The Safest Form

An enormous complex that could truly be considered one of, if not the greatest construction projects in all of human history, built with the participation of every major country on the planet. And the hadron collider, once regarded as the peak of scientific achievement, now seemed like nothing more than a modest predecessor to this giant — the International Chronocenter, stretching underground for hundreds of kilometers, where the old particle accelerator tunnels had been expanded and wrapped with other rings, completely refitted into the foundation of a prototype time machine.

The floor beneath their feet vibrated, as if a giant were shifting below. Inside the central chamber, surrounded by a ring-shaped system of accelerators, stood a group of five armed fighters — the first historical team to jump into the past. They stood fully geared, helmets with open visors, in a combat stance, as if about to storm a room full of terrorists, while glowing spotlights nearby lit up clouds of steam bursting from cooling pipes.

The team commander, American Captain Michael Harris, swept everyone with a quick glance:

— Comms check. Standby countdown in sixty seconds. Ready?

— Ready, — the German Arne Kraus replied dryly, adjusting his rifle strap.

— Toujours prêt, — answered the French special forces soldier Jules Renaud, trying to hide a nervous chuckle.

— Everything according to plan, — the Japanese woman Ayako Morita nodded.

— Let’s go, — the Brazilian Thiago Morales echoed.

At the center of the chamber, the bright ring of the portal had already begun to distort, as if its surface were being stretched by hands from the inside. An unbearable heat radiated from it.

Thick armored glass separated the soldiers from the observation post, where engineers and military program curators stood. Among them was Professor Kuznetsov, one of the theorists whose work laid the foundation for the device.

— Alpha Team, hold formation. Forward, — came through the speakers.

Jules adjusted the microphone in his helmet and quietly exhaled:

"Mon dieu… I really got myself into this… though who else would’ve dared?"

The team moved forward, in sync, like in training. Their boots rang heavily against the metal floor, and the heat from the portal grew stronger with every step.

— Keep your distance, — Harris snapped briefly. — Contact in ten seconds.

Jules walked third. Inside the helmet, it smelled of ozone and sweat, his breathing sounded too loud. His heart was pounding as if it had been amplified along with the accelerators.

"Easy. It’s just a jump. Just… history."

The portal ring suddenly expanded, its surface “collapsed” inward, and the world jerked.

— Move! — Harris barked.

White light slammed into his eyes, sound vanished, his body felt squeezed from all sides. Jules managed to think that he was being turned inside out, but at some point everything abruptly cut off, as if not only the sound had been shut down, but the power to the computer had been completely turned off.

He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t feeling, wasn’t seeing. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but felt like a whole eternity. But even eternity, apparently, is finite, because in the next moment sound returned to his ears along with his vision.

He froze in the same pose he had arrived in — arms hanging down, one leg slightly forward. His gaze professionally began to scan the area, automatically picking out threats, lines of sight, cover… but who was there to defend against? Knights or baboons?

He blinked.

These were jungles. Thick, damp, almost tangible. Mist crept between the trunks, the greenery wasn’t a “set piece” but something alive, pressing in from all sides. No trace of the portal. No team. No concrete, no metal. Only chirring, distant animal cries, and heavy, warm air filling his lungs with a foreign smell.

— Harris? — he finally said in a whisper, but loud enough for the mic to catch. — Renaud reporting. Do you copy?

No answer came.

The silence on the channel wasn’t just the absence of sound — it pressed down on him. Jules automatically touched his ear, expecting the edge of the headset, but his fingers slid over skin. Bare skin. No plastic, no metal. He sharply lowered his gaze, and at that moment it felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs.

He wasn’t wearing armor.

Instead of his uniform, he saw an asymmetrical strip of hide slung over his shoulder. It covered completely something that should never have existed on him. Breasts. Full, unmistakably female breasts, probably a C cup, maybe even a D, though from his angle they looked even larger.

Right then, as if on purpose, a cool breeze brushed his thigh, slipping lower, between his legs, and stirring the rough piece of hide that barely covered anything down there. Jules instinctively squeezed his thighs together, feeling emptiness and smoothness where he was used to something entirely different. Emptiness. Simple emptiness, that was literally felt, especially when he relaxed his thighs and the light breeze slid over smooth skin again, sending a shiver through his whole body — not from cold, but from realization.

The hide didn’t fully cover his breasts, and Jules felt how they reacted to movement — with weight, with soft shifting, too obvious to be ignored. Below — a short skirt-wrap, uneven, with fringe, tied with a rope around the hips. The fabric rubbed against his skin with every breath.

— What the fuck?! — he shouted, as if his brain had only now processed the information and tried at the same time to throw an error, a protest, and a request for a reboot.

The sound of his own voice broke into a high, ringing pitch — completely not the one that should have come from his chest. He himself flinched, instinctively jerking back, but his foot slipped on the wet roots, and his body lurched forward, forcing his breasts to swing with a heavy, far too alive inertia. The soft curves lightly slammed into each other, responding with a painful, unnatural-for-him wave of sensation — so vivid that he even squeezed his eyes shut.

"Calm… calm down! This is… an illusion. Optical. A hallucination. I’m standing in the center of the portal, I have a helmet, armor, everything’s fine… it’s just something wrong with perception. Fuck, this just can’t be happening like this…"

He held his hands out in front of him. Narrow wrists, thin fingers — and no gloves, no reinforced joints. Smooth, tanned skin. His palms were trembling.

— This is a dream. Must be dream. Or sim. Or… fuck… brain go bad from chrono-ra… ra… — he rattled off quickly, stumbling at the end because the words suddenly began to stick in his mouth, his tongue heavy and uncooperative, refusing complex speech.

He swallowed, slowly exhaled, and forced himself to look around.

— Calm… calm, Renaud… — he breathed more quietly now, trying to keep his breathing steady. — Need to assess the situation…

But the moment he turned his torso, his breasts shifted heavily again, as if reminding him of themselves with every gram. Their movement distracted him more than the humid jungle air. Jules lowered his gaze and, with trembling fingers, touched himself — carefully, as if afraid of being burned.

They were voluminous, soft, firm, and excessively real. The softness yielded under his fingers, and a wave of strange sensation ran through his body, making him flinch.

— Calm… — he whispered, even though his voice still shook and his thoughts tangled, despite years of professional experience. — Need to… uh… control… breathing…

He straightened up, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to pull his hands away from his skin. His fingers were shaking, and he lowered them down to his waist, then immediately slid them lower, feeling how narrow his waist was and how smooth the skin felt — however, this was another mistake. His hips were wider than he was used to, as if someone had pumped them up from the inside with a jack and fixed them in place with something rigid. He jerked his hand back sharply, inhaling in short, spasmodic bursts.

— Doux… Seigneur…

His tongue felt like it wouldn’t obey. The sounds of his familiar, native language felt somehow wrong.

He shook his head and stepped forward, clenching his fists — his breasts swung again, painfully pulling at the muscles between his ribs. He grimaced.

"Need to… get used to it… at least a little…" he thought, hearing a rustle behind him.

Jules tensed, freezing as he stared into the trees.

"People? Or animals?" the thought pierced him so sharply that he almost heard an internal click.

The rustle repeated, louder this time.

Jules swallowed, trying to catch his breath. Instinctively, he wanted to raise his weapon… but his hands were empty. The realization sent a shiver crawling through his entire body.

Finally, three huge men emerged from behind the trees, covered in thick body hair and wrapped only in loincloths. They looked like giants to him, and Jules instantly felt his stomach drop somewhere deep inside. They towered over him by a head, maybe more — broad-shouldered, muscular, with rough skin covered in scars and forest grime. In their hands they held spears with stone tips and bundles of fruits slung over their shoulders.

One of them, the tallest, with a thick beard reaching down to his breasts, stopped first and stared at Jules with wide eyes. He muttered something in a low, guttural voice, tilting his head.

— Ugh… kva? (Who are you?) — burst out of him, the sound more like a growl mixed with a rasp.

Jules instinctively raised his palms up, showing empty hands — a gesture that even in this time should mean “I’m not an enemy.” From the sudden movement, his breasts swung heavily, the hide on his shoulder slipped a little lower, and he felt his skin prickle under their stare. His heart was pounding so loud it felt like all three of them could hear it.

— Peace! I come in peace! MIKA-KA KHA! (I peace) — the last words came out on their own, breaking into such a high pitch that one of the men snorted and took a small step back, lifting an eyebrow at the unexpectedly ringing sound, and then, to Jules’ surprise, grinned.

— Ka… ka-kha? (You peace?) — he rasped in a deep bass and added, already smiling, unable to hold back his laughter, — Uh-ha, baba ucho-ucho kha!!! (Woman think, we scared of her!!!)

The men’s laughter only made it worse. He felt not just small among them — insignificant, as if he had already been written off as something no one talked to seriously.

The tall one took another step. The ground hummed under his foot, and Jules reflexively stepped back half a step.

— Ugh… kva? Chavikhi? (Who you? Tribe?) — the bearded man repeated, leaning closer.

Jules swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. Somehow, he partially understood the words aimed at him. “Who you?” spun in his head like a top. This “chavikhi” was still unclear, but logically it sounded like belonging, a pack, a group. He shook his head side to side, feeling how the hair, tied with some animal bone into a messy knot, swayed on his head.

— No… chavikhi. One. (No… tribe. One.) — he said slowly, the words coming out on their own, shorter, rougher than he was used to, but in that same unfamiliar high tone.

The bearded man squinted, then suddenly spread into a wide grin, baring uneven teeth.

— Ugh-ha! Baba one! Lost! (Ha! Woman alone! Lost!) — he boomed, and the other two hooted, slapping their thighs. The laughter was loud, infectious, but without malice — more like hunters who had found a defenseless cub.

The one with the scar on his cheek stepped forward and pointed a finger toward Jules, not threateningly — more like indicating.

— Pretty woman. Big breasts. No owner, — he said with a grin, no longer hiding his intentions, letting his gaze slide downward and linger on her breasts.

Jules felt blood rush to his face. Instinctively, he pressed a hand to his breasts, trying to hold the fabric in place, but the movement only emphasized the curves, and her breasts swayed heavily under his palm.

A second of silence stretched out and filled the space. Then a short, low chuckle.

— No owner, — the tall one repeated. — No-owner woman no be.

He took a step forward, but the bearded man immediately shot him a stern look and raised his palm.

— Stop, Garg. I find. I first. — he rumbled low, and there was no threat in his voice, only a law that wasn’t questioned here.

Jules felt everything inside him tighten.

"What the fuck?! Are they talking about me like I’m a thing?!" flashed through his mind, but outwardly, facing these giants, Jules could show nothing but wide eyes and a light, convulsive inhale that made her breasts visibly rise again. The hide stretched, slipped a little lower, and he jerked it back in a panic, hating himself at the same time for moving too fast, too nervously, too… like a woman.

— I find, — the bearded man repeated, looking at Garg with calm superiority, as if this were prey that could not be disputed. — Mine!

The bearded man, grinding his teeth, suddenly spat to the side, as if marking a boundary, and straightened so sharply he now looked like a wall. He squared his shoulders, thrust his chest forward — and the wide, heavy muscles under roughened skin made him look even bigger than before.

— MINE! — he roared so hard the sound rolled through the forest like a drumbeat, as if he were claiming not a woman, but a trophy, a beast, prey.

Garg snorted, but stepped back, giving Jules one more long, contemptuous look.

Jules swallowed, remembering who he was and trying to get his voice back:

— I… I not… I not yours! — he finally forced out, and his voice traitorously trembled, breaking into a pitch that didn’t match the meaning at all.

The bearded man didn’t even pay attention. He just grabbed Jules by the hand and pulled her forward.

— Go. Cave. Fire. Protect. — he said confidently, taking a calm step forward, which made two heavy half-spheres sway under the hide and then slap against each other, while her hips involuntarily swayed, lifting the skirt slightly.

— No! Let go! I not yours! I man! — Jules shouted, jerking his arm so sharply that the hide on his shoulder slipped even lower.

The bearded man turned his head, surprise appearing on his face.

— Man… what? — he repeated, calmly leading Jules forward, then smiled. — Funny. Good. Like.

Jules jerked again, this time putting everything he had left into the pull. His wrist slipped free for a split second, but the bearded man immediately tightened his grip — not painfully, but hard enough that the bones crunched. Jules’s body lurched forward, his breasts slammed heavily against his ribcage, and he almost lost his balance.

— Let go! — he hissed, his voice breaking higher than normal. — I not woman! I… I was man! Before! Before jump!

Garg, walking behind them, burst out laughing loudly.

— Woman tell stories! — he shouted. — Woman scream. Like beast. Give woman to Garg. Garg make her quiet.

The bearded man stopped sharply when he heard Garg’s words. His big hand squeezed Jules’s wrist even tighter — now as a warning. He slowly turned toward Garg, his eyes narrowing like a beast guarding its prey.

— Garg shut mouth, — he rumbled low, then dropped his gaze to Jules, — Woman shut mouth.

— NO! I NOT SHUT! I NOT WO—

Jules started, but at that moment the bearded man effortlessly, as if Jules weighed nothing at all, scooped him up with one hand under the thighs, threw him over his shoulder, and clamped his other palm tightly over his mouth.

The world flipped upside down. His head dropped down, his breasts tore downward with a heavy jerk, painfully stretching the skin like two living, unnaturally soft weights sewn under it and pulling it down. The hide skirt flew completely up, exposing his thighs and everything below, and cool air touched the skin between his legs. Jules mooed into the hand, trying to struggle, but his body dangled helplessly, like a sack of prey.

— M-mmf… n-nmmf! — came out muffled, and to his horror, Jules heard how his own voice sounded like a muted, high-pitched squeak.

Jules thrashed helplessly, trying to break free, while the bearded man calmly walked forward, like a robot with metal arms rather than a human. His breasts, flopped forward, felt twice as heavy and slammed against Khar’s shoulder with every step.

He screamed inside, but outside there was only muffled whining under the hand.

— Quiet, — he said calmly, as if Jules were just a noisy animal. — No fear. Khar protect. Bring food. Khar love. Khar your husband now.

The words boomed right by Jules’s ear, low and confident, and everything inside him clenched even tighter.

"Husband?! Love?!"

He mooed louder, trying to force out any kind of protest, but Khar’s palm only shifted slightly, pressing his lips tighter. The sound came out pathetic, high, almost a sob.

Khar didn’t even slow his pace.

His breasts kept slamming rhythmically against Khar’s shoulder, shifting a little each time, pulling downward, sending painful shocks through the muscles. The skin on his stomach stretched tight, the skirt was basically useless, bunched up at the small of his back.

Jules squeezed his eyes shut hard, finally abandoning all attempts to escape and went still, hanging obediently over his shoulder.

The resistance ended not because of sudden submission — his strength was simply gone. His muscles burned, his arms and legs turned weak and numb, and every jerk only deepened the feeling of helplessness. He hung there like a trophy, feeling blood rush to his head, his hair falling messily over his face, the cool air brushing against the exposed skin below.

…

Epilogue that decided to become a separate episode…

The fire hissed, fat dripped onto the heated stone and instantly exploded with short cracks, splashing onto her skin, which had already grown fairly rough even by the standards of her former male body, yet she still flinched slightly every time, even though she should have gotten used to it long ago. The cave was filled with the smells of fat, hot stone, and smoke from the fire, mixing with wet hides, sweat, and blood from prey not yet cooked. Outside it was quiet and peaceful, as if nothing had ever happened at all — warm rain rustled softly, tapping in a ragged rhythm with drops against the entrance canopy made of branches.

The woman, in whose head a soldier with a gun was still actively fighting against a woman with full milk-heavy breasts, slowly wiped the splashes away with the back of her hand, leaving a dark streak of soot across her cheek.

The child inside kicked especially hard, as if demanding her attention. As if the mother didn’t already think about him constantly, cursing the day when she, still called Jules Renaud back then, stepped into the blinding circle of light, believing it would bring enormous fame, greater than that of the first man on the Moon. And of course she believed she would return. Go on interviews on the world’s biggest shows, sit under bright studio lights, smile at the camera and say: “Yes, it was scary. But we did it for the future.”

How ridiculous it was now to remember those lines she had mentally rehearsed in the last hours before the jump.

— Quiet… — she whispered, placing her hand on her belly exactly where the baby kicked again. This time harder, so much so that she involuntarily sucked in air through her teeth and lost her breathing rhythm for a second. Her palm stayed pressed to her stomach, fingers spreading, as if trying to hold the impossible all at once.

— Hey… why you, — she whispered quieter now, without anger, even forgetting for a moment (or already used to it) how it always pissed her off when she opened her mouth and tried to say something, and what came out was worse than the speech of any Mexican who had just crossed the border illegally. — You angry, yes?

The meat crackled loudly. She lowered her hand to her knee and slowly, almost stubbornly, turned the meat with a stick. Fat splashed again, the fire flared up, she flinched once more, squeezing her eyes shut — and suddenly she heard a sound. That sound. It had been haunting her for eight months now, since the very beginning of her time here, since the exact moment Khar threw her over his shoulder and carried her into the cave like prey.

A thin, high, almost inaudible ringing — as if someone had run a wet finger along the rim of a giant crystal glass somewhere very far away. Sometimes it came at night, sometimes during the day, always for a few seconds, always disappearing the moment she truly tried to listen.

Her gaze darted to the cave entrance, and only she knew what she imagined there. Maybe a special forces unit would appear any second now, fully geared, helmets, weapons. They would see her and call her over. Home. Or maybe, in a split second, that very portal would appear there. Or. Or maybe she would simply wake up and it would turn out to be the sound of an alarm clock.

But, as usual, the moment she tried to listen closely, it vanished, leaving behind only the familiar, calm sounds of rain.

— Zu! — a hoarse voice came from somewhere deep inside the cave, the elder’s voice like a dry branch scraping over stone. Several women sitting closer to the far hearth flinched their shoulders; one even dropped a bone needle she had been stitching a tear in a hide with. Quiet whispering spread, fast, like birds fluttering up.

The woman by the fire didn’t move.

Her shoulders tensed slightly, her fingers tightened around the stick she was stirring the coals with, but her gaze stayed fixed on the dark hollow of the entrance. There, beyond the curtain of rain, the leaves still rustled indifferently, drops knocked against stone, and sometimes, somewhere far away, a night bird cried out briefly. Nothing more.

— Zu-Ra Gha Khara!!! — the elder’s voice broke almost into a shout, and her steps, commanding, especially for a woman, echoed through the entire space.

Zu-Ra. Short, guttural, with a pause in the middle. Zu — because in the first days she had tried again and again to say her name: Jules. The “zh” sound stuck in their throats, turned into “z,” then broke off completely. Only the short, useless “zu” remained — easy to shout, easy to order with, easy to cut off. Ra — because once she said “Renaud.” Slowly, by syllables, but they heard only what they could understand, or what they wanted to hear.

And if she could still make peace with the first two parts of her name, with “Gha” and “Khara” it was completely different. She hated those words more than her weak body.

Even more than these two breasts, which had only grown because of the pregnancy and now constantly pulled downward, got in the way of bending, caught on straps and hides, reminding her of themselves with every step, every breath. She had at least gotten used to the body — it hurt, but it was hers. Those words were worse.

Gha — not a name. A sentence.

The one who is not right. The one who has noise inside. The one who must be watched.

Khara — worse. It meant belong. And not just to some Khar. Not just to a man. But to this Khar — the one who once came out of the forest with her dangling over his shoulder and showed the whole tribe that she was his. Like some kind of thing.

Although soon she understood why he and the other men had behaved that way when they found her. She was different. Full-breasted, wide-hipped, and with a face that still clearly remembered Jules’s male features, yet incomparably more beautiful than any of the women she had seen here during all this time.

Her skin was smooth, without scars from old wounds or burns, her teeth even, white, without chips or black stains from chewed roots. Her eyes — too large, too light, with golden sparks that in the firelight looked almost inhuman. Her hair — long, thick, shiny even under the layer of dirt and grease that everyone here considered natural protection.

She was too… perfect.

For that, she probably had to thank the fact that people in the future lived completely differently. And for the fact that she was now a woman — the cursed “merge” program, which, as they explained to her before the jump, was supposed to “adapt” her to the environment. Temporarily. For just one day. Exactly the time allotted to complete the research mission.

“The program minimizes risks by choosing the safest form. You will look like part of the world you enter. No one will suspect. No one will threaten.”

Form. She had been absolutely sure that meant what it meant. A form. An image. A hologram. Not a transformation, damn it, with changing the damn sex, right?!

The computer, having analyzed data on culture, physiology, social structures, and even how protection and resources were distributed in this tribe, delivered its verdict: the safest form for integration — a young, exceptionally attractive woman of reproductive age, with signs of high fertility and beauty, perceived here as almost supernatural and therefore the most protected.

Perfect camouflage. Maximum survivability. Zero suspicion.

But… a million humiliations. Especially for someone who had been a man his whole life, a special forces officer, used to the idea that his body was a tool, a weapon, a machine — not an object of someone else’s desire, someone else’s looks, someone else’s hands. Where not only men don’t see you as a person, but even women look at you differently: with envy, with suspicion, with cold caution. You are not “one of them.” You’re not even from their tribe. You’re just a very expensive trophy that went to the strongest — and that makes you both privileged and an outcast at the same time.

— I call! You hear?! — the elder barked, planting her hands on her waist with clenched fists, towering over Zu.

Zu lifted a calm, from-under-the-brow gaze to her, stayed silent for a second, then slightly smiled, recalling that very cat owner from the childhood cartoon she had watched — the one who loved standing like this so much: hands on hips, breasts forward, looking down from above, absolutely certain the world was obliged to listen to her.

The smile was barely noticeable. Almost internal. But the elder saw it.

— You laugh? — the voice dropped lower, more dangerous. — I call. You pretend stone?

Zu slowly straightened up. Her back answered with a pulling, familiar heaviness, and she held her breath for a moment before fully squaring her shoulders. Her breasts swayed heavily under the wrap and bluntly reminded her of themselves with pressure, as they did every time. Her belly pulled downward, forcing her to instinctively lean back slightly, catching balance. She didn’t fix the wrap. Let them look.

— Hear, — she said simply. — Hear good.

The elder snorted and stepped closer, looming.

— Then why not go?

Zu raised her eyebrows high, as if she had heard the stupidest question in the world, then slowly lowered her gaze to her pregnant belly.

The cave suddenly became too quiet, as if sound slowly drowned in smoke. The women stopped whispering. Someone stopped sewing. Even the fire seemed to hush, only the fat still crackled softly. Everyone was watching the two of them.

Zu placed her palm on her belly. The gesture wasn’t protective — more demonstrative.

— Because, — she said slowly, choosing the simplest words, — not empty.

The elder faltered for a moment. Just a little, but Zu saw it.

— Child Khara, — she added, swallowing the humiliation tied to that name, that man, those nights with him, desperately wanting, at least here among these women, not to be weak, — You know Khara?

She slowly raised her gaze. Heavy earrings made of large stones pushed straight through her earlobes swung heavily as she lifted her head. The stones were warm from her body, rough, far too big for ears — shoved straight through the lobes, without mercy, the way everything was done here. The weight pulled downward, reminding of status, of the fact that now she was seen and remembered not only by her body, but by the marks on it.

Then, deliberately crossing her arms over her breasts so the tattoos on her wrists — symbols of her belonging to Khara — caught the elder’s eye, she slightly tilted her head.

— Know, — the elder finally said shortly, trying not to show the anger that seemed ready to spill out, like milk from boiling porridge.

Zu nodded.

— Then know this too, — she continued just as simply. — He not like, if his child be trouble.

The elder stared at the tattoos longer than she should have. At the dark, rough lines on Zu’s wrists — lines Zu hated, but at some point understood were her only strength now.

— You speak threat? — she finally asked, barely audible, but it sounded louder than any shout.

Zu slowly shook her head.

— I speak truth, — she said. — I no cry. I no make angry. Child bad. — she placed her palm on her belly again, a little harder.

The elder followed the gesture with her eyes. Irritation flashed there — from being cornered by logic, not by force.

— You become smart, — she said at last. — Too much. Before scream. Speak strange. Was better. Now worse.

Zu barely shrugged.

— What you want from me? — she asked calmly.

The elder squinted. For a few moments she stayed silent, as if trying on different answers and none fit.

— You… — she began and stopped, as if searching for words. — …nothing want. Fry your meat! Love your Khar!

She turned sharply and walked away, stepping heavy on the stone, so that the echo of her footsteps kept bouncing under the cave vaults for a while.

Zu watched her back for several seconds. Then she slowly exhaled — long, careful, as if letting out air that was too hot from her breasts. Only now did she allow her shoulders to drop. Her body immediately reminded her of itself: her back ached, her belly pulled downward, her breasts pressed heavily forward. She absently adjusted the wrap, making her breasts sway and forcing her to wince, then carefully, holding her belly, sat down by the fire, looking at the meat that had already turned into coals during that time.

— Fuck… — she breathed almost soundlessly, scraping the burnt pieces of meat off the hot stone and laying them onto the huge tropical leaves prepared in advance.

Love your Khar. It spun again and again like a stuck record, like a jammed piece of old plastic, scratched but still playing.

Love your Khar.

Love your Khar.

— AAH! — she suddenly screamed, unable to hold in what was tearing out from inside.

The scream came out short, hoarse — more breath than sound. It immediately echoed through the whole cave, making even the elder flinch.

The elder turned sharply. Several women jumped up. Someone dropped a hide, someone instinctively pressed a child to her breasts.

Zu was already bending forward, clutching her belly with both hands, as if she could hold inside what had burst out. Her breathing broke, her breasts heaved heavily under the wrap, her eyes burned.

— Quiet… — she whispered to herself, struggling to steady her breath. — All. All.

The child inside pushed hard and sure, as if wanting to say something. Someone nearby snorted, someone turned away. The elder stood for another second, then silently walked on, as if nothing had happened.

Zu slowly straightened up. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of soot and grease. Looked at the fire.

— Love… — she breathed softly. — Not love… but live. Just try live…

And she took up the meat again.