Tank Wilson, New Woman The New World of SwapTech chapter 7 by deleted_user

The standoff was broken by the sound of the front door slamming open, hitting the wall with a crack of splintering drywall.

“BROs! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THE SHIT I JUST SAW!”

The voice was a booming, powerful alto, familiar in its cadence but utterly alien in its pitch. They all turned.

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh noon sun, was Tank.

Tank—real name Terrence Wilson—had been the frat’s massive, muscle-bound enforcer. He lived in the gym, his life a dedicated pursuit of pure mass. The figure before them was still Tank, but… distilled. The hulking, blocky muscle was gone, replaced by a powerful, sculpted feminine form. She—he—was built like an Olympic sprinter or a CrossFit champion. Broad, powerful shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and then flared into incredibly muscular thighs and a tight, round ass that was showcased in a pair of skin-tight neon green compression shorts. A damp sports bra, stretched to its limit, contained a impressive pair of firm, high breasts slick with sweat. His face, once a blocky mound of features, was now strong-jawed and handsome in a decidedly female way, with a fierce intensity in his eyes. His hair was shaved close on the sides, the top a sweaty, spiky mess.

He dropped his gym bag. “It happened at the gym, man. At the fucking Iron Temple.”

He strode into the room, his movements still possessing Tank’s confident, slightly bow-legged swagger, but now on a powerful female frame. The four of them just stared.

“I was mid-rep on the bench,” Tank began, pacing, his voice charged with adrenaline. “Two-forty-five. Felt good. Felt strong. And then—bam!—this… flash of light. Not like a bang, but like, a silent white flash behind my eyes. And this wave of heat. Like my whole body got dunked in hot oil.”

He stopped, looking at his own hands, turning them over. They were still large, but the knuckles were less pronounced, the fingers longer and more elegant. “The weight felt like it got a hundred pounds heavier all of a sudden. I barely got the bar back on the rack. I sit up, and I look down, and I’ve got these.” He gestured at his chest. “I’m like, what the fuck? I’m hallucinating. I pinched one. Hurt like a bitch. They’re real.”

Tank’s story poured out of him, a cathartic flood of surreal horror. He described the scene at Powerhouse Gym: the collective scream that wasn’t quite a scream, a chorus of confused, newly high-pitched voices. Big Lou, the three-hundred-pound powerlifter, weeping on the leg press machine, his immense gut gone, replaced by a soft, feminine belly and enormous, sagging breasts. The skinny college kid who’d suddenly developed a killer hourglass figure, staring at his own ass in the mirror wall with a look of hungry desire.

“And then Chad—you know, that dickhead from Beta Sig who’s always doing curls in the squat rack?” Tank continued, his eyes wide. “He freaks the fuck out. Starts screaming about his dick. He runs into the locker room. I follow him, ‘cause hell, I wanna know what’s going on down there too, right?”

He paused for dramatic effect, looking at each of them.

“He’s standing in front of the mirrors, pants around his ankles, just staring. And he’s… he’s playing with it. With his new… stuff. And he’s staring at himself in the mirror, and he’s got this look on his face. And then he… dude, he came. Just from touching himself there. Right there in the locker room. Just… shuddered and fell against the lockers.”

“Holy shit,” Cody breathed, the crude reality of it hitting him harder than the news reports. This wasn’t an abstract “event.” This was bodies. Flesh. Function. And it was working whether they wanted it to or not.

“So I got the hell out of there,” Tank finished, finally seeming to run out of steam. He looked around at his brothers. His gaze swept over Mark’s voluptuous form, Liam’s petite frame, Derek’s athletic build, and finally landed on Cody. He did a double-take, a slow, appraising look that made Cody’s skin prickle. “Damn, Finch. You cleaned up nice.”

“Fuck off, Tank,” Cody muttered, pulling his knees to his chest.

“Nah, for real. You look like that girl from that show. The one with the dragon tits.” Tank seemed to shake himself out of it, the bro-code momentarily overriding… whatever that was. “Where’s Josh?”

The question landed like a lead weight. Josh Wilson, Tank’s younger brother and the house’s resident computer genius, was the sixth. He was quiet, notoriously messy, and had a habit of disappearing into coding benders for days.

“He’s not here,” Liam said, holding up his phone. “I’ve called him ten times. Texted. Nothing. His location’s off.”

“His room’s locked,” Derek added. “I already checked.”

A new, different kind of dread seeped into the room. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by the grim, logistical nightmare of their situation. They were trapped in these bodies. The world was in chaos. And one of their own was missing.

“We have to get in there,” Tank said, his voice losing its animated storytelling tone and turning grim. “We gotta find my brother.”

“I don't think he's in there, he would've heard us,” Derek said. “Besides, we’d have to break it down.”

“So we break it down,” Tank said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He walked over to the fireplace and hefted the cast-iron poker. It looked smaller in his new hand, but he gripped it with the same lethal confidence. “You pussies coming or what?”

He led the way, a formidable Amazonian figure in neon spandex, holding a fireplace implement. The others trailed behind him—a bizarre procession of confused, frightened, and newly feminine figures creeping up the stairs of their own house. Josh’s door, at the end of the hall, was indeed shut tight, a silent, ominous barrier.

Tank didn’t hesitate. He reared back and drove the pointed end of the poker into the wood just beside the doorknob. The sound of splintering oak echoed through the hallway, a violent punctuation mark to the weirdest morning of their lives. The hunt for their missing brother had begun.