First Baptist Church The New World of SwapTech chapter 9 by deleted_user

Greg had barely ended the call with the sheriff before he grabbed his keys and headed out the door. His clothes still hung off him like laundry on a wind line, but he didn’t care. He had to see his church.

He pulled his old pickup out of the driveway, struggling to adjust the seat to his new dimensions. He kept sliding forward; his shorter legs barely reached the pedals. His chest pressed into the steering wheel. And every bump in the road reminded him, in jiggling detail, that he wasn’t built like a man anymore.

He white-knuckled the wheel and growled: “This is a trial. Just a trial.”

When he pulled into the parking lot of First Baptist Church, it was empty.

But not quiet.

Voices floated from inside—high-pitched, echoing through the open front doors.

The sanctuary was lit by shafts of morning sun. In the front pew, a cluster of women stood—some in oversized flannel, others in boxers, a few in robes or towels hastily wrapped around feminine forms.

They were men. Every last one of them.

Deacon Carter now looked like a slightly frazzled soccer mom. Next to him was Harold Fincher—now a slim, busty redhead in a robe and slippers, holding his phone like it was a lifeline. More stood by them. They turned at the sound of Greg’s footsteps.

A moment of silence.

“Pastor Greg?” someone asked hesitantly.

He nodded grimly. “Yeah. It’s me.”

There was a collective gasp.

“Holy crap,” Carter said. “You’re... You’re a cutie.”

“Don’t start,” Greg snapped. “Have y’all been trying to call the sheriff?”

“Phone lines are jammed,” Harold said. “Internet’s down in half the town. We’ve been comparing notes. We all changed a couple hours ago, sometime around 9 a.m. Most of the women—our wives—they’re untouched.”

Greg exhaled. “The sheriff said it’s everyone. Every man in town, maybe more. Some Swaptyx mess. Experimental tech, God knows what.”

“We were just talking about what to do,” someone said. “Is this permanent?”

“No clue,” Greg said. He paused, then looked at the pulpit. “But I figure if we’re gonna wait for answers... maybe we ought to pray.”

He stepped up to the front. The steps creaked beneath his new weight distribution, and his chest bounced as he climbed—but he planted himself firmly behind the lectern.

He looked out at his congregation—every one of them changed. Confused. Scared. Struggling not to laugh or cry at the sheer insanity of it. So was he. But he was still their shepherd.

He cleared his throat. “Dear Lord... we don’t know what’s going on. But I know this church has seen storms before. And we’ll see this one through, too."

A few heads nodded. A few tearful eyes blinked back hope.