Elderly Friends The New World of SwapTech chapter 3 by deleted_user

The common room at Willow Creek Retirement Home smelled like instant coffee, menthol cough drops, and the faint floral ghost of whatever air freshener the staff sprayed to pretend the place didn't reek of age and boiled vegetables. It was 3:45 PM on a Tuesday in late January, prime "programs" time, and the usual suspects had claimed their territories.

Harold "Hal" Jenkins, 82, sat dead center in the La-Z-Boy recliner he'd fought for tooth and nail six years ago, remote already clutched like a scepter. His thick glasses magnified his eyes into watery blue saucers. Beside him, on the sagging couch, sat Marjorie "Marge" Whitaker, 79, legs crossed at the ankles, purse perched on her lap like a guard dog. She'd outlived two husbands and still wore her wedding rings—both sets—like brass knuckles. On the other end, dozing lightly with his chin on his chest, was Victor "Vic" Russo, 85, who claimed he'd once dated a starlet in the '50s but could never produce evidence beyond a faded headshot he kept in his wallet.

They were watching their usual afternoon lineup on the ancient flat-screen the home had finally upgraded to in 2023. Right now it was The Young and the Restless, the one show they all agreed on because it had been running longer than most of their marriages. Today, Victor Newman was snarling at someone about corporate espionage while Nikki sipped something expensive and looked tragic.

Hal grunted. "That Victor's still got it. Eighty if he's a day, and he's bedding half of Genoa City."

Marge rolled her eyes. "He's a fictional billionaire, Hal. In real life you'd be lucky to get a kiss from the activities director without denture adhesive."

Vic snorted awake. "Speak for yourself. I still got moves."

That's when the new orderly—some kid named Tyler who was maybe 22 and smelled like Axe body spray—walked in carrying a small cardboard box labeled "DONATED ELECTRONICS – HANDLE WITH CARE." He set it on the side table next to the ancient DVD player nobody used anymore.

"Found this in the storage closet," Tyler said cheerfully. "Looks like some fancy universal remote. Figured one of you might want it instead of the janky one we've got."

Hal's hand shot out faster than anyone expected from a man with two replaced hips. He snatched the remote before Marge could protest. It was sleek, matte black, heavier than it looked, with only a few buttons: a big red one in the center labeled ACTIVATE, a smaller silver RETURN, and an EMERGENCY button under a flip-up cover. No brand name, just three small letters etched on the back: TVT.

"Looks expensive," Vic muttered, leaning forward. "Probably belongs to one of the rich families who dump their parents here and forget 'em."

Hal ignored him, pointing it experimentally at the TV. Nothing happened. Then he noticed the screen—Victor Newman was now in a heated argument with his son, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show silver chest hair and a glimpse of tanned skin that had no business looking that good on a man pushing 80 in-universe.

On impulse, Hal aimed the remote directly at Victor Newman and pressed the big red button.

A soft whump of displaced air. The room went quiet except for the low hum of the television.

Hal's body slumped in the recliner, eyes open but vacant, like a doll with the batteries pulled.

Marge screamed first—short, sharp, more annoyed than terrified. Vic lurched to his feet, cane clattering.

But Hal wasn't dead. Inside the television, Harold Jenkins blinked, and suddenly he was staring out from Victor Newman's eyes.

The world sharpened into hyper-reality. He felt the crisp linen of an Armani shirt against skin that was smooth, firm, powerful. No arthritis. No hip pain. No goddamn prostate the size of a grapefruit. Instead, there was heat—vital, insistent heat—in places he'd forgotten could feel anything at all. His hands (Victor's hands) were large, manicured, strong enough to crush a rival's windpipe or caress a lover into submission.

He looked down. Broad chest. Flat stomach. And lower... Jesus Christ. The bulge in the tailored trousers was obscene, straining against silk boxers like it had a mind of its own. Hal/Victor swallowed, and the voice that came out was deep, commanding, accustomed to being obeyed.

Nikki Newman—sleek, still stunning in middle age—turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Victor? You look... different."

Hal felt a rush of something primal flood his borrowed body. Lust, yes, but also power. Control. The kind he'd lost decades ago when retirement checks replaced paychecks and nurses started calling him "sweetie."

He stepped forward—Victor's legs moved like they were twenty-five again—and cupped Nikki's face with one hand. Her skin was warm silk under his palm. She didn't pull away.

Inside the common room, Marge was shaking Hal's shoulder. "Hal? Hal, wake up, you old fool!"

Vic stared at the screen, mouth open. "Holy hell. Look at him. He's... he's in there."

On screen, Victor/Hal leaned in and kissed Nikki with a hunger that made the daytime camera cut away just in time. But not before the audience—and the three retirees—saw the unmistakable outline of arousal pressing against her thigh.

Marge's cheeks flushed crimson. "Well," she said faintly, "that's one way to spice up the program."

Vic grabbed the remote from Hal's limp fingers. "We gotta get him back. Or... maybe we don't. Maybe we take turns."

The silver RETURN button glinted under the fluorescent lights.

Hal, inside Victor Newman's body, felt Nikki's hand slide lower, teasing the zipper.

He had never felt more alive.