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The garage door slammed open and the girl ran in screaming, "It's leg day motherfuckers!"

Callie dropped to the floor and knocked out a set of push-ups. She lowered her chest and huffed. Bits of dirt and grass blew across the floor. She popped into the air, full of banana and peanut butter induced vigor.

Today was the day, she thought while jumping onto a pull up bar.

Up.

Today she planned to haul a ton of iron into the air.

Down.

But not all at once.

Up.

Cumulatively.

Down. All the way down. Slow and controlled. Do you feel that? The burn between the shoulder blades?

Hell yeah I feel it.

Her heart pumped blood as if a fire needed dousing. The poor organ knew Callie would not hesitate to rip the lazy bastard out and replace it with a better model should poor performance become an issue.

Perspiration bubbled on her forehead. Her fingers loosened. She fell to the ground in her lifting Nikes and hoped to look cool in the pose she struck on the way down. Callie stretched her arms overhead and cracked her knuckles and popped her elbows, her shoulders, and back. The air crackled with invisible fireworks.

Pride warmed her smile and she felt no shame over it.

Lmao2pl8, she thought. Today she planned to deadlift lmao2pl8. A rite of passage for any aspiring weightlifter and seeker of gains, she believed.

Four plates of cold iron. One hundred and eighty pounds. One standard Olympic bar. One woman. One will. The numbers made an ice cold bead of hype slide down her back.

A seven foot iron bar weighing forty four pounds lay on a foam mat. She approached the metal with the same caution and respect of people approaching a sleeping lion.

Me and you, she thought. Her hands grabbed a forty-five pound plate laying besides the bar. She kneeled on the floor and slid the bar through the hole in the plate's center. She repeated the operation on the other side and fitted spring collars on the bar to prevent the plates from sliding off.

Callie stood and walked away from the bar, breathing deep and shaking her wrists loose. In and out, in and out. Ninety pounds on the bar.

The warm up set formed a critical part of her routine. Muscles needed revving in order to avoid a side trip to Snap City. Training injuries freaked the crap out of her. She shook her dirty-blonde hair that dangled luxuriously down just past her ears.

Her left hand reached into the left pocket of her blue lycra shorts that ended above mid-thigh and pulled out a set of white earbuds. Fingers fitted the buds in and the growls of Disillusion filled her skull. The girl nodded. Lift metal. Listen to metal. Simple logic.

Callie strut to a bench and grabbed the lifting belt resting on the black leather seat. She tightened the broad, wrinkled belt above her hips and wiggled it until proper snugness was obtained. The belt hugged at her sides, at her back. Like a friend, like a pact that meant, "Today I will lift heavy ass weights or not lift at all."

She refused to don the belt for show or hollow ambition.

Her feet stood hip width apart before the bar. Light ran along the cold rim. She stared down at the palm of her hands. Her thumb traced over the callouses that developed at the base of her fingers.

Eight of them. Eight little badges of effort and dedication that grow after pulling heavy weights attached to hard, hard metal. The toughened, yellowed skin would only feel tougher after today.

She bent her knees and dipped close to the ground. Her hands gripped the bar at shoulder width. The left palm faced inwards, and the right outwards. The muscles in her forearms coiled in preparation.

Callie breathed in righteous air to power righteous lifts. Time to get real. Time to get swole.

One, two-

And up she went. The plates left the ground. Her hips pushed in and knees straightened in meticulously controlled motion. Don't bow the back. Move those hips in. Straight and firm.

Nice and easy.

All well and dandy, Callie thought. But Callie didn't want clean and easy. She wanted sweaty and vicious and wild, loud, and angry.

She reversed the motion and the plates kissed the firm foam mat. Bad form is only waste, and she had no desire to be seen as an amateur, even if she preferred to lift alone.

Public gyms didn't suit her for a long list of reasons. The sound of plates and dumbbells clanking on the floor or against catches with no self-control made her want to deck the offenders across the face and bellow, "fucking scrubs, respect the steel," over and over until her face boiled red. That was one reason.

Her chest expanded with another deep breath and she performed a second rep with ninety pounds. Again. Again until she knocked out five excellent warm up lifts.

Callie stepped back, shaking for forearms and wiped the sweat off her brow. The only circulation in the garage blew from a ratty plastic fan.

Now for the good part.

Her heart trembled at the coming escalation. Lmao2pl8.

The second pair of weights slid onto the bar and Callie bit her lip at the sheer beauty of the damn thing. She kept her plates and bar polished and free from debris or bodily fluids. She couldn't help but admire the one hundred and eighty pounds resting in quiet self-assurance.

Of course, she admitted, one hundred and eighty pounds were peanuts in the deadlifting world, but these pounds belonged to her and no one else. She clawed and swore for every ounce in those plates and she wouldn't lose a single one for anything.

You're pretty much my bitch forever, her thoughts told the weights.

Callie amped up the volume on her music.

Her feet took position as did her hands. Her body crouched into a pose that effectively yelled "shit's about to get wild," at her muscles.

The muscles responded in kid.

One, two.

The iron left the ground in defiance of gravity.

She noticed the increase in weight immediately. Her hips were slower to swing and her forearms tensed. She focused on her breathing. Breathing was key. Keep it steady, or else the mental game was shot and the entire lift would crumble. If the unthinkable happened, she'd score an all-expense paid trip to Snap City, or worse.

She felt grateful for the belt securing her lower lumbar. The little buddy had her back no matter what kind of hell jumped out.

The line of her body straightened out. A heavy breath escaped and she lowered the weight but struggled for a controlled descent.

Damn, a quiet voice thought. She stared at her hands, took a deep breath, stared straight ahead, and hauled another one out. Another. Deep breath. Another. Shit.

One more. She shook the bangs out of her vision and lifted. Grunts filled the air and she shouted, "five," like a swear word when she locked out the last of her set.

For a moment she stood there, holding the weight in her bare hands. She knew she could do this. She became strong enough for it.

The plates went down for the last time in the set.

Callie stepped away and covered her face, feeling a mild dizzy spell. Nothing serious. She knew the difference between a head rush and an "oh no I'm about to fall and crack my coco" disorientation. She propped an elbow against a stool where a bottle of water sat.

She twisted off the cap and drank the stuff. Lukewarm but satisfying. Water dripped down her chin.

Her thighs burned. Everything burned. Every muscle between her calves and traps were panicking and demanded to know what the hell she was doing.

Get ripped or die mirin', she told her bewildered body. She took another swig and dove headfirst into round two.

Three minutes later she fell against the wall with both hands and wanted to cry. Round two kicked her ass.

Three sets. Fifteen reps. Fifteen! Did she really wake up this morning and think fifteen reps of lmao2pl8 seemed like a sane idea?

Her body shook and her stomach twisted.

No. She lifted her head and swiped the bottle for another drink.

A pink towel pressed against her face and she held it against her eyes. Dammit, no. I'm strong enough. I'm strong. I can do fifteen, I can do it all on my own, they're my reps. Mine.

The towel and her hands pulled away form her face along with a swab of sweat and angry halfway-tears.

Against all internal reason, she squatted above the bar. Her palms throbbed. She forgot how to breathe. She'd suffocate if she deadlifted again.

She could walk away and no one would know. Callie met today's goal of setting a new PR, after all. She could take enough pride in that. Plenty of pride. And there was always the next session. Three perfect sets could be performed next session.

She could walk away.

But Callie stayed. Instead she tightened her grip even as her hands cried and she grunted and rose into the air in a maddeningly slow rise and her throat hurt when she screamed at the top. Down the weights went. She did not sacrifice form on the way down, but hung in the starting position for a long time. Sweat dripped off her eyebrows and left wet dots on the mat.

Her open mouth and bared her white teeth. The muscles burned, but she felt no sharp pains in her body, which meant no significant injuries.

She needed to keep her composure. Don't shoot the mental game, or else...or else...

A pressure built between her shoulder blades. A familiar pressure, and a hated one.

Oh no...

Itchy spots spread down her arms and the base of her spine.

I'm strong, she told herself. I'm strong enough. I can do this on my own. This belongs to me.

Callie rose into the air and felt a fire rise up with her. She felt each muscle whipped by the lift bathed in gasoline and flicked with a lit match. If someone put an anatomy chart in front of her, she could point out every single blazing fiber.

Back to the start, faster than intended and she cursed over it.

Fingers tightened and loosened around the metal between the grunts and whimpers Callie made. Her body itched, but she refused to take her hands off the bar. The second she lost contact, it'd be game over. Whole session would turn aggressively weenie shaped.

She promised to take this lift all for herself. Only three reps remained. Zyzz give her strength. May the Natty King Scooby smile upon her lifts, and Rippetoe bless her form.

Her green eyes squeezed tight.

I'm going to make it, she told herself between labored breaths. I'm going to make all kinds of gains.

Callie made the mistake of looking down when she opened her eyes and tried very hard to ignore the dark hair on her arms.

This is mine, she repeated inwardly. Mine.

She huffed and struggled into the air to spite physics and the limits of her body. She locked that shit out.

She bit her tongue on the way down.

You're losing it...

No, I'm not. I'm not, I'm strong, I'm game and this is mine and not yours and no one will take this-

Her body quivered under the pressure of heat and chemical chain reactions.

Callie moaned as her spine rippled. She couldn't stop wiggling her toes because her shoes suddenly felt far too small for her feet.

No, dammit, no.

Her voice growled through an opened mouth and she could taste the pungent sweat dripping in. Her white teeth looked brighter and sharper. Dark fur rippled down her shoulders, shaking triceps, and forearms. Every follicle itched. Down to the muscle and bone, it itched. She'd trade everything in the world to let go of the bar and scratch it away.

Trade everything except for these last two reps.

She swallowed and rose into the air again. The burst of will threw off the chaos of her body and she snatched control long enough to stand on her own hurting feet. The air smelled cleaner, as though she burst through a choking smog that hugged the ground.

But she needed to go back down once more.

The plates hit the mat with a muffled thud and her body burned again. Her skin felt constricted. Her flesh choked the breath out of her, or so it felt.

Her knees knocked as a sharp pressure built at the base of her spine, pushing against her back belt.

The muscles along her shoulder girdle tensed like a wave. She looked at her thighs and shoulders with bloodshot eyes. They looked pumped to her limit, but these muscles were still her own. She couldn't help the fur covering her arms and spreading down her belly, but that didn't matter.

Will mattered. Strength mattered. Her strength.

I'm strong enough, dammit. On my own, I am strong. This is mine and nobody else's. This isn't yours, do you hear me? You can't take this away from me. I won't let you, hear that, you damn animal? I don't need your strength or anything you have to offer. Don't think I'm some scared little twig afraid to pick up anything heavier than forty pounds. Heart and soul, I am strong enough on my own. These weights are mine. These gains are mine. I am strong. I am strong, strong, strong. Like Goku.

Her fingernails blackened and thickened. She saw her toes press against the fabric of her Nikes.

In one last burst of calories and fortitude, she reigned in her rebelling for one final display of muscular coordination. Callie heaved those heavy ass weights as straight and true as anyone ever had, and all on her own.

She screamed. All the way from the bottom to the top lock, she screamed.

Her body locked out and the rest of the avalanche crashed down. Not a trip to Snap City, but something more embarrassing.

A shitload of testosterone flooded her system. The already swollen muscles in her body swelled further gaining mass and definition. Callie's well-sculpted shoulders turned into cannonballs and covered with gray fur. Triceps angled out. Her forearms roped and her hands broadened. Knuckles popped with each expansion. Her fingers, before slim and shapely became like solid strips of jointed metal.

Her heart hammered inside her chest. It absolutely refused to be called a slacker in the midst of this panic.

Callie groaned as her modest breasts broadened and firmed up. Her tank top strained against the handsome and prideful mounds. To credit the brand, it held, albeit barely. Fabric snapped against her expanding back muscles and only a handful of threads kept her chest from exploding all over the place.

Her shoes, however, received no luck. The expensive pair of Nike's vanished in a puff of fur, long black claws, and thick pads. Her heavy toes spread wide and the remains of her socks criss-cross in the spaces between them. Her feet eclipsed the soles of her shoes. Black fur spread across their tops.

Calves lengthened. Her thighs balloons like she just finished a ten year squatting session. Her mid-thigh shorts had zero hope against a pair of upper legs stronger than tree trunks. Callie yipped as they pinched her skin and spreading fur, snapping, snapping, snapping, against her increasingly sculpted rear and flushed private parts. The pockets failed and her phone fell to the floor, disconnecting from her ear buds and cutting off the growls of Oderus Orungus.

Her hips flared and core tightened like a wind-up clock. Solid enough to iron an army's worth of shirts on.

Rear deltoids swirled high and proud. Her lats attained a flare that would make a cobra hiss with jealousy. Callie's traps girdled her neck and rose down her back like a hill before dense fur flourished up and down them like a ruffage on a royal coat.

White buds popped out of the canal as her ears lengthened and flicked against the sounds of her expanding body, and pained breathes intermingling with excited growls. Fur highlighted her jaw line and run under her chin that pushed further and further away from her face. Hair grew along her forehead and soaked up the buckets of sweat.

Her short hair cut darkened and gained volume, but retained its relatively short length.

The shade of her pupils shifted from green to a bright yellow. Pink lips darkened and already sharp teeth sharpened more so. Her black nose wiggled.

In one great moment, her body compressed and her spine shot out, slipping under her back belt because she didn't cheap out on that purchase -damn thing wouldn't snap against a bull charge.

The new tail swung upwards and white-and-gray speckled fur flowered outwards.

All the muscles in Callie's expanded. Her burning body tensed and squeezed a long, angry howl out of her sore throat. The long tongue in her mouth lifted and the garage door rattled. The neighbors across the street wondered, not for the first time, if Callie was in a death

metal band.

If only. The now-furred girl stood there amongst the ruins of her clothes. Her muscles relaxed by a razor-thin margin. The tall wolf standing in the garage looked dangerously solid. Dense enough to withstand a pissed off hurricane. Power and strength ran through her veins and fed into her limbs.

But this strength wasn't hers. She didn't work for this power or this body.

She wanted to be strong using the skin and bone she was born with. Callie felt determined to become strong on her terms.

Yellow eyes scanned the bar and a smile touched her snout.

These lifts belonged to her. The real her. Fifteen reps, one hundred and ninety pounds, lmao2pl8 -all hers.

Callie snorted. The weights now felt like peanuts in her hands. The grip of her fingers knocked grooved dents into the bar.

The towering werewolf lowered the bar gingerly to the foam mat.

The girl looked at the roughened palms of her paws and ran a curving nail over the base of her fingers. She felt no callouses, no badges. Only fur and leathery patches of skin.

Callie stood back up and ran her wide paws down her snout and over her fangs. She howled out while knocking out weights three times this month already.

The banana and peanut butter she ate beforehand was burnt up by the sudden onset of a pump from hell. This body did

its damnedest to eat all her gains. Her stomach grumbled.

"Fuck," she growled and stomped off to prep an obscenely loaded protein shake. "This is bad form."