Live action

by Lazlo Strange

The scene behind cameras of a live-action actor taking an artificial growth drug for a life-changing role.

Modern action filmmaking has never been this advanced. In recent years, the medical genetics industry has been working alongside film giants to develop an artificial custom drug—one that grants its user any desired skill or ability, defying the laws of nature. A perfect supplement for actors and actresses in the superhero and supernatural genres, this drug has revolutionized live-action cinema. No longer do studios need to rely on costly and time-consuming CGI effects; instead, they inject their leading men and women with the very powers they portray on screen.

For over a decade, actors and stunt professionals have embraced the drug, enhancing their performances with breathtaking feats that once required heavy post-production work. Now, with the flick of a syringe, they can run faster, jump higher, and lift objects beyond human comprehension—all lasting precisely an hour before fading away. The discovery was a revelation for the industry, though it came at a cost. As the drug became the new standard, film studios opted to dissolve their once-essential CGI departments, replacing artists and engineers with a vial of chemically induced superpowers.

Jack Thunder’s deep, commanding voice echoed through their Beverly Hills mansion. “Honey, have you seen my leather jacket?”

At thirty-five, he was Hollywood’s leading man, a household name. More than that, he was a devoted husband and father to an 18 years old daughter who left for college.

Ada, 34, his wife, barely looked up from the stovetop as she flipped their breakfast sandwiches. “It’s on the rack outside. I steamed it last night, remember?”

She heard his heavy footsteps approaching, the weight of his muscular frame subtly vibrating the floorboards. He was a mountain of a man, standing at 6’5”, his presence alone powerful enough to command attention in any room. But to her, he was simply Jack—her Jack. The man she had married thirteen years ago, long before the world knew his name.

Jack wasn’t always a star. He had spent years as a stunt double, stepping in for the likes of Alan Ritchson and Joel Kinnaman. Thanks to his towering physique and rigorous training as a former rugby player, he fit the bill for Hollywood’s toughest roles. But it wasn’t until he landed the lead role in Irredeemable, portraying the godlike antihero Plutonian, that his career truly skyrocketed. His rise to stardom coincided with a groundbreaking moment in the industry—the public introduction of The Drug. Jack wasn’t just the face of the Irredeemable franchise; he was the first actor to openly use the drug for a role.

Ada remembered that time vividly. Jack had spent weeks immersed in the comics, studying every issue, every spin-off, until he could recite the character’s lines by heart. And when filming began, he took the drug daily. What followed was six months of controlled chaos. Jack shattered doorknobs with the slightest grip, burned holes through furniture with accidental heat vision, and cracked floorboards beneath his weight. Their once-normal life skyrocketed into something extraordinary.

For safety reasons, they made a difficult decision—no intimacy. Not while he had the strength of a god surging through his veins. The risk of crushing her, even unintentionally, was too high. She had watched with a mix of fascination and unease as her husband pushed his limits, lifting their truck with one hand and soaring above the clouds on impromptu flights. He reveled in his temporary abilities, but she saw the strain it put on him.

When filming wrapped, the injections stopped. Jack returned to his normal self, but the world saw him differently. He was no longer just an actor; he was a Hero, the embodiment of raw power. Studio executives capitalized on his transformation, arranging promotions where he lifted cruise ships above his head and descended from the sky like a divine being. With the fortune he amassed, he moved his family into their dream home—a mansion fit for Hollywood royalty.

Jack grabbed his leather jacket from the rack, but before he could head out, Ada appeared in front of him.

“Wait,” she whispered. Standing on her toes, the petite 5’3” woman reached up, planting a tender kiss on his cheek. Jack leaned down, wrapping his arms around her, savoring the warmth of her embrace. His blue eyes locked onto hers, and for a brief moment, the world outside their home ceased to exist.

With one last lingering look at his wife, he stepped out the door and into his waiting truck.

The set was buzzing with activity when he arrived. His agent, Tom, was the first to greet him, standing at eye level—a rarity for Jack.

“You ready?” Tom asked, his voice low. “You know the scene, right?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. It’s in my bones at this point.”

Tom leaned in. “What did you tell Ada?”

“Just the location. She doesn’t know the details.”

Tom smirked. “Good. That’s for the best.”

They walked toward a trailer where a woman in a white lab coat waited. Jack recognized her immediately—she had been the one to inject him years ago, back when he got his famous role.

“Mr. Thunder,” she greeted with a knowing smile. “Been a while.”

Jack nodded, slipping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve.

She prepped the syringe but paused. “This version is different from last time. More advanced.”

“How so?”

She held his gaze. “It’s will-driven now. The more you embody your character, the stronger the effects. And it lasts for a full day.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “A whole day?”

“Yes. Which is why I need to be sure—you’re prepared for this?”

Jack inhaled deeply. He was an actor. This was just another role.

“I’m ready.”

The needle pierced his vein. A cool rush spread through his body, followed by a surge of energy unlike anything he had felt before. His muscles twitched, his vision sharpened. He focused, embracing the character he was about to become.

The set was a vast oceanfront. After coming out of the tent where he was injected, Jack boarded a small boat, sailing out to sea, away from the rest of the actors and stunt doubles. The director gave the signal. The cameras rolled.

Jack inhaled deeply, then dove, piercing the water’s surface with precision. The ocean swallowed him whole as he swam downward, deeper and deeper, until the sunlight above was nothing but a hazy glow, shimmering like a distant memory. His heartbeat slowed, his senses sharpened. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the weightlessness of the depths. Let go. He was no longer Jack Thunder—no longer just an actor. He was the being he had trained to become, the embodiment of raw, unstoppable power. The water trembled around him, currents shifting in anticipation. Something was waking.

And then, the earth trembled.

The tides swelled, monstrous waves crashing toward the shore. A dark silhouette rose from the water, immense and towering. A head of golden hair emerged, followed by piercing blue eyes that flickered with newfound power. Water cascaded down his colossal frame as he stood, his breath alone sending ripples across the ocean’s surface. The world was about to change forever.

The people on the shore felt the tremors grow stronger with every step Jack took. His massive feet crushed the once-abundant reefs, pressing them deep into the shore bed. Jack’s expression wavered between confusion and exhilaration, his mind consumed by the sheer power coursing through him. This wasn’t Ada’s sweet husband anymore—this was a man discovering godlike strength, testing it on the tiny inhabitants of Earth.

People remained frozen in shock, just as the director wanted. Clad in nothing but tight boxer shorts, Jack towered over the shoreline, his form casting an overwhelming shadow. Every detail of his physique, once admired by Ada, now carried an unsettling menace.

Jack placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the world below. To him, the people resembled nothing more than specks of dust scattered across the sand. He crouched down, attempting to focus on them, but their individual features blurred together. They were insignificant.

Without a flicker of doubt, he raised his foot, eyes cold as the ground beneath him buckled. With a sickening squelch, his sole crashed down, crushing the group of extras into a grotesque heap. Their bodies shattered, limbs twisted, and blood splattered in a crimson shower, staining the earth with their broken forms. The air thickened with the stench of death, a sickly-sweet tang clinging to his skin. As the remnants of their lives bled into the dirt, a dark thrill coursed through him—raw, intoxicating power that surged through his veins like fire, leaving him yearning for more.

Then came his first line, delivered with perfect intensity:

“Where am I? Why do I feel… this much power?”

Jack raised his arms slowly, each muscle tensing with precision as he struck a double bicep pose, the peaks of his bulging muscles swelling and tightening with raw power. The veins in his forearms snaked like dark rivers, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat, while his chest expanded, the skin stretched taut over his ribcage. His every movement was deliberate, a show of dominance as he loomed over the tiny, trembling world below. The light caught the sheen of sweat on his skin, making his muscles gleam as though carved from stone. Below, some of the extras, their faces pale with terror, snapped from their trance and scrambled to flee, but Jack stood unmoving, savoring the weight of his presence.

“Yes! Run! Hey, did you get that on camera?” The director’s voice crackled in Jack’s earpiece, filled with excitement.

Jack knelt with a deep, bone-rattling creak, sending a fresh wave of tremors rolling through the earth, the ground beneath him shaking violently. In the corner of his eye, a group of women—frantic, their legs pumping as they sprinted toward the edge of the shore—caught his attention. Their brightly colored bikinis flashed vibrantly against the dull, lifeless sand, but their frantic movements only made them appear more fragile in his gaze.

With a fluid motion, he reached out, fingers as wide as highways, and scooped them up effortlessly, lifting them along with a mound of sand into his enormous palm. The women screamed, their bodies bouncing in the air as the world around them seemed to distort and tilt unnervingly. They could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremors of his immense power traveling up through their fragile forms as his fingers curled around them, trapping them in the shadow of his hand.

As they tumbled through the air, fear surged through their veins, but even in the chaos, some of them couldn’t help but catch glimpses of his massive, handsome face—chiseled features framed by the sharpness of his brow, his piercing eyes glimmering with cold indifference. Despite the overwhelming terror, there was an unsettling awe in their hearts, a quiet recognition of his god-like beauty, even as it heralded their doom.

As Jack brought them closer to his face, his eyes narrowed in disappointment. To him, they were no more than specks—unrecognizable, insignificant—tiny, vulnerable creatures trapped in his grasp. The women’s hearts pounded in terror, their bodies slick with a cold, sticky sweat. The world around them was a blur of shifting light and the sound of his deep, measured breaths.

With a sigh of boredom, Jack released them, his massive hand opening, letting them scatter like fragile grains of sand. The women tumbled helplessly, helpless against the force of gravity and the weight of his indifferent gaze. They felt weightless for a moment, spinning through the air, and then the harsh, unforgiving ground came rushing up to meet them, the sand digging into their skin as they collided with the earth. All they could do was cry out, but their voices were swallowed by the vastness of the world he controlled.

Then, something caught his attention—a lone figure clinging to his toe. He squinted, but the tiny form remained indistinct.

“You’re a brave one,” he muttered, his voice low and steady as he plucked the small person between his fingers. He held them gently, feeling their frail body quiver in his grip, their struggles almost imperceptible against his immense strength.

A moment of hesitation passed through him, a strange flicker of doubt in his chest, but he quickly pushed it aside. He had a role to play.

Crouching down, his enormous shadow loomed over the world, casting everything in darkness. His index finger extended, a thick, unyielding pillar of muscle and bone. Without a word, he slowly pressed it down next to his feet. First, he heard a faint crunch, then another, sharper crack—a sickening sound that sent a shiver down his spine. The tiny human specks beneath him were crushed effortlessly, reduced to nothing more than smears under his immense touch. The brief sounds of their crushing were all that remained, like brittle shells breaking beneath the weight of his fingers, their existence snuffed out in an instant.

For the next half hour, Jack rampaged through the beach, delivering a performance so convincing it blurred the line between acting and reality. He crushed, stomped, and devoured—completely immersed in his character. The cameraman perched on his shoulder captured every angle, ensuring the cinematic spectacle unfolded with breathtaking realism.

Finally, as the scene reached its climax, Jack felt himself return to normal. With one last, earth-shaking breath, he collapsed to his knees, exhausted but exhilarated. The director’s voice rang out:

“And cut!”

The crew erupted into cheers. Jack, now back to his senses, surveyed the destruction around him. He knew he could shrink down—he always could. His body began to contract, muscles shrinking until he stood at his original 6’5 height. He exhaled sharply, shaking off the surreal experience.

“That was incredible,” Jack’s agent, Tommy, clapped him on the back. “The director’s thinking of adding a city scene, but that’s for another day. You’re perfect for this role.”

Jack smiled, though something about the whole experience nagged at him.

Back home, he pulled into the driveway, grabbed his bags, and headed inside. As he walked up to the door, an itch formed on his left shoulder. He scratched absentmindedly, only to notice a tiny red dot staining his shirt. A minor irritation, nothing more.

Twisting the knob, he stepped inside. The house was quiet except for the murmur of the television.

“Honey? I’m home! You won’t believe what happened today.”

He made his way to the living room and stopped short. There was no one, except their old housekeeper who just got here a while after he left earlier morning

“Where’s Ada?” Jack asked, his voice laced with unease.

The keeper turned, startled. “Oh, hey, Jack! I thought she was with you. She left right after you this morning. She said I’d just look over for the house while she went and see you.”

Jack’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“She called me early, said she was going to shoot. Something about bringing you your sandwich.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“No… no…” His hand instinctively clutched his stomach as his mind raced back to the shoot, back to the tiny woman he had stashed away without a second thought.

Panic set in as he bolted for the bathroom, stripping away his clothes. Standing before the mirror, his muscular chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Then, his eyes dropped to the faint red mark near his waistband. Hesitantly, he pressed a finger to it.

Something gave way beneath his touch—a speck, smaller than a grain of sand, crumbling to nothing. Jack’s stomach lurched.

“No…”

The realization settled over him like a weight too heavy to bear. His mind replayed the events of the day, every action, every moment of power and destruction. And then, like a sudden, cruel wave, the truth hit him with full force. The specks he had crushed, the lives he had obliterated—it wasn’t just strangers. He had taken them all. His wife. Their fragile existence had been reduced to nothing by his own hand. He had been the architect of their doom. The thought tore through him like a jagged knife, and a surge of panic gripped his chest, his breath shallow as dizziness spun through his head.

Then, as if in response to the crushing weight of his guilt, a strange, tingling sensation began creeping up his hands. His fingers twitched involuntarily. The feeling spread rapidly, a warmth that pulsed through his veins, making his skin flush with heat. His breath caught in his throat as the reality of the moment struck him again—the drug. It was taking effect once more.

He stumbled toward the nearest mirror, his heart racing. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the familiar shift happening—the muscles in his arms beginning to swell, his body expanding as the drug surged through him. His shoulders broadened, veins straining under the pressure, his frame becoming more imposing by the second.

“No… not again,” he whispered, his voice cracked with desperation.

The mirror reflected the man he had become, but it no longer felt like him. The giant he saw was a monster, a creature driven by the very power he had craved, but it came at a price he could no longer ignore. The muscle, the size—it wasn’t worth the destruction, the lives lost. Jack’s gaze faltered as he watched the transformation continue, his own humanity slipping further away with each passing second.

He was growing again, but it wasn’t just his body expanding—it was the weight of everything he had done, crushing him from within.

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