Alan Bixby and the Company Meeting The New World of SwapTech chapter 8 by deleted_user

The auditorium lights buzzed overhead.

Alan sat three rows from the back, surrounded by a sea of anxious, hushed voices and crossed legs. The plush cushion of the seat felt different under his body—softer, maybe. Wider. Or maybe it was just him. Her. His body. This body.

He shifted, and the movement sent a ripple through the snug blouse stretched across his new chest. His ID badge—“ALAN BIXBY, I.T. MANAGER”—was still clipped to the lapel, now hanging awkwardly against a mound of cleavage that hadn’t existed eight hours ago.

He wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Dr. Oakley was at the podium, now looking like someone’s hot science teacher in a borrowed pantsuit, trying to maintain a sense of order. On the projection screen behind her, a series of diagrams scrolled past: concentric rings, cascading neural pulses, snippets of unreadable code.

“...we believe the error began as a misrouted feedback loop within the targeting sandbox of Project Artemis,” she was saying. “Specifically, an unshielded recursive pathway in the mesh transmission code. We’ve identified the moment the boundary fell…”

Alan blinked. He caught none of that. He was too distracted by the way his blouse hugged his waist. By the gentle bounce that came every time he shifted. By the strange, constant presence of his body—like every sensation was louder than it used to be.

Around him, dozens of women sat in swivel chairs or along the tiered seating, all dressed in a kind of collective aftermath. Men who hadn’t had time to find new wardrobes. Men who were still in too-loose pants and undersized shirts. Some had taken to borrowing from the office wellness center—yoga pants, sports bras, Swaptyx-branded zip-ups. A few, like Alan, had simply buttoned up and stayed quiet.

He looked at the woman next to him.

Medium height. Hair pulled back. An expression of mild irritation on her face as she typed furiously on her phone. Alan had to study her for a moment before his eyes fell to her badge—that was Carl. Accounting. Used to be a gruff, balding guy with an unfortunate mustache. Now she was chewing gum and checking stock prices with perfectly manicured fingers.

Carl caught him staring. “Something on my face?” he muttered.

Alan quickly looked away. “Sorry.”

At the front, Dr. Oakley continued. “We estimate the pulse affected a radius of twenty miles from Swaptyx HQ. Male subjects within the field experienced complete morphological restructuring. The transformation was total, immediate, and appears—at present—irreversible.”

There was a murmur of shifting bodies. Arms crossed. Legs uncrossed. Some people slumped. Others sat bolt upright.

Alan felt a slow chill crawl up his spine. Irreversible.

“However,” Dr. Oakley added quickly, “we are actively developing reversal protocols. The Artemis project was designed with modular reformation in mind. We are reviewing all stored imprint data for potential backtrack profiles…”

Alan’s thoughts drifted again.

Reversible. Maybe.

But when?

And until then… he glanced down at his legs, now smooth and crossed neatly. At his hands, slim and soft. At the slight weight that now rested on his chest all the time.

He shifted in his seat again, and the rustle of fabric reminded him how little of this felt natural. It was like being wrapped in a costume you couldn’t take off. One that moved on its own.

He heard someone behind him whisper, “I’m so not telling my wife.”

A woman two seats over—one of the engineers from hardware, he thought—quietly fanned herself with a printed agenda and muttered, “Honestly? These hips are killing me.”

Dr. Oakley pressed on. “We’re also offering immediate support: clothing credits, counseling, body-adaptation seminars, and internal transfers if needed.”

“Transfers?” someone called out. “Like to where? A department that didn’t just grow boobs?”

There were scattered laughs. Tired ones.

Alan didn't join in. He wasn't sure he could.

His thoughts kept circling the same silent question: How long am I going to be like this?

And then the one after it: ...what if I don’t hate it as much tomorrow?

He glanced back at the podium. Dr. Oakley looked flustered now, tugging her sleeves down, trying not to adjust the blouse that hugged her new curves.

He wondered if she had asked the same thing.