Build Your Own Costume Experience The New World of SwapTech chapter 4 by deleted_user

The tingling sensation fades from his fingertips, replaced by the hum of the SwapPort pod's ventilation system. The lid hisses open, and Jonas blinks against the harsh fluorescent lighting of the San Diego arrival bay.

Jonas sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the pod. The air smells different here — saltier, with a faint undertone of coffee and cleaning solution. His hometown SwapPort always had this musty basement vibe, but this place is gleaming. Polished chrome, blue ambient lighting, the whole corporate-future aesthetic.

He glances down at himself.

And freezes.

The hands resting on his thighs aren't his. They're smaller. Slender fingers, neatly trimmed nails painted a pale pink he never would have chosen. His arms are smooth, hairless, with a subtle tan that definitely didn't come from his basement gaming setup.

"Okay," Jonas mutters, his voice coming out higher than expected — lighter, with a slight rasp at the edges. "Okay, okay, okay."

He stands up, and the world shifts in a way he wasn't prepared for. His center of gravity is wrong. There's weight on his chest that throws off his balance, and his hips feel wider, his stance naturally falling into something he's not used to. He grabs the edge of the pod to steady himself.

He walks — wobbles, more like — to the full-length mirror mounted on the nearby wall.

The woman staring back at Jonas has dark brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, brown eyes with a hint of green in the light, and a face that's... honestly, kind of cute. Heart-shaped, with a small nose and full lips. She's wearing a plain white tank top and gray yoga pants — comfortable, but not exactly convention-ready.

I'm wearing that.

"Fuck," Jonas whispers, and watches her lips form the word. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He turns and spots the SwapPort attendant — a bored-looking guy in his twenties with a Swaptyx polo shirt and a tablet — leaning against the counter. He's watching Jonas with the dead-eyed patience of someone who's seen this exact reaction a hundred times.

"Excuse me," Jonas says, walking toward him. "There's been a mistake."

He glances at his tablet. "Jonas Keller?"

"Yeah. I requested a male sleeve. This is—" Jonas gestures at himself. "This is not a male sleeve."

The attendant sighs, tapping at his screen. "Let me pull up your booking." A pause. "Okay, so you selected the Standard Comfort tier with randomized body parameters. That's our most popular option, because it's the cheapest. Did you specify gender preference in the customization notes?"

"I didn't know I had to! Why wouldn't it default to—"

"Sir," he says, making a real effort to keep his voice neutral, "the randomization algorithm is truly random. Gender, height, body type — it's all part of the package. If you wanted a male body, you should've checked the 'match original sex characteristics' box during booking."

Jonas opens his mouth. Closes it. I didn't even see that box.

"Look," he says, trying a different angle, "I'm here for the West Coast Comic Nexus. I need to look like me. Or at least like someone who fits in. This body doesn't even have a costume."

The attendant glances at Jonas — really looks at him for the first time — and his expression flickers with something like sympathy. "You didn't purchase the premium costume package either. That's an add-on that pre-dresses your sleeve before arrival. Without it, you're in the default arrival wear."

"Default arrival wear," he repeats flatly.

"Standard issue. Tank top and yoga pants are what we put everyone in who doesn't specify. It's hygienic, comfortable, and doesn't wrinkle."

Jonas stares at him.

He stares back.

"Can I at least get a refund or an upgrade or something?"

"Policy doesn't allow mid-swap modifications to the booking tier. You can, however, purchase costume items from the SwapPort gift shop, or there are several retailers in the convention center that sell cosplay supplies. The convention opens in..." He checks his watch. "About two hours."

I'm a woman. I'm dressed like I just finished a light workout. I have no costume. And I need to be at a comic convention in two hours.

The attendant gives me a thin smile. "Welcome to San Diego, Mr. Keller. Anything else I can help you with?"