozen IV drip. Mid-twenties. First month. Definitely not briefed on the Sheppin’ effect. “Is he… is he supposed to do that?” the junior asked, voice an octave higher than his badge deserved.

Cherie didn’t look up from her tablet. “What? Grunt so hard the drywall files a complaint?”

The kid blinked. “No— I mean—yes? I mean—he just made the crack worse.”

Cherie smiled. Sharp. Pleased. “Yeah, well. That’s just resonance, hon.”

“Resonance?! He rumbled.”

She finally glanced sideways at him, expression unreadable. “Shep’s body doesn’t just grow. It talks. That man’s got pressure in places you don’t even have blood flow.”

The junior looked back at the screen, where Shep was now slowly stepping forward, arms still visibly twitching larger with each step. “Wait—is he still growing?”

Cherie sipped her bitter clinic coffee, sighed through her nose. “Mmhm. Been growin’ since he walked in.”

The junior stared at her. “You’re saying he’s gaining mass—in real time—inside a room with a hostile subject who nearly broke containment?”

Cherie didn’t blink. “I’m saying if he wasn’t, we’d all be screwed.” Pause.

Then she smirked. “But yeah. That too.”

SCENE: “Fluent in Muscle”

224 was quiet now. Still, but not settled.
Shep stood just a few feet from him—calm, solid, visibly bigger than when he’d walked in three minutes ago. Cherie tapped her mic, leaned casually against the console. “Alright, Sheppin. Just keep breathing like you don’t weigh more than a mid-range transport vehicle.”

She glanced sideways at the junior staffer still frozen beside her. “Don’t look so stunned, rookie. You’ll get used to the physics not applying.”

Shep didn’t speak. He just shifted—barely—weight settling deeper into one heel, traps twitching up half an inch, like the room was bending to him. Cherie raised a brow, like she was calling a dog she respected but didn’t entirely trust. “You stay right there, wall-boy. No sudden movements unless I call it.”

Shep slowly rolled his shoulder.

His right pec bounced once. Deliberate. Slow. Like a nod.

The junior let out a strangled sound. “Did he just… answer you with his chest?”

Cherie sipped her coffee. “That’s Sheppin’ for ‘ten-four, Doc.’” Then, without missing a beat, into the mic: “You flex at me like that again and I will make a note in your file about pec-based backtalk.”

224 twitched.

Shep shifted again—just a lean forward, biceps pressing against his sides, arms thick enough now they looked like they had their own pulse.

Cherie didn’t blink. “Easy,” she said to him. “He’s scared, not stupid.”

Then—over her shoulder to the junior. “Well. A little stupid.”

The kid blinked. “I don’t think this is in the manual.”

Cherie smirked. “That’s ‘cause you’re watching a man de-escalate a crisis with vascular density and stillness.”

224 growled low, uncertain. Not lunging—but he wasn’t backing down, either.

Shep didn’t say a word. He just exhaled—slow and deep. And his chest rose. Not with breath. With mass.

Cherie stared, one corner of her mouth twitching up. “Okay. That one was showy.”

The junior’s eyes widened. “His pecs expanded. Just now. Mid-situation.”

Cherie gave a nonchalant shrug, tapped a note into her tablet. “Some people bring authority into the room. Shep brings mass.”

SCENE: “Speakin’ Sheppinese”

The junior leaned closer to the glass. “I swear to God, he just got wider again.”

Cherie didn’t look up from her tablet. “Mmhmm. That’s the third time since he stepped in.”

Another entry tapped in, stylus gliding across the screen. Observation: Subject Sheppin continues to gain visible mass during non-strenuous encounters. Emotional trigger suspected: mild pride.

Shep, inside the room, shifted his stance just slightly. One thigh angled out. Quads flared visibly—just for a second.

Cherie raised her eyebrows. “Okay, now he’s flirting.”

The junior made a noise like his brain cracked in half. “That’s not flirting, that’s… that’s body dominance!”

Cherie gave him a patient, tired glance over the rim of her mug. “Welcome to the Silo, intern. This is what counts as a handshake around here.”

224 took another half-step back, eyes locked on Shep’s chest like it was a countdown clock. Shep didn’t even glance up. He just breathed in, big and slow, and his upper back swelled behind him, delts rounding out visibly beneath fur.

The junior straightened. “That one had a sound. I heard it. His spine shifted.”

Cherie sipped. “That’s just the fascia stretching to keep up. You get used to it.”

224 finally broke eye contact. Dropped his chin. Shoulders stayed tight, but his fists opened—just a little. That dangerous coiled heat flattened out by a room that was no longer his.

Cherie smiled to herself. Then hit her mic again. “Nice work, Sheppin. You’re about one sigh away from turning this guy into a group therapy candidate.”

Inside the cell, Shep gave one slow tilt of his head—left pec bouncing just slightly.

Cherie nodded. “That’s a yes.”

The junior turned to her, absolutely speechless. “You’re… talking in pec. That’s a thing here?”

Cherie didn’t miss a beat. “I told you. I’m fluent in Sheppinese. Pecs for ‘yes,’ biceps for ‘I got this,’ traps for ‘I’m annoyed,’ and any full-body shrug means I’m getting a new wall budget.”

Shep tilted his head again—subtle, slow, just enough to make one pec jump and the opposite bicep tighten. Cherie, sipping her lukewarm coffee with practiced disinterest, didn’t even blink. “There it is. Full sentence in Sheppinese.”

The junior staffer turned, completely overwhelmed. “What did that mean?!”

Cherie tapped her earpiece like she was translating Morse code. “‘Yes, Doc, I’ve got it under control. Also, I’m getting hotter by the second and everyone in the room knows it.’”

Shep shifted again—weight rolling through his hips, a slow exhale, and that living warmth radiating off him like an industrial heater set to ‘affectionate problem solver.’

224 sat down.

Not slowly. Not casually. Just… sat. Like his body knew the game was over.

Cherie arched an eyebrow. “Wow. That might be a new record for voluntary containment without meds. Someone mark the time.”

The junior was still gaping at the monitor. “How did he do that?”

Cherie didn’t look up. “Presence.” Another sip. “Posture.” Another note on her tablet. “And a body mass index that broke my calculator.”

224 didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept staring at Shep like the sheer visual of him had rewired something important.

Shep remained where he was—breathing steady, arms still thickening by degrees, pecs glistening with post-growth warmth.

Cherie said: “Sheppin, you keep standing there like a living sculpture, I’m gonna start charging people to look at you.”

No response. Just a slow pec bounce.

Cherie narrowed her eyes. Sighed. “Goddammit. That was ‘try me.’”

SCENE: “Statue Tactics”

224 hadn’t moved in four minutes. Shep hadn’t either. Except for one shift—barely perceptible. Just a long, slow inhale that made his chest rise like tectonic plates and that was somehow enough to anchor a volatile subject without lifting a finger.

Cherie sipped her coffee again, then scowled into it. “Cold,” she muttered. “Still the second-hottest thing in the room.”

The junior stared at the monitor like it was starting to hypnotize him. “Is he… still getting bigger?”

Cherie didn’t look up. “If I say no, you’ll sleep better.”

She flicked a stylus across her tablet, pulling up a revised scale chart. “You see this?” She pointed at the largest silhouette: a visual representation of Sheppin’s previous max growth entry. “That’s outdated.”

Shep shifted slightly again. One lat rolled. His shirt strained. Cherie clicked her tongue. “And now that’s shredded.”

The junior blinked. “We don’t even have uniforms in his new size.”

Cherie finally looked up and gave him a look. “Son, at this point he’s wearing optimism and a prayer.”

The comm crackled faintly. Subject stable. No verbal. Minimal motion. Cherie waved it off. “Of course he’s stable. He just met a religious experience with vascularity.” Pause. She tapped her earpiece again. “Sheppin, how we doin’ in there?”

From inside the cell: silence.

Then— A long exhale.

Shoulders spread. Chest expanded. Left pec twitched once.

Cherie nodded like she was taking stock. “That’s ‘We’re good, Doc. Subject’s not a threat. Also, my spine just added another vertebra.’”

The junior just stared. “…You’re not even guessing anymore, are you?”

Cherie gave a smug shrug. “Kid, if you listen close enough, the body talks.”

***EPISODE END*

Later, Shep’s body retains the new density and strength from Wes’ experiment–but returns to his normal big muscle Ox size. Wes is pleased with the experimental results, and Shep is happy with his new strength and weight.