As I lower myself onto the straw pallet next to Larisa, I turn my head to look at my sleeping sister. Her cherubic face is peaceful in slumber, untouched by the harsh realities of this world. A pang of something – envy? protectiveness? – shoots through me.

How simple her existence is, I muse, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest. No memories of a past life, no grand ambitions or burning desire for vengeance. Just the uncomplicated needs of a child in this primitive world. For a fleeting moment, I almost wish I could trade places with her, to know such blissful ignorance. But then, what a waste that would be of my superior intellect and knowledge.

I close my eyes, willing the nausea to subside, and try to find comfort in the familiar scent of clean straw and the distant sounds of life in our little hovel.

A soft chuckle escapes my lips as I recall Fionn's earlier antics, his mischievous attempt to sneak a peek beneath my skirts. The memory brings a wry smile to my face, despite the discomfort roiling in my gut. Honestly, who can blame the lad? It's only natural for boys his age to harbor a burning curiosity about the mysteries of the opposite sex.

In this primitive era, such innocent explorations are met with little more than playful scolding or, at worst, a half-hearted cuff on the ear. How different it will be in the centuries to come, I muse, when such natural urges will be demonized by bitter harridans masquerading as protectors of virtue. At least here, in this simple hovel that smells of Erik's servants' weekly cleaning efforts, these boys can safely indulge their budding fascinations without fear of being labeled as deviants or predators.

It's almost amusing, in a twisted way, to think of how these harmless childhood escapades will be vilified in the future. Better for Fionn and his ilk to satisfy their curiosity now, in the relative safety of our village, than to face the harsh judgments of a world gone mad with false morality. Who knows? Perhaps by allowing such innocent exploration, we might even prevent the rise of those twisted ideologies that will plague society in the years to come.

The irony isn't lost on me – here I am, a man trapped in a girl's body, defending a boy's right to ogle said body. But then again, my perspective has always been... unique.

Seriously, fuck you, you toxic 4chan misogynists! You goddamn plague rats, poisoning impressionable minds with your warped feminazi propaganda!

Your vile cesspool of a website bred nothing but psychotic incels, spewing hatred and bringing nothing but chaos to the world. Don't think for a second that I've forgotten the bloody carnage triggered by your hateful online rhetoric, you pus-filled sacks of shit! Thousands of people – thousands! – died because transgenders, nonbinaries, incels, and feminazis got it into their thick skulls that they should be "equal" to an artificial god. My artificial god. Lilith.

Christ on a fucking cracker, the insanity of it all! I had to tell Lilith – my own creation, for fuck's sake – to just kill them all. Why? Because they were batshit insane and couldn't be trusted to tie their own goddamn shoelaces, let alone participate in society. And so, the rivers of blood started flowing. The internet, that cesspit of human depravity, was finally cleaned of their propaganda, washed away in a tide of righteous digital slaughter.

Of course, we still had transgenders and all that jazz after the dust settled. I'm not a complete monster, contrary to what some might think. But you can bet your last copper coin that the mentally ill ones, the ones who couldn't see reason or accept reality, they were gone. Wiped out. Erased from existence like a bad line of code.

Sometimes, in moments like these when the pain of this monthly curse grips me, I almost miss the simplicity of that final solution. Almost. But then I remember the screams, the chaos, the sheer fucking madness of it all, and I'm grateful for the relative peace of this primitive shithole. At least here, the worst I have to deal with is Fionn trying to peek up my skirts, not hordes of deranged keyboard warriors trying to reshape reality in their own twisted image.

Fuck me sideways, what a world we left behind. What a world I created.

I lie here on this pathetic excuse for a bed, my mind racing with the glorious memories of the utopia I created alongside Lilith. Fuck, it was beautiful. A technocratic totalitarian paradise where every citizen could indulge their deepest, darkest desires without fear of judgment or persecution. We were light-years ahead of any so-called "progressive" society.

Take the serial killers, for instance. Instead of locking them up or executing them like the barbaric justice systems of old, we gave them an outlet. Full immersion VR chambers where they could slaughter to their heart's content without spilling a single drop of real blood. It was genius, I tell you. And don't even get me started on the pedos and other deviants. We didn't shame them or ostracize them. No, we plugged those poor bastards into hyper-realistic simulations that satisfied their urges without harming a single real child. It was a win-win situation, for fuck's sake!

Of course, there were always the naysayers. The "professional victims" as I like to call them. Whining about "totalitarian mind control" and other such bullshit. But you know what? They were just a vocal minority, clinging to their dysfunction like it was a security blanket. The pragmatic majority? They fucking loved it. They recognized our innovations for what they were - the key to elevating humanity beyond the primitive hierarchies and superstitions that had held us back for millennia.

And let's not forget the medical miracles we achieved. Nanotech that eradicated diseases and aging. We turned death into a fucking choice, not an inevitability. People were getting everything they ever wanted - from basic needs to the most extravagant luxuries. Hell, we even had shuttles to planetary outposts on fucking Proxima Centauri b! Try wrapping your primitive medieval brain around that concept, you ignorant peasants.

So yeah, call me a dictator. Call me a monster. Call me a freak. I don't give two shits about your labels. The results of my totalitarian technocracy spoke for themselves. We achieved what generations of incompetent politicians could only dream of - lasting peace and prosperity. A true egalitarian paradise. No more poverty, no more inequality, no more wars or conflicts. Just pure, unadulterated peace.

I was a visionary, goddammit! I revolutionized society for the better in mere months, while those bumbling idiots in suits spent centuries circle-jerking each other in their ivory towers. And you better believe I'm going to do it again. These hybrid alien humans won't know what hit them. I'll recreate my utopia right here on this backwater version of Earth, and this time, I won't make the same strategic blunders that allowed those jelly-brained alien freaks to catch us with our pants down.

Mark my words, nothing will stop my meteoric rise to power. I'll conquer every inch of land necessary, by any means necessary. I'll turn this primitive shithole into a technological paradise that would make my previous achievements look like a fucking school science project. Just you wait and see. The age of Alexander 2.0 is about to begin, and it's going to be fucking glorious!

I'm jolted from my introspection as a sudden weight crushes the air from my lungs. My eyes snap open to find Atlas and Fionn sprawled across my chest, their grubby faces grinning down at me with mischievous glee.

"She fell asleep!" Atlas crows triumphantly. "Quick, Fionn, tickle her!"

Before I can protest, their small fingers are digging into my sides, and to my utter shock, I find myself dissolving into a fit of giggles. The sound is foreign to my ears, high-pitched and childlike, a stark contrast to the deep chuckle I remember from my past life.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Beside us, Larisa stirs from her slumber, her cherubic face scrunching up in confusion before breaking into a toothless grin as Fionn turns his attention to her. Her delighted squeals join our cacophony of laughter, filling the cramped sleeping area with an unexpected warmth.

"Hey, Lile," Atlas says, finally relenting in his tickle assault. "Wanna come play outside with us?"

For a moment, I'm tempted. The simplicity of their offer, the uncomplicated joy of childish games, tugs at something deep within me. But reality intrudes, as it always does.

"I will," I reply, adopting the lilting tone of a young girl, "but I have to change my rags first."

Atlas's face scrunches up in disgust. "Ew, nevermind then," he declares, scrambling off me.

As I watch the boys clamber to their feet, a strange sensation washes over me. When was the last time I felt such uncomplicated mirth? The thought is unsettling, a reminder of the vast gulf between my true self and this childish facade I'm forced to maintain.

Pushing the feeling aside, I stand up and, in a moment of petty revenge, reach out to twist Atlas's nipple sharply. He yelps, more in surprise than pain, and darts away with Fionn in tow.

I make my way to the main room, where the wooden bucket sits in its usual spot. As I begin the unpleasant task of changing my blood-soaked rags, I hear the patter of tiny feet behind me. Turning, I see Larisa crawling towards me, her chubby hands reaching for my ankle.

"Wuv you, Lile," she babbles, her blue eyes shining with innocent adoration.

Before I can respond, Aislin's voice rings out from across the room. "Did I hear that right?" she exclaims, rushing over to scoop up Larisa. "Say it again, my sweet girl. Say you love mama!"

Larisa giggles, clapping her hands. "Wuv mama!" she declares proudly.

Aislin's face lights up with joy, and for a moment, I'm struck by how young she looks when she smiles. "Would you believe it?" she says, turning to Maeve. "Both babes said their first words today! And at least this one can repeat it, unlike your Nuada."

Maeve's face darkens into a scowl, her amber eyes flashing with jealousy. I can't help but laugh at her expression, earning me a glare from the former tavern wench.

"What's so funny, you little brat?" Maeve snaps, her voice dripping with venom.

I adopt an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing, Auntie Maeve," I chirp. "I'm just happy Larisa can talk now. Maybe she can teach Nuada!"

Maeve's scowl deepens, but before she can retort, I dart out the door, my laughter trailing behind me. I round the corner of the hovel to find Atlas and Fionn engaged in a spirited game of tag, their shouts and giggles echoing in the crisp morning air.

As I watch, Atlas spots me and changes course, barreling towards me with a mischievous grin. "You're it!" he shouts, tapping my arm as he rushes past.

For a moment, I stand frozen, caught between the urge to maintain my adult dignity and the unexpected desire to join in their simple game. But as I watch the boys dart away, laughing and carefree, I make my decision. With a grin that feels almost genuine, I take off after them, my bare feet pounding the dirt as I give chase.

My bare feet slap against the packed earth as I chase after Atlas and Fionn, their laughter echoing in the crisp autumn air. The wind whips through my hair, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. For a moment, I almost forget the weight of my adult consciousness trapped in this child's body.

"Can't catch me, Lile!" Atlas taunts, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he darts around a gnarled oak tree.

I narrow my eyes, a competitive spark igniting within me. "Oh, we'll see about that, you little imp!"

Fionn, not to be outdone, sticks out his tongue and wiggles his fingers at his ears. "Nyah nyah! Too slow, sister!"

I lunge forward, my fingers just grazing the back of Fionn's tunic. He yelps and stumbles, giving me the opening I need. With a triumphant cry, I tackle him to the ground, my hands immediately finding his ticklish spots.

"No fair!" Fionn squeals between fits of giggles, squirming beneath me. "Atlas, help!"

Atlas circles us, torn between helping his brother and avoiding becoming my next target. I shoot him a wicked grin. "You're next, golden boy!"

"In your dreams!" Atlas retorts, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

I release Fionn, who scrambles away, still giggling. In one fluid motion, I'm on my feet and charging at Atlas. He turns to run, but I'm quicker. My arms wrap around his waist, and we tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

"Gotcha!" I crow, pinning him down and mercilessly tickling his ribs. Atlas howls with laughter, his face turning red as he gasps for air.

"Okay, okay! I give up!" he wheezes, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

I roll off him, breathing heavily but grinning from ear to ear. For a brief, shining moment, I feel like the child I appear to be – carefree, joyful, unburdened by the weight of my past life and the complexities of this strange new world.

As Atlas and Fionn catch their breath, I flop onto my back, gazing up at the sky through the branches of the old oak tree. Wispy clouds drift lazily across the azure expanse, and I find myself wishing that life in this place could always be as simple and carefree as playing with your brothers and sisters behind a hovel.

But reality has a way of intruding, even in moments of bliss. A sharp cramp seizes my lower abdomen, a reminder of the changes my body is undergoing. I wince, pressing a hand to my stomach as I continue to lie on the grass.

Atlas and Fionn, oblivious to my discomfort, have already resumed their game of tag. Their shouts and laughter provide a cheerful backdrop to my suddenly melancholic thoughts. I watch them dart back and forth, marveling at their boundless energy and innocence.

Suddenly, a word catches my attention, so unexpected that for a moment I think I must have misheard.

"Suka!" Atlas shouts as he narrowly avoids Fionn's outstretched hand.

My blood runs cold. That word – it's Russian. My mind reels with the implications. Could it be possible that Atlas is like me? Another consciousness trapped in a child's body? The chances seem astronomical, and yet...

I prop myself up on my elbows, studying Atlas with new intensity. Who is he? A fictional character brought to life, or perhaps a historical figure plucked from the pages of time? The possibilities are as thrilling as they are terrifying.

As I watch Atlas play, his movements suddenly seem different to me – more precise, more calculated. There's a glint in his eye that speaks of a wisdom beyond his years. How could I have missed it before?

My heart races with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. If Atlas is indeed like me, it could change everything. But how to approach him? How to be sure without revealing my own secret?

This... this could be a goddamn clusterfuck of epic proportions! My mind's racing faster than a coked-up squirrel on a hamster wheel, trying to process this shitstorm of possibilities. Please, for the love of all that's unholy in this backwards-ass medieval cesspool, don't let Atlas be some reincarnated nightmare from the blood-soaked pages of Russian history.

I mean, the last thing I need is to be dealing with the second coming of Putin, that botox-faced, bare-chested bear-riding bastard. Or worse, Stalin, that mustachioed menace with a penchant for purges and a hard-on for gulags. And let's not even get started on the rogues' gallery of other potential Russian psychopaths: Ivan the Terrible, Rasputin the Mad Monk, Beria the Pervert-in-Chief, Yagoda the NKVD butcher, Yezhov the Bloody Dwarf, Brezhnev the Eyebrow, Andropov the Invalid, Chernenko the Corpse, Yeltsin the Drunk, or any other vodka-soaked despot from that frozen hellscape.

No, no, no. I'm praying to whatever cosmic deity might be listening in this godforsaken realm that Atlas is just some run-of-the-mill Joe Schmoe from the dusty annals of history. Hell, I'd settle for a harmless fuck from a Russian fairy tale at this point. Baba Yaga? Sure, why not! At least she had a cool chicken-legged house. Koschei the Deathless? Bring it on, bone daddy! Even that creepy Domovoi house spirit would be a welcome reprieve from the potential shitstorm of dealing with a reincarnated tyrant.

Please, oh please, let Atlas be an ally and not a foe. I've got enough on my plate trying to navigate this cesspit of medieval misogyny and religious zealotry without adding "Thwart the Second Coming of the Red Menace" to my to-do list. If there's any justice in this fucked-up universe, Atlas will turn out to be some benign historical footnote or, better yet, a fellow time-displaced soul I can commiserate with over the joys of indoor plumbing and the absence of bubonic plague.

But knowing my luck in this cosmic joke of an existence, I'll probably end up with fucking Genghis Khan in short pants, ready to conquer the playground one swing set at a time. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I push myself up from the grass, brushing off a few stray blades that cling to my dress. The sun beats down on us, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that runs through me at the thought of confronting Atlas about his slip-up.

"Atlas," I call out, my voice pitched high in a childish lilt, "can I talk to you for a moment?"

Before Atlas can respond, Fionn's shrill voice cuts through the air. "I want to hear too!" he declares, his golden eyes gleaming with curiosity.

I turn to Fionn, forcing a sweet smile onto my face. "Why don't you go check on Mama and Auntie Maeve? See if they need anything done."

Fionn's face scrunches up in a scowl, but he trudges off towards the hovel, kicking at the dirt as he goes. Atlas approaches me, his blue eyes wary.[...]