The First Vote
The New World of SwapTech
chapter 12
by
deleted_user
The voting booth was a chrome closet with a camera and a Sharpie. One by one, they entered.
Javi wrote WALT in block letters, folding the card with scarred hands. Alejandra wrote WALT, neon nails clicking. Ruth wrote WALT, surgical precision in her penmanship. Laurel wrote WALT, then returned to her book. Magnus wrote WALT, rune tattoos flexing.
Ken wrote CHARLIE, fidgeting with his straps. Svetlana wrote CHARLIE, ice-blue eyes cold. Walt wrote CHARLIE, smirking about the blindside he thought was coming.
Bruce wrote KEN, just to mess with the crypto bro.
Charlie—wearing the 22-inch waist and platinum extensions—wrote POLLY, grinning. He wanted that 390-pound frame eliminated. Gone.
Polly—trapped in the grease-slicked ponytail and stained tee—wrote CHARLIE, shaking with rage and exertion. She wanted him punished.
Zelda wrote MAGNUS, just to see what would happen.
They gathered by the fire pit. Sienna stood in white, holding a velvet bag.
“First vote,” she purred. “Charlie.”
“Ken.”
“Polly.”
“Ruth.”
Ruth blinked. “What?”
“Charlie.”
Ken’s hands stopped fidgeting. He looked at Svetlana. She shook her head, one sharp motion.
Walt leaned back, executive cut gleaming, still confident.
“Walt.”
His smile flickered.
“Walt.”
He sat up.
“Walt.”
“Walt.”
“Walt.” Sienna smiled. “That’s five. You’re out, silver fox.”
Walt exploded. “What? What?” He pointed at Ken. “You said—”
“I voted Charlie,” Ken said, voice cracking.
“So did I,” Svetlana snapped, standing. “Who flipped?”
Bruce laughed, deep and loud. “Not me, short king. I voted for the nerd.”
Walt grabbed his linen shirt, Botoxed face purple. “This is rigged! This is—do you know who I am? I’m worth forty million! I have a yacht!”
Security escorted him to the limo. He screamed about lawsuits all the way down the drive, salt-and-pepper hair vanishing into the dark.
The eleven remaining stared at each other. Five of them knew exactly what happened. The other six looked around, paranoid.
The next morning, they stood in a jungle clearing. Eleven pedestals rose from a swamp, each barely wide enough for two feet. Overhead, heavy sandbags hung from chains.
Sienna stood on a platform in thigh-high boots. “The Root. Hold the sandbag over your head. Drop it, step off the pedestal, or fall in the swamp—you’re out. Last bag standing wins immunity and The Machine.”
The bags dropped into their hands. Charlie—in Polly’s trophy body—lifted his with ease, 32DDs heaving under a sports bra. “Light work,” he said in that high, breathy voice. “I could do this for hours. Check these delts.”
Polly—in Charlie’s 390-pound frame—groaned immediately, gamer posture failing, patchy neckbeard dripping sweat. “I can’t... I can’t feel my shoulders...”
Magnus held his bag steady, 240 pounds of Viking muscle unbothered, braid swinging. Ruth—four-foot-eleven—strained, oversized hoodie sleeves falling back to show trembling arms. Laurel held hers with yoga-toned grace, glasses slipping. Javi’s Stetson stayed on, scarred forearms corded with effort.
“So,” Ken called out, arms shaking, “who organized the Walt vote? Five votes. That’s not random.”
“I don't know, but I like them. At least they didn't try to vote me out, Ken,” Charlie said, winking at him.
“Shut up,” Polly wheezed, bag wobbling.
Alejandra stood perfectly still, defined abs locked, neon nails gripping the chain. She said nothing, but her eyes found Javi’s. He gave the slightest nod.
Svetlana watched them both, calculating, ice-blue eyes narrowing. “You two are quiet.”
“Just enduring,” Alejandra said, sweet and deadly.
“Mm,” Svetlana hummed. “Original.”
Ruth squeaked, arms trembling, but held on.
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January 29
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