Call SwapPort customer support The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

Jonas stepped out of the SwapPort facility and immediately started pacing the sidewalk, his bare feet slapping against the warm concrete.

This is bullshit.

He was a woman. A woman. In yoga pants. With no costume and no way to fix this without paying more money he didn't want to spend.

He found a bench near the entrance and sat down hard, feeling the unfamiliar give of his new body as he landed. His thighs pressed together differently. His hips settled into the bench at a new angle. He crossed his arms, felt his breasts shift, and uncrossed them immediately.

Focus.

He pulled out his phone — at least he'd grabbed that from the locker before storming out — and dialed the SwapPort customer support number. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. A cheerful automated voice greeted him.

"Thank you for calling Swaptyx Customer Care. Your satisfaction is our priority. Please listen carefully to the following menu options—"

Jonas pressed zero. Repeatedly.

The phone clicked. "All of our representatives are currently assisting other callers. Your estimated wait time is... seventeen minutes."

"Are you kidding me?"

He stood up, started pacing again. The phone pressed to his ear, he walked in a tight circle, muttering to himself. A woman walking her dog gave him a curious look, and he shot her a glare that probably looked a lot less intimidating coming from a cute brunette in a tank top.

Seventeen minutes. He had seventeen minutes to cool off, and he wasn't going to cool off. He was going to get hotter.

A group of cosplayers walked past — a tall guy in full Mandalorian armor and two women dressed as Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. They were laughing, taking photos, having the time of their lives. Jonas watched them go, feeling a bitter twist in his stomach.

That was supposed to be me. I was supposed to be at the con right now, not stuck on hold with some customer service drone.

The automated voice cut in. "Your estimated wait time is now... fourteen minutes."

"Fantastic," Jonas muttered. He stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in a nearby storefront window. The woman staring back at him looked frustrated, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her hair was slightly mussed from the breeze.

I'm stuck like this. And I don't even have a costume.

He thought about calling his friend Marcus. About admitting what happened. About hearing the laughter on the other end of the line.

No. I'm fixing this myself.

The phone clicked. A voice — human, tired — came on the line. "Thank you for holding. This is Carlos. How can I help you today?"

Jonas drew a deep breath. "Yeah, hi. I need to talk to someone about a booking error. I specifically requested a male sleeve and I got a female one, and I was not made aware of any—"

"Sir, let me pull up your account. Can I get your confirmation number?"

Jonas rattled it off from memory.

A pause. Typing.

"Okay, Mr. Keller. I see your booking. You selected Standard Comfort with randomized body parameters. I'm showing no recorded gender preference on your account."

"Because I didn't know I had to specify! It's a default. Why would the default be to potentially change my gender?"

"Sir, the system is designed to offer true randomization. Many of our customers enjoy the element of surprise. If you wanted to guarantee a male body, you should have selected the 'match original sex characteristics' option during booking."

"I didn't see that option."

"It's on page three of the customization screen, under 'Body Preferences.'"

Jonas closed his eyes. Counted to five. "Okay. Is there anything you can do to help me now? A free upgrade? A partial refund? A way to get back into the pod and try again?"

"Unfortunately, policy does not allow mid-booking modifications. Once a sleeve is inhabited, any changes would require a new booking and a new fee."

"A new fee. You want me to pay again."

"I understand your frustration, sir. I can note your account for a courtesy credit on your next booking, if that helps."

Jonas opened his mouth to argue — to really let this Carlos have it — but the words died in his throat. What was the point? He was stuck. He was a woman. He had a convention to get to.

"Fine," he said, the word tasting like ash. "Fine. Put the credit on my account."

"Thank you, Mr. Keller. Is there anything else I can—"

Jonas hung up.

He stood there, phone in hand, woman's body, no costume, two hours until the convention opened. The breeze played with his hair, and he tucked a strand behind his ear — a gesture that felt foreign and natural all at once.

"Okay," he said to no one. "I need a plan."