Departure Time The New World of SwapTech chapter 3 by bodyswapbabe

The parking lot of the Tacoma SwapPort shimmered under the weak July sun, glass and metal catching the light. Fitz McElroy triple-checked the space number on the parking receipt, took a photo of it for backup, and then turned to his wife with an anxious smile.

"Spot D-42," he said. "Easy to remember. D for departure."

"You’re doing it again," Miriam teased, nudging his arm. She had her hair in a messy braid and wore a tank top patterned with little flamingos. “We’re already packed, double-checked, triple-checked, and the boys haven’t exploded yet. That’s a miracle. You can breathe now.”

Fitz exhaled—loudly, maybe a little too dramatically—and looked at his two sons squabbling near the curb.

Rory, the younger one, was trying to vault his small backpack onto his head like a hat. His shorts were already riding up, knees scraped, one sock completely missing.

Nolan, taller and more reserved at nine, stood stiffly by the curb with his arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the SwapPort entrance like it might collapse or catch fire. He wore the same blue polo Fitz had laid out for him the night before, already wrinkled from the seatbelt.

“Rory,” Fitz called, jogging a few steps forward. “Don’t hit your brother with that bag, please.”

“It’s my vacation hat!” Rory yelled back, delighted, before twirling in a circle.

Miriam snorted. “He gets that from me.”

Truth be told, this whole trip made Fitz anxious—but he’d hidden that the best he could. Two days at Fantasialand Resort—some hybrid nostalgia-drenched theme park full of oversized animatronics, old-timey candy shops, and a fake pirate village that turned into a techno rave after sunset. It wasn’t exactly his speed. But the kids had begged, Miriam had lit up at the ads, and the place was booked six months out.

He’d found a way to make it work.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing the family toward the sleek concrete facade of the SwapPort. “Let’s stick together and not touch anything until we get through security. Remember what I told you—if you get separated, just find an employee and—”

“—tell them your ID number, your scheduled host body name, and your return code,” Nolan recited flatly, eyes forward.

“Got it memorized,” Rory chirped, then added, “Mine is Chuck Thunderpants!”

Fitz winced. “No, your host is named Charles Anthony…”

“Chuck. Thunder. Pants,” Rory insisted with a wide grin.

Miriam leaned over to Fitz and whispered, “It’s kinda a cool name. You sure you didn’t pick the pirate bundle for him?”

“It was the only male host in his age group not allergic to peanuts,” Fitz muttered back. “That alone saved us $300 in waiver fees.”

The interior of the SwapPort was hushed, cool, and absurdly clean. An attendant greeted them at the welcome kiosk with a too-perfect smile. She scanned their reservation code, handed each of them a personalized host ID badge, and gestured toward the family pod suite with a practiced flourish.

"Have a magical journey," she said. "And thank you for choosing Swaptyx."

The hallway was lined with soft lights and soundproof walls. Each set of doors had glowing blue trim around the base, labeled with family names. “McElroy” was blinking gently at the end of the row.

“I feel weird,” Nolan said quietly, adjusting his badge. “What if I don’t feel normal when I wake up?”

"You’ll be fine," Miriam said, crouching to hug him. “It’s just like sleeping, remember?”

Fitz knelt beside his older son, lowering his voice. “You’re going to be okay, bud. We’re all together, same room, same schedule. And if anything doesn’t feel right, just press the emergency return. That’s why I printed out the step-by-step guide and laminated it.”

Nolan blinked. “You laminated it?”

"Of course he laminated it," Miriam said. “He's Fitz McElroy, Human Laminator.”

Fitz made a show of rolling his eyes, but he smiled. His chest was tight with nerves—more than he wanted to admit—but he was doing this for them. A memory-making trip. A cost-saving trick. Something adventurous without actually risking anything. Even if the four of them wouldn't look anything like themselves in the family photos.

He entered the family suite and took one last glance at their physical bodies. The four of them would lie back on softly contoured foam platforms, connected via lightweight neural headbands. Their belongings had already been sent to their hosts’ lockers on the other end.

One by one, they settled into their pods.

Rory was first, lying back like he was boarding a rocket ship. “See you in Piratetown!” he yelled, grinning.

Miriam leaned across to kiss Fitz on the forehead. “Try not to schedule things for five minutes, okay? Just be there.”

“I’ll try,” he whispered.

She nodded once, then lay back.

Fitz was the last to lie down.

He adjusted the band over his temples, checked the name of his host body one more time—Frederick W. Myles, age 36, 6’0”, moderate fitness, no major allergies—and exhaled deeply.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Time to vacation.”

The moment he closed his eyes, a gentle hum filled the chamber. The pod sealed shut with a soft hiss.

Then: silence.

Then—light.