[ WP ] You wake up in a universe where everyone is ALWAYS super strong except you . You 're saught after as a hero for delicate missions where precision and minimal structural damage is ideal .

When you're 77 inches tall, and are built out of some 255 pounds of muscle and bone, with hardly any fat to speak of, the common phrases sent your way tend to echo from `` You look like a balloon animal.'' to `` I wish I was as strong as you.'' to `` You're done, dude. Why are you still at the gym? ``, stopping several times in between for equal parts snark, admiration, and dissent. 
 
 Back home, I was one of the few, one of the proud. My military past involved carrying 110 pounds in armor and supplies on 15 mile patrols a few times a week, and I was equally likely to take a piss break as I was to join an hours-long shoot out with the locals. My body is big and strong; That was the only way to survive that kind of torturous activity without lasting damage to myself. 
 
 I want to make that distinction, so that when I tell you that the people I live with now make me look like a malnourished child, you can understand, and appreciate, the frame of reference involved. 
 
 About five years into my contract, after my second tour, my platoon sergeant asked me to accompany him to the brigade headquarters, to meet the colonel. The colonel asked me to accompany him to the division headquarters, to meet the general. The general asked me to accompany him the next morning to a nearby base to meet with a contractor who had a special interest group backing a DOD approved experiment that I was to participate in. 
 
 I followed without hesitation - After all, what kind of argument would a lowly corporal have to use, to stand up to the division commander? 
 
 Looking back on it, I can only assume I was drugged before boarding the general's transport. Whatever they used was probably in the coffee, which I had been all too willing to accept at'Oh-Dark-Thirty', before we were to roll out on the two hour long ride into Nowhere, Nevada. 
 
 I have no memory of the rest of that morning. Or, indeed, the rest of the 118 years they had kept me hidden in my own little room, far off the beaten path of Building 12. 
 
 I've still not figured out how or what happened. My first memory after that mug of steamy, delicious bean water, was waking up to the feeling of being stabbed in the arm by what felt like an angry bull with its horns replaced by swords. I briefly remember screaming in agony and lurching forward, only to be hit in the forehead by what I would n't have second guessed as a two-by-four. I next woke to a beautiful nurse's face inches from my own, whispering to an unseen person `` Are you sure this was their top soldier?'' 
 
 `` Marine!'' I had muttered, almost incoherently. `` I'm not a fucking solder!'' I was able to finish, before falling out once more. 
 
 I finally woke up again several days later, to learn of my situation from a paper-pusher, who was. rather curiously, built a lot like myself. It was odd to see; Most of the support classes were somewhat tall and scrawny, or short and fat, not in great physical condition like this guy. 
 
 I rested as best I could through the rest of the week, processing new information as I was told, and tring not to lash out at any of the suspiciously well-built staff that were sent to tend me, telling me these stories about events that had never happened. 
 
 Once I was allowed to leave Building 12, to explore the rest of the garrison, I began to understand less and less of what I was seeing outside: I.T. guys with entire server racks under each arm. A mechanic changing a tire on some kind of heavily armored vehicle without the use of a jack, hydraulic lift, crane, or anything similar, instead preferring to just pick up one side of the truck and rest it, leaning, against the side of the Building. A lieutenant carrying a stack of papers so tall, that I would have had a difficult task in looking over them, would the stack have been set at my feet. 
 
 What was more, these people were n't people, so much as giants. And I mean that in every sense of the word - The shortest of which was about my height, and the tallest of which... Well, have you ever been sitting on the floor, and looked up at someone who's just walked up to stand over you? It was like I had to look people in the nostrils, rather than the eyes, and everyone had a double chin when they craned their necks so hard to look down at me. 
 
 For two weeks, I pretended that I was dreaming. I had got into the general's transport, fallen asleep, we crashed, and I was now in a coma. Why would n't it be coma dreams? It made sense. 
 
 The start of that third week, I was summoned by the suspicious paper-pusher to Building 3, and told to sit at a conference table that would suit the pair of us better if we had booster seats, and we waited... 
 
 **I'll work on Part 2 later**
