Welcome Back to Bucharest

Standing in the hall of the “BodyPort” office in Bucharest, Clark Harper could barely breathe. It had been only fifteen minutes since waking up in the new body, but the feeling was as if he had been dressed in a ridiculously stupid clown costume and forced to go outside. Only Clark would actually have preferred the clown costume to this.

In the mirror before him stood a woman with short blonde hair and a serious look, wearing a tight red off-shoulder dress, black tights, and long earrings. A blush lit her cheekbones, but it wasn’t some girly flirt — it was the nervous trembling breaking through. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was also this round belly, quite noticeable and with its own weight, pressing in with every movement. Even the dress itself seemed tighter in that place. The woman was six months pregnant.

Clark caught himself thinking: ‘…And I, ugh, I mean she, looks kinda okay…’ and immediately cursed himself. Inside came a hysterical whisper: ‘Oh God, Clark! Did you seriously just check out some pregnant slut?!’

He yanked his hands away from his hips, but put them back right after, because it was steadier that way in heels. The dress instantly stretched across the breasts, the soft round shapes swaying with every movement in a strange new way, making it feel like the neckline was about to reveal more than it already did.

And at that exact moment, a dry voice came from behind:

— So… we’re processing a refund? Did I understand you right?

Clark spun around. In the doorway stood the office coordinator, Simona Popescu — a strict brunette in her mid-thirties, dressed in a gray business suit. On her face was the faint irritation of a manager who had explained the return policy for the tenth time already, though this time it wasn’t caused by that.

— Refund? — Clark coughed, but the voice that broke out was high, female, with a slight rasp. He pressed his palm to his throat. — Yeah… I mean no!

Julia raised her eyebrow:

— Mr. Harper, you just said you’d sue us, even though we warned you back in our U.S. office that we didn’t have any bodies matching your requirements here.

— Me?! — Clark took a step forward, then froze, the heel trembling and his belly dragging down unpleasantly. He glanced at it like it was some kind of cruel joke and only gripped the red dress tighter with his fingers. — I didn’t say I’d sue you! I said… shit, I said this is humiliation! Besides, I’ve got a meeting in forty minutes! — He clutched his throat again, not believing this female, slightly smoky voice was flying out of his mouth. — I need to speak, and I look like…

— …You look great. If you were dressed like Carmen Radulescu, who came in here this morning, — Simona lifted her eyes from the tablet and gave Clark-in-the-red-dress a sharp, measuring look. — Then maybe I’d agree with your statement. But we — she put stress on the word — invested good money and our best stylists to turn… what we had to work with, into a presentable woman in such a short time. But it seems you didn’t appreciate the bonus of my guidance.

The girl was clearly showing her dissatisfaction, since she had been the one dealing with all this trouble since early morning, when the request came in from New York for a VIP client. That part Clark didn’t know, nor did he know that instead of recognition for her work, she had now received a reprimand from her bosses for “excessive initiative” after Clark’s outburst. And now Simona was looking at him not as a client, but as a personal problem she wanted to throw out the door.

— I think you shouldn’t be talking like that to someone who has my level in your company — he said, sliding his palms over his hips, — especially to clients of my level.

— Your “level,” Mr. Harper, — Simona Popescu pressed her lips together, — allowed you to get, on short notice, something others could never get no matter how much they wanted it. If someone of a lower level barged into our New York office demanding an immediate “presentable body” for work in Bucharest, without even explaining the purpose, then obviously that person would, at best, get nothing. Not to mention your request was incompatible with the CCA correctors. And yet, we found you an option. Yes, not perfect, but that’s no reason to cause a scene here.

Clark exhaled heavily, feeling how the dress squeezed unpleasantly at the waist under his breasts. He wanted to scream, smash that damn tablet against the wall, but instead he just gripped the round hips with his palms, trying to find at least some balance on the heels.

— As I said, — Simona continued after a short pause, — your reverse transfer has been approved, so if you’re not satisfied with this, everything is ready. You can return to your body right now.

— No, — he finally said. — I need to be at the meeting.

Simona shot him a look as if she wanted to say something, to unload all her anger on him, but stopped. Her eyes narrowed, the corners of her lips twitched slightly, and she gave the faintest smirk:

— Hm. Fine, Mr. Harper, — she cleared her throat, bringing back the cold business tone to her voice. — Then I am obliged to go over the rules with you.

Clark rolled his eyes and tilted his head slightly, like a teenager being scolded at a school meeting.

— First, — Simona stressed each word, — you do not have the right to leave the city while you are in this body. Second: any damage to the body that results in medical expenses will be paid by you personally. Third…

Clark was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed on the smartphone lying on the counter, a thin black rectangle with the “BP Secure” logo. It looked expensive, but once he unlocked it, it turned out to be pathetic inside: the interface looked like something from the 2000s, minimal functions, only calls, email, and the corporate messenger.

— Are you fucking kidding me? — he snorted, tapping on the touchscreen that stubbornly refused to respond to his long red nails. — What the hell is this… brick? I’ve got a meeting in forty minutes, I need my contacts, my apps!

— This is a special phone for VIP clients, — Simona said calmly, though her voice carried a shade of mockery. — Secure, protected, no risk of leaks. All your contacts have been transferred here. All necessary apps for Bucharest are already installed. Everything is per contract for urgent requests.

Simona was looking at him with the same expression a nurse gives to a whining patient. Then her gaze softened, and her lips twitched slightly in a faint smile:

— Although… considering your situation, I could offer you another option, — Simona tried to say it as if she wanted to smooth over her “fault.”

— Option? What option? — Clark squinted, gripping the smooth body of the “brick” with his fingers.

Simona slowly leaned toward the lower drawer of the counter, opened it, and pulled out another smartphone. This time it was a shiny pink device with a rhinestone case. Bright, like a piece of cheap glamour that stood out even in the strict “BodyPort” office.

She placed it on the counter next to the black “BP Secure” and allowed herself the faintest corner-smile.

— Carmen Radulescu’s phone.

Clark instantly recoiled, as if that glossy piece of plastic was radioactive.

— You’re joking, right? Why the hell would I need her phone?

Simona raised an eyebrow slightly and explained in a calm tone:

— Well, that one you can definitely load with all the apps you want, — she said, her eyes sliding mockingly over his long red nails. — It’s just a suggestion, Mr. Harper, I’m not insisting. And technically I’m not supposed to do this, but for you, as a VIP client, I’m willing to look the other way on some rules.

Clark looked at her like she was an idiot.

— Don’t bother, — slipped from his mouth as he turned back to the mirror, — Is the car here already?

— Yes, — Simona replied evenly, stepping closer and slipping a small red patent leather handbag over his shoulder. — They’re already waiting for you at the entrance.

Clark frowned and glanced sideways at the strap sliding across his bare shoulder.

— And what the hell is this?

— Your handbag, — Simona answered calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. — Everything you need is inside. Documents, key card, some cosmetics. And, of course, your “BP Secure.”

Clark frowned even harder, as if doubting all this was really meant for him. But he didn’t ask anything more. He sighed, touched the bag with his fingers, and felt how ridiculously it pressed against his side.

— Wonderful, — he muttered through clenched teeth and walked toward the exit without looking back. But standing still was one thing, walking was another.

The heels wouldn’t obey, every step felt like a risk of falling. Instinctively he grabbed the wall with one hand, the other supporting the belly that dragged downward with every movement. The dress stretched tight across his hips, his breasts swayed softly, and it pissed him off even more.

— Fuck… — he muttered through gritted teeth, — how the hell can anyone even walk in this?

Simona followed him with her eyes, not moving a step toward him, but her lips twisted slightly when Clark snagged a heel on the carpet and almost collapsed right in the doorway.

— Good luck, Miss Radulescu, — she said dryly after him.

Clark jerked his shoulder, as if wanting to snap back, but only waved his hand and stomped out of the hall, his heels clattering loudly.

When the door shut behind him and his figure finally disappeared into the corridor, silence settled over the room. Simona exhaled slowly, as if lifting a weight off her shoulders, then lowered her gaze to the counter.

Where two phones had been moments ago, now lay only one — the black “BP Secure” smartphone.

— God… what an idiot, — she said in a half-whisper, then laughed shortly, dryly, but with obvious pleasure. — Welcome back to Bucharest, Mr. Harper… or rather Carmen, I think your job’s already waiting for you.

She picked up the phone, and the screen lit up. Just a few seconds, and it slipped into “clean mode”: factory reset, empty contact list, new encryption key. Simona clicked the safe shut beneath the counter, slid the black “BP Secure” inside, and locked the code. Her smile widened.

— Well then, as for the real Carmen… — she murmured softly, slowly raising her fingers to her lips, — I’m sure she’ll enjoy being an American and a man.

Simona let out a quiet chuckle. The faint laugh trembled in the air, as if even she didn’t believe what she’d just said. But then it grew stronger, and the faint mockery turned into a short chuckle, then into laughter that could no longer be held back.

Her shoulders trembled, she threw her head back, and the “BodyPort” hall filled with louder and louder echoes. At first it was a dry, sharp laugh, then it became booming, deep, almost theatrical. A laugh that carried not joy, but triumph.

It bounced off the walls, turning the empty office into the set of a villain’s scene, and only after a long, tearing final chord did Simona finally exhale and lick her lips.

On her face played a cold, victorious smile.