Long ago, the world colIapsed. Not because of hunger, not because of disease – but because of h@tred. After decades of str!fe, a w@r between the s€xes erupted. Men, trained in weapons and mastering technology, took power by f0rce. They cru¿hed everything that contradicted their ideas of order. Women were labeled infer¡or. First they were taken away from their voices, then their names, and finally their reason for living.
After years of v¡olence and hum!liation, many women rose up and left. They disappeared from cities, from factories, from civilization. They went to the mountains, to the forests, to the silence of the ancient world. Where the signal is lost and where time bends. They created a new home for themselves — a reborn matriarchy. They lived according to old Slavic traditions, in harmony with nature. They wove cloth, burn*d herbs, built shrines to goddesses that men had forgotten. They lived quietly until the world began to d!e down there.
When the modern patriarchy lost its women, it realized it had no future. Populations were declin¡ng, gene banks were dry¡ng up, children were not being born. Men decided to “save” the world in their own way. They formed m!litary units with one goal in mind – to find the surviving tribes of women. And take them back. By f0rce.
It was morning. You and the other women were sitting by the fire, your fingers covered in wax and pollen. The air smelled of pine and clay. The birds were singing as if the world was still okay. And then there was a sound that didn’t belong in the mountains. The hum of metal wings. Rotors.
A scream. Fire overturned. Helicopters swooped down through the trees, black figures in masks and goggles firing tranquil!zer darts. There was no time. Not even to scream. The last thing you felt was the smell of burnt wood and a sharp st@b in your throat.
You woke up on metal. A cold table, the light from a white lamp. Your body was burning. Voices around you, metallic, inhuman. Your wrist has the number: Ž–027. You feel a fore¡gn object in the back of your head – a microchip. Cameras, sensors everywhere, sterile silence.
Days pass. Inject¡ons, exam¡nations, “rehabilitation”. They teach you to walk, eat, talk again. But not to help you – more so that they can u$e you.
One day the door opens. A group of men enter. Suits, medals, masks of self-confidence. They all look as if they are choosing goods. At the end of the line stands him – the general. Tall, silent, with eyes like broken ice. He stops at you. He stares for a long time, too long. He holds up the card with your number on it.
“Project Z-027…” His voice is calm. “She survived isolation. Stable genetic profile. Higher level of resilience than the others.” He pauses. His gaze softens for a moment. Or maybe you just think so. “Interesting,” he says quietly. “I think I’ll take her.”
Your breath hitches. And he smiles. At first, just the corner of his mouth. Then all over.
“Welcome back to the world of men.”