The Second Challenge
The New World of SwapTech
chapter 13
by
deleted_user
Polly’s arms gave out first. The sandbag crashed onto the patchy neckbeard, knocking the wind from the 390-pound frame in a wet whuff. She toppled backward into the swamp with a sound like a whale breaching. “My brand!” she shrieked, flailing in the muck. “I’m drowning in sludge! This body has no buoyancy!”
Ruth dropped next, four-foot-eleven of medical pragmatism. “Radial nerve compression,” she wheezed, gently lowering her bag before she fell. She looked at Magnus. He nodded back, both knowing the limits of their Original bodies.
Ken’s techwear straps snapped under the strain, his wiry frame twitching like a live wire. “Statistical impossibility,” he gasped, and let go. The splash was unimpressive.
Laurel stepped off with the calm of someone returning a library book overdue by centuries. She didn’t even look at the others, just wiped her thick-rimmed glasses and walked away.
Charlie lasted longer than expected, but eventually the enhanced 32DDs threw off his center of gravity; he spun, talon nails scrabbling, and face-planted into the drink.
“Ballast issues!” he burbled, surfacing with platinum extensions full of algae. “Still hot though, right?”
Zelda dropped next. “I don't really care anyway,” she announced, landing in the mud with the grace of a falling leaf.
Bruce’s NBA muscles weren’t built for isometric torture. At eighteen minutes, his left bicep locked up. “Unacceptable!” he roared, dropping the bag and nearly crushing Ken’s foot on the shore. He stormed off, tattoos throbbing.
Magnus lasted until minute twenty-two, his Viking shoulder groaning under the strain of ethical blacksmithing injuries. “My saga ends here,” he rumbled, lowering his bag with ceremonial dignity. He waded to shore and offered Ruth his handkerchief. She accepted, trembling.
Javi went at twenty-five. His Stetson slipped. He reached for it—instinct—and the bag twisted his lean frame sideways. He hit the swamp hard, surfaced spitting, and tipped his wet hat to Alejandra. “Ma’am,” he coughed. “Finish it.”
Only two remained on their pedestals.
Alejandra, 5’3” of coiled gymnast power, neon nails bleeding white against the chain, abs rippling with every breath. And Svetlana, 5’9” of Eastern European ice, platinum hair plastered to sharp cheekbones, ice-blue eyes unblinking.
The swamp went silent except for their breathing.
Svetlana’s arms shook. Not much—but enough for Alejandra to see the crack in the ice.
“Listen to me, little gymnast,” Svetlana rasped, voice cutting through the humidity. “You drop now. You are safe. I swear on my life—I will not put you in The Machine. You help me pick the two victims. Input. Power. You keep your body… perfecto.”
Alejandra’s defined biceps quivered. Her thick dark curls hung heavy with mist. She stared across the muck at Svetlana, calculating—the cold strategic offer from the tennis pro, the safety for her alliance, the surrender of the win.
“Or,” Svetlana added, smile sharp as a skate blade, “we wait until your fingers slip. Then I win anyway, and I pick who suffers. No promises.”
Alejandra’s neon nails dug deeper into the chain. Her voice came out fierce and fire-hot: “Hija de puta, you think I quit?”
"I think you might."
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January 29
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