WHAT did he say to you?!? Looks like this experimental treatment has made your little brother too big for his britches. It's time to remind the overgrown runt who's really in charge.
"Watch it, twerp," you warn him, taking a quick glance around to make sure Mom and Dad aren't in sight. "Don't forget, I can still pound you."
Instead of backing down Alex only smirks up at you confidently.
"Think so . . . wimp?" he asks daringly. Placing a hand on your chest he shoves you with unbelievable force and you go flying backwards, hitting the sand hard.
Okay, that's it! You tried to be nice, but now he's gone too far! In spite of his great new build and obvious physical power, Alex is still only twelve years old and more than a head shorter than you. You're gonna teach him why that means he shouldn't mess with you.
Scrambling up, you charge toward your cocky sibling, who simply stands waiting for you, his hands on his hips.
You don't want to leave any bruises for your parents to see, so a gut-shot is probably the way to go. You fire your right fist at Alex's carved, sculpted eight-pack and the doofus doesn't even try to block! In a fraction of a second your clenched hand slams into its target.
YYYEEEEAAAAHHHH! Oh, geez, that hurts! It feels like you punched solid stone! How on Earth can Alex's abs be so hard? His infuriating smile didn't even waver when you hit him! Now, though, it does seem to have a sly tilt to it.
"Forgot, didn't you?" he teases. "All of my cells are sixteen times denser than a normal human's; that's part of what makes my muscles so strong. Want to see exactly how strong they are?" he asks threateningly.
You don't have a chance to answer before Alex winds up and punches you in the stomach in return. What feels like a miniature sledgehammer impacts directly on your torso.
You thought your hand hurt, but that's nothing compared to the supernova of pain that explodes through you now. You collapse instantly, hugging your midsection, and vomit. You actually wonder if you might have thrown up any of your internal organs.
For a while you simply writhe there, head twisted away and trying not to cry. Then a shower of sands sprays across your face. Blinking away the stinging particles that landed in your eye, you look up to see Alex's tanned right foot kick some more sand toward you.
"Come on, wuss!" the dark-haired, muscle-bound preteen taunts. "Is that all you got? I only used about a quarter of my power on that punch!" he brags, flexing a rippling, softball-sized bicep.
In that instant pure rage overwhelms your pain. You're lying here while your little brother trash-talks you and kicks sand in your face, as if he's some buff beach bully and you're the ninety-eight pound weakling he's picking on. That's not how things are, damn it!
If Alex's cells are so dense, then you just need to hit him in a more sensitive place. You bet a punch to the eye would work. It would also show up pretty clearly, but you're past caring about that.
Slowly, plainfully, you rise up and without a word strike at Alex's face. Like lightning he ducks your punch. You swing with your left hand and he dodges once again.
He retreats before you, exceptionally lithe and sure-footed in the shifting sand, while you miss him again and again.
"My speed and reflexes were improved too," Alex observes lightly, still wearing that maddeningly arrogant smirk. Frustrated you throw yet another punch at him and this time Alex catches your fist in his left hand, stopping it effortlessly.
You try to pull your hand back, but you can't come close to breaking Alex's grip.
"Your still don't get it, do you?" Alex asks, shaking his head in seeming disappointment. "Project Gilgamesh was a MILITARY project, moron! The attribute enhancement procedure was designed to create the ultimate super-soldier. You know, like Captain America in the comics?"
You cease struggling as the terrifying implications of that statement sink in.
"The formula was a total failure with you, but with me they succeeded way beyond their wildest dreams. You're looking at a real life superboy, bro! I can bench press over two tons, run the mile in three minutes and seven seconds, and hold my breath for fifteen minutes. My vision is better than twenty-twenty and I've taken a baseball-bat-hit across the chest without it even leaving a mark."
You listen to Alex boast in stunned silence, praying that he's lying. Except . . . you don't think he is.
A bolt of pain from your trapped hand brings you back to reality; Alex has begun to squeeze. Frantically you work to win free, ineffectually prying at Alex's iron fingers with your free hand. Soon the pain gets so bad that you drop to your knees before him, bringing you below his eye level.
"Alex, don't! Please!" you beg.
Thankfully he stops squeezing, though he doesn't lessen the pressure on your trapped hand.
"That's better, bro," Alex says condescendingly. "This isn't the first time you've ended up kneeling before me, if you could only remember. Once I started changing I stopped taking your crap. You might be older and taller than me, but I'm definitely the big brother now! So who's your boss, weakling?" your kid brother asks you with a sneer.
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