Swapocalypse The Remote of Transformation chapter 9 by deleted_user

“Enough!” Paul squeaked in his mousy, average-girl voice. “I’m fixing this right now!”

He pointed the remote wildly at the crowd, trying desperately to think reverse everything, put everyone back, no more changes.

But Paul was panicking. His mind was a whirlwind of oh god too many tits, Vince is a porn star, I have a pussy, make it stop, everyone back to normal, swap us back, just fix the mall—

The remote flared bright white. A low, ominous thrum rolled through the entire mall like a bass drop from hell.

Then reality hiccuped.

Every single person in the building—shoppers, employees, security guards, the crying toddler by the pretzel stand, the elderly couple on the bench, the group of sorority girls, the maintenance guy, the barista—flashed and blurred.

Bodies swapped indiscriminately. Minds slammed into new flesh. Clothes resized or stayed the same depending on how cruel the remote felt in that moment.

Paul’s vision whited out.

He came to with a jolt, blinking up at the bright lights of the second-floor atrium near the escalators. His new body felt… wrong. Tall. Muscular. Broad shoulders. A thick beard scratched his chin. He looked down.

Massive, veiny hands. Construction boots. A tight safety vest stretched over a hairy, barrel-chested torso. A heavy tool belt hung low around his waist, and between his legs swung a very obvious, very male bulge in work jeans.

Paul was now in the body of a burly, mid-30s construction worker—6’2”, built like a linebacker, with calloused hands and a deep, rumbling voice he hadn’t even tested yet.

“What the—?!” It came out as a booming baritone that made a nearby woman (who used to be someone else) jump.

Chaos erupted everywhere.

People were screaming, grabbing at their new bodies, running in circles. A 250-pound bearded biker dude stared at his meaty hands in horror. An elderly grandmother in a floral dress clutched her sagging breasts and wailing. The frumpy thirty-something woman Paul had zapped earlier was screaming about her missing curves. A middle-aged male security guard frantically patting down his flat chest. A busty trophy wife in heels tottered unsteadily, looking completely confused.

“Vince! Brandon!” Paul bellowed in his new deep voice. It echoed across the atrium. He started pushing through the crowd, tool belt clanking. “Guys! Where the fuck are you?!”

A curvy blonde in a tight dress grabbed Paul’s muscular arm. “Dude, I’m in my hot boss’s wife’s body! This is insane!”

Paul shook her off, heart hammering in his broad chest. His nerdy brain was screaming this is my fault, I made it worse, find the remote, find my friends—

He spotted a flash of platinum blonde hair near the escalator—Vince’s original Farrah Fuxx body—but the person inside it was moving all wrong: stiff, confused, arms crossed protectively over the massive tits like they didn’t belong.

That wasn’t Vince’s horny swagger.

Farther away, a plain mousy brunette woman (Brandon’s last body) was gesturing wildly with theatrical flair, arguing with a confused security guard in a high, flamboyant voice that definitely didn’t match the boring exterior.

Paul pushed forward, construction boots thudding heavily.

“Vince?! Brandon?! It’s me—Paul! I’m the big construction dude! We gotta find the remote before—” But the woman looked at him with a glazed expression; it wasn't Brandon.

The mall was pure pandemonium. People swapping clothes, groping themselves, crying, laughing hysterically, or just standing frozen while they processed their new genitals and heights and weights. Someone near the fountain was already trying to take a selfie in their new body.

Paul’s new masculine hands clenched into fists. He had to locate his roommates in this sea of swapped souls before things got even worse.