Expect male-to-female gender transformation, a loose depiction of a loli character (who is clearly over 18), mild BDSM, sapphic sex, domination, and non-consensual sex.
Parker curses as the doorbell rings the second time. He's knee-deep a campaign with his party. They're on level 27 in the alien infested catacombs of Rhiumus VII, and the boss is about to pop up at any moment.
"What's that?" Captain Artimus asks, in his reedy pubescent voice.
"Someone's at the door," Parker tells him through his headset. "Screw 'em."
Gunther Pox says, "Stay on mission!"
Parker jerks his plasma rifle up with new alertness and spins around one of the ubiquitous corners to another empty tunnel. They haven't encountered an enemy in at least five minutes. Too long. There's bound to be action soon.
The annoying three tone chime goes off again.
Impatient bastard! he screams in his head, gripping the controller tighter.
Parker looks to his bedroom window to see who might be at the door. But even though it faces the front of the house, the angle is wrong. He stands and takes a step toward it. Then, another.
All of a sudden, his teammates all start screaming and the music and sound effects blare. He pulls his eyes to the screen to see the giant alien roach sweeping in and wiping out the entire party. The words, "Mission Failed!" appear on the screen. His friends—if he can call the random assortment of teens and lonely bachelors he's met online friends—begin chewing him out since he'd been the on point and failed to warn them or even take a single shot at the boss.
Instead of listening to their abuse, he tells them he has to go and logs off.
Ready to pass the anger and frustration on to whoever is out there leaning on the doorbell at four o-clock on a Thursday, he charges to the door and opens it violently.
No one is there. No cars move on the street. Sitting on the doormat, obscuring the word "Welcome" is a brown Amazon box.
Parker hasn't ordered anything, so it must be for one of his parents. He grabs it roughly and tosses it on the coffee table, before heading into the kitchen for a soda.
Parker Paradis is twenty-five-years-old and a dreamer. In his relatively short life he's fantasized of many careers and adventurous but never had the ambition to follow them up. Although, maybe ambition isn't the only problem. Lack of self-confidence certainly has played a role. This is why he never went to college. Why his only job is driving for Uber in his mom's car after she gets home from work. Why he spends most of his time lost in digitized fantasy worlds. Failure to him is palpable. And his mind tells him if he tries, he will fail. So, why try?
This has been his secret motto for years now.
Today that all changes.
He plops down on the sofa, and a splash of cola escapes the can and adds another stain to his sweatpants. Parker sighs and rubs at it hoping the friction will dry it a little. It doesn't. It just makes his hand sticky.
Parker sighs again, sits back and takes a swig.
The box sits next to where he's propped his feet up. The address label faces him. He was wrong. This package is for him.
Wracking his brain to figure out what he ordered and forgot about, he tears it open.
Nestled among some inflated plastic bags that protect it is a plain plastic box. It's glossy black and about eight inches square and two inches thick. It's surprisingly heavy. Over fifteen pound, no question. On one side near the top are red glowing letters that suggest it possesses electricity. They say: "What if..." There doesn't appear to be any way to open it, and there are no connectors for USB, HDMI, or even a charger.
On the back side in much smaller but still legible inked font, it says:
You hold in your hands the Miraculous What If Machine. It has the ability to transport you to any of the infinite universes in the multiverse. Think about it. Every choice you have ever made has spawned a new reality. Every choice EVERYONE has EVER made formed an individual separate reality, creating an unfathomable number of possibilities. Every conceivable and many inconceivable permutations of your life exists somewhere out there. Perhaps in one of these exists a life where you are happy. To go there all you have to do is ask: what if...?
What the fuck?
It had to be some kind of joke. Perhaps it was some gag item, like a Magic 8 Ball. You type in some bullshit what if statement, and it spits out a random message or story.
Parker hasn't ordered this junk. Did someone send it to him? There was no packing receipt to check for a name.
Joke or not. There is nothing to be done with it. It has no buttons. No switches. No way to plug something in and interface with it. It's a paperweight.
He should just chuck it in the garbage. Yet...
What would he choose if he could be in any reality? Certainly not this. He stares down at his crummy clothes and the slight paunch forming on his midriff (only twenty-five and already developing a dad bod), then at the room around him, belonging to the house he grew up in.
If he were to pick a different life he'd have to be rich. But money is a trap. He's seen plenty of movies and read lots of stories about people wishing for money. The problem is where the money comes from. If you ask for wealth, then someone you care about dies and leaves you a huge insurance settlement. Or you end up with a suitcase of mob money and hitman on your tail. Or you earn the money through some horrible or distasteful means.
No. In situations like this, you had to be extremely careful what you ask for and how you ask for it.
Parker shakes his head and laughs at himself. For a second, he'd started thinking this dumb thing was real.
He picks up the device. His hand droops from the weight. He still can't believe it's as heavy as it is.
He says to it, "You're not real, are you? You're a stupid piece of plastic from a factory on the other side of the world? There's no point in asking what if because I know this is—"
Parker suddenly drops the machine, pulling his hand back as though bitten. It slams to the floor with a thud.
Words had appeared beneath the "What if..." As he spoke, "Because I know this is," typed out by themselves in red glowing letters. But that wasn't what really startled him. It had been the humming in his hand that freaked him out. It had felt like a massive current of electricity was surging just beneath the plastic shell.
What the fuck?
He gets up and paces.
"Okay," he says to himself. "So, it does something. It reacts to voice. It still doesn't make it real. Yet..."
What if it can take him to a reality where he is happy? Or at least has something to show for his life? Perhaps it is worth a try. What's the worst that can happen? It prints out some dumb message, making him feel foolish. Parker has had lots of practice feeling foolish.
Picking it up and sitting it back on the coffee table, he notices that the words he'd spoken are gone.
A time limit perhaps?
"Okay. How am I going to do this. I want to be wealthy. And I get my riches how? Fame! No, too vague. That's the same problem as money. I ask to be famous, and I end up a mass-murdering dictator or the lone survivor of a disaster that kills everyone in my town. No, how am I famous!"
He thinks back through all of his old dreams. All the things he once wanted to be. Then he remembers the electric guitar gathering dust in his closet. The one he'd taken lessens for from age fifteen to sixteen. He'd desperately wanted to be a rock star for a whole ten months.
A rock star.
That is perfect!
Rock stars can make lots of money. They have fabulous lifestyles. They get tons of girls. And they are cool!
Quickly, as though not wanting to second guess himself, he leans toward the machine and says, "What if I was a rich and famous rock star."
Come on, he prays, just like Jagger
Nothing happens.
Did it break?
God damn it! The fall broke the stupid thing.
Parker picks it up to look for cracks–anything that might prove or disprove his theory. It's pristine. There aren't even fingerprints.
"What's wrong with you What If Machine," He whispers. And his heart leaps as the hum returns and the word "Machine" appears on the front of the device.
He places it down on the soft (non-damaging) sofa cushion and takes a step back. The words clear.
"Okay. So, I need to be touching it. Cool!" He let's out a long breath. "Am I sure about this?"
Being a rock star with legions of adoring fans and groupies sounds amazing. Especially, without having to learn the guitar or get turned down by hundreds of managers, club owners, and record producers first. He won't have to become famous, he'll just be famous.
Besides. The machine will probably just spit out some fortune-cookie saying or play a stupid tune. There is no way it could actually work. Yet...
Picking it up gingerly as though it might explode, he very slowly starts to say, "What if I was a famous rock star playing to sold-out stadiums and I had more money than I could ever spend and I had my pick of beautiful groupies anytime I wanted."
As he speaks the hum builds until it is a full blown vibrations making his hands and arms tingle. Everything he says is written out on the front in the same red glowing letters as "What if...". Below it, an image emerges. Parker can't make sense of it. He gets the impression of pages in a billion page book being flipped but also stars and swirling galaxies. Some kind of code appears at the bottom. For a split second, "A72" appears before it changes so quickly to another code and another it becomes a blur.
The rapidly flipping pages/galaxies stop. The code settles on "TI216." New words appear at the very bottom: "Parameters matched."
Then: "Transporting..."
The tingling in Parker's arms become a jolt. The world he's in melts around him. A dizziness unlike anything he has ever known fills his head and turns his stomach. Suddenly, there's light so bright it blinds him. He's no longer sitting but standing on wobbly legs. His new surroundings spin around him.
He only sees snippets. A cloudless blue sky. The sun hanging in it blazing in his face. A terracotta tile floor. A potted palm plant. A railing.
A railing!
He lurches out and grabs hold of it, managing to crash into the iron barrier with his whole body.
His head and shoulders bend over it and he stares straight down. The distance between him and the ground is impossible. He's floating hundreds of feet off the ground. No, he's just high up on a balcony. And he's about to vomit on the tiny cars traveling street below.
Parker clasps his eyes shut and tries taking deep breaths. The warm dry air gently caresses his face. His head rests on his arm that's covered in soft fluffy fabric. Terry towel. A robe.
He's on a balcony, in a bath robe. A sudden flash of terror and excitement washes over him, making him momentarily forget his nausea.
It worked! The stupid thing actually worked!
But were is he? And who is the new Parker Paradis?
A feminine sing-song voice calls out from behind him, "Pammy! Pammy! Rest time is over. Time to get ready!"
Huh?
Tentatively, Parker opens his eyes.
The tower he's in takes shape and plummets down at least forty stories to a street lined with palm trees. Something interferes with the view however, and it's a moment before he realizes it's hair. Long—extremely long—hair caught in the breeze and covering his face in tendrils. And not just hair, bubblegum pink hair.
"What the fuck!" he says, in a super high-pitched squeaky voice.
"I said." The woman is now right behind him. She claps twice to get his attention. "Everyone is waiting. We're behind schedule. And we all know how long it takes to get your hair and makeup done. So, shake that butt, Pamala!"
we've been thinking for a while, wondering what happens to the people who're originally in those alternative universes when the protag gets transported into them. then we realized with an infinite number of possibilities, the easiest answer is that the moment the what if machine transports them the destination reality forks into 2, with the original person carrying on with their life & the transported person in the identical forked version. the 2 versions diverge from there cos the transported person makes different choices etc. this is now our headcanon. ^^
That works! I don't like the idea of their consciousnesses being swapped. In most of the cases, the people leading the "new" lives are doing a much better job of it, so it would be very fair to dump them into the other existence when they didn't ask for it. Your solution is logical and solves the problem!