At first he was—if he had to guess—a dot with opinions.
At first there was only warmth and drift, the soft thrum of a body at work, and the feeling of being tucked inside a bubble that breathed for him. Then the dot learned tricks. It divided, practiced measure, and found a rhythm he recognized from the light above: a white heartbeat keeping time beside the new one of flesh.
Arms drafted themselves like little commas. Legs followed, stubbier commas. A spine curled just so. He tried a wiggle. The world—his whole warm world—said oh and rocked him back to center.
He took inventory and found something odd. The stories had said he'd been born wrong the first time—egg-shaped head, too big, a child who broke his mother from the inside. There had been pictures. There had been cruel bedtime jokes. But this new making… felt different. Smaller. Softer. His head felt normal-round, his limbs fine as reeds. He floated, mildly scandalized. Where is the giant I was promised?
A perfect… baby… he thought, all pauses, as if the idea needed assembly. A—girl?
From beyond the wall, voices moved like weather. They came muffled, bent by water: a rough, certain baritone he filed under Niko; a lighter, tired-joyful voice he wanted to call Shey; a quick, amused line that checked every doorway for trouble—Roman. Other sounds spelled New York: horns, footsteps, a stoop voice yelling to watch the hydrant. Radios argued about the Soviets. Anchors clipped their syllables like scissors. Taxi men snapped their accents like gum.
Sometimes hands found the curve of his world and patted it. Strangers spoke through the skin in sing-song, laying bets on boy or girl, trying names to see which ones stuck. The rough voice insisted boy every time. The woman who carried him answered with sunny defiance. When the debate went smug, he kicked the wall in protest (thump), and someone laughed—"There! Did you feel that?"
Russian threaded the rooms like steam. "English, please," Shey would say, a wooden spoon tapping the air for emphasis. And the house would change languages—reluctantly at first, then more often. A kettle clicked. A pan hissed. A door spring sighed winter into the hall. By sound alone he learned their rhythm: two heavy boots, one light step, the clink of dishes, a cough that knew it was being listened to, a book shut flat with a palm.
He tried thinking at the wall to test what it knew. Am I… alive again? The wall answered in comfort, which he took as sort of. He listened harder. The names shaped themselves clearer.
"Niko," Shey would call from the kitchen, "we live in America now. Use your English. I don't want a home where I can't understand my own men."
A rustle. An unhappy exhale. Then Niko, measured: "Fine." He would switch—and slip anyway. Little Russian words fell out like screws from a pocket: tovarishch, davai, curses that snapped like matchheads. Shey corrected; the men complied again. It became the daily drill: integrate; remember the miracle that got you those undercover badges; don't waste it.
He liked that word: miracle. It fit the small God and the flowers and the gift of a second beat inside him. It fit this apartment where languages wrestled each other toward love.
When Shey went out, he rode her, an invisible passenger, through the city's siren weather. He learned the sidewalks by sound: bodega bells, shoelaces scraping, the ocean of voices a block makes at noon. Friendly strangers touched the belly and spoke to the tiny astronaut inside.
"Is this a little guy? Or a little girl?"
"I'd like a girl," Shey said more than once, smiling into the air.
He answered with a kick so tidy it deserved applause. Boy. Cool. Sunglasses later. Black coat. Maybe a trench. Neo. (He had a plan.)
But the making paid no attention to plans. His body lettered itself in small, precise script. He felt, baffled and not yet bothered, the truth of a different sex writing its quiet grammar. It doesn't matter, he told himself with goofy confidence. In 2017 you can just… say what you are. Papers shrug. Everyone nods. Simple. He would deal with details later. He was busy becoming.
Christmas drew close like a drum in the next room. Outside, bells clanged on red stands while Santas practiced fake laughs. Inside, the argument turned to dates—Orthodox January versus December 25—and the woman's "Not in this country" won with cheerful decree. Niko grumbled about tradition; Roman compromised with a shrug and a grin—two Christmases meant two dinners.
A new voice began to visit near the end of the month: Mallorie—French vowels all soft and round, English that tripped and then smiled at itself. She wore a navy coat two winters old and a scuffed beret she refused to retire. Average height, shoulder-length blond hair that lived its own life, blue eyes forever surprised. She brought pastries that sometimes made it home and sometimes did not.
Roman tried to play it cool and failed; his happiness arrived three steps before he did. Niko teased him without mercy. Shey adopted Mallorie in one look, then in two casseroles, then in three gentle scolds about rent and coats with lining. Mallorie tried to be an artist and a singer—two wonderful disasters in progress—and joked that her name meant unlucky in French, which Shey pronounced "nonsense" and then, privately, "adorable." On cold afternoons Mallorie wore a sailor-collar blouse under her coat because it made her feel like school was still possible.
They spoke in a patchwork—Mallorie's French stitched to Roman's English, Shey's American stubbornness wrapped around Niko's steel. They cooked, they argued, they negotiated the country they meant to belong to. And over all of it the radio kept naming the USSR like a worry bead the men couldn't put down.
He pressed a heel to the wall and the wall answered with home. He pressed a question to the wall and the wall answered with soon.
Piece by piece, he admitted the obvious. Alive again. New York. 1986. Same mother, younger and still bright enough to light rooms. Same voices, arranged in a kinder chord. He did the math with the tools he had—kicks, flips, listening—and arrived at something like faith.
Second chance, he thought, and because he was still himself, he added the rule that had carried him farther than any other:
Move fast. Help people. Don't leave anyone.
Outside, bells and traffic braided the day. Inside, the white heartbeat kept even time with the new one. He tried a solemn promise and produced a heroic bubble. He tried another and hiccuped. Close enough. The wall, amused, swayed him until the promise felt safe to keep.
He slept and woke and grew.
Christmas knocked. The apartment gathered itself for the drumbeat moment—towels counted, water tested, radio snapped off. Three voices converged in a tiny tiled room like a squad getting briefed. And just before the world turned from warm sea to bright water, a small French hello sang through the door—Mallorie, braving the steam with a bakery box and a grin that made rooms look bigger. Roman hushed her and kissed her temple. Niko rolled his eyes and lifted the pot. Shey told everyone where to stand with the authority of a general.
Inside, Bruce didn't know what was happening. He'd been growing one moment—and the next, the song changed. (Winds of Change, his brain supplied helpfully; he made a note to hum it later.) Stop being lazy, he ordered himself, because urgency felt right. He tried a flex. A push-up. A backflip. All failed gloriously. He did manage a wiggle and a fist-clench, which—if you squinted—looked exactly like Neo catching bullets. Good enough.
Then the flushing began. Shey settled into the apartment's tub, warmth fogging the mirror, and the bubble's tide shifted under him—gentle at first, then with the clarity of a command. His round, warm sea said go.
He didn't meet cold air. He met water—new water, rushing, bright.
For a second he tumbled and paddled with ridiculous, brand-new arms. The world tilted; sound went thin. He thought he might drown, though he knew he couldn't. Strong hands found him—careful hands, sure in their work—and lifted him up and out until the water let him go and chilly air struck his skin like a clean blade.
A man's voice, a little shaky, close to his ear:
"Okay. I'll cut the umbilical now."
Cold metal, a clean snip—severance. The tide that had held him let go. He tried to say No, wait, but all that came out was a startled "Waa—ah!" The sound surprised even him. The room answered with laughter—not cruel, just relieved.
A rough laugh led the chorus. "Ha! Hear that? My son's got strong lungs—though he looks a little small to be my son, and a bit pale… is that normal?"
"Shut up, Niko," the woman said, breathless, triumphant. "The baby is perfectly normal. The bath was a good idea. And she's not small—she's my baby girl, just a bit small like me."
A beat of silence, like a record catching.
"A girl?" Niko's voice tipped from disbelief into injured pride. "Impossible. A man like me—my firstborn, a weak little girl? How can I have something so small, so soft—"
Another voice—lighter, amused. "Seems Shey's genes won this round, brother. Look for yourself—it's a daughter. A healthy one. Congratulations."
Are they talking about me? he asked the air. I was— The thought ran headlong into his new mouth and turned into a hiccupy "ah… ah… mmm—" Then a heroic try at a quote he'd used on stairwells: "Cuh—muh—" which, tragically, became "Guh!" He frowned with all eight available muscles.
"You say that now, Roman," Niko snapped. "But just wait— I bet all your future children will be girls, hah!"
"Both of you—enough," the woman cut through, tired and fierce. "Roman, give me my baby already."
He moved—sloshed—into gentler hands. Fingers warm as fresh towels slid under his head. He pried his eyes open and the world sharpened: freckles, ocean-blue eyes bright with joy, blond hair in a wet tangle. The face bent to him and smiled with everything it had.
"Well, hello there, my little darling," she whispered. "My baby girl. You have my eyes. And that hair—oh my God—you're so cute I could squeeze you."
She squeezed—carefully. He made a solemn "hnn!" and then, against his will, a pleased coo, which sounded suspiciously like agreement. He tried again for a movie line—Come with me if you want to live—and produced "Muh… muh… liv… bluh!" Close enough. He'd workshop it later.
Off to the side, Niko rumbled, "Pink as an alien. Maybe hospital—just in case. I can pay."
Roman, helpful and doomed, added, "Might be wise."
The woman didn't even look up. "I read My First 300 Babies, okay? We're fine." She lifted her chin toward the bathroom. "Now: get me out of this tub before my back gives out. Roman, you wash the floor."
Bruce blinked at the ceiling light, then at her, then at the steam curling along the tile like sleepy ghosts. The air smelled like soap, iron, and victory. He tried one last time to be impressive—to announce himself with gravitas—and let out an earnest "ba-da… da… DA!" If you squinted, it was absolutely a theme song.
Shey laughed softly and tucked him closer. The room, chastened, began to obey. Towels moved. Feet shuffled. The bathwater stilled.
Roman muttered about hospitals and insurance again, but Shey's voice cut through, bright as brass.
"Hey! I read My First 300 Babies! I know what I'm doing. Now help me up before my back locks and—Roman, you wash the bathroom. Please."
The two men exchanged a look that was half amusement, half surrender—old soldiers recognizing a higher command—and then obeyed. Roman grinned anyway. "Yeah, yeah, I'll get it clean," he said, already raising his voice toward the door. "Mallorie! Get in here and help me scrub!"
Shey opened her mouth to argue but never got the chance. Niko's arms were already reaching for her, solid as a bridge, lifting both mother and child from the water. She squealed at the shock of his cold hands; Bruce squealed in harmony. Steam followed them down the hall, trailing like a small banner of victory, as Niko carried them into the apartment's light.
Warm arms gathered mother and child together. Bruce—small, bewildered, half-dreaming—felt himself lifted into air and light. Shey squeaked again at Niko's touch; he was careful but impossibly strong, his forearms like girders.
They hadn't gone three steps before Mallorie popped into the hall, flour on her sleeves, a streak of chocolate at her wrist, hair escaping every pin. She squealed in a cross-channel mash-up—
"Mon dieu—bébé! So cute! I miss it? I missed it? But I was baking the… the… gâteau—"
"The bathroom isn't big enough for three," Niko said, deadpan. "And someone needed to make food so Shey can recover."
From the tiles came Roman's voice, cheerful as a whistle: "Mallorie! Bathroom—allez, allez!"
"Oui, mon amour!" she sang back, pivoting on a socked heel and vanishing toward the mop like a whirlwind in a beret.
Bruce blinked at the loud, powder-dust woman and decided she was either a friendly spirit or a pastry-based lifeform. He filed both options for later.
Niko moved again, bare feet squeaking on the linoleum. The apartment smelled of soap, radiator heat, and the faint metallic note of old plumbing. Everything was tidy, almost military: jackets hung in a strict row, shoes aligned heel-to-wall, the only chaos the damp trail of towels they'd left behind.
He carried them into a bedroom with red sheets, two bear-shaped pillows standing watch, a cheap radio mumbling static by the window. Over the headboard, an icon no bigger than a postcard caught what little light the city spared.
He set them down as if placing bricks in a wall—exact, controlled. Up close, Bruce knew him: the same face that would one day darken; only here the anger slept, coiled. Gray-blue eyes audited Shey's breath, the color in her lips, the steadiness of her hands. They did not flicker to the child.
"How long to recover?" Niko asked, voice even. "What do you need—tea, broth, vitamins?"
Shey groaned, grabbed a bear pillow, and tossed it. He caught it without looking.
"It's a book, Niko. My First 300 Babies isn't an assignment. I'm not a factory." She tried for humor and found a little. "Can't you just be happy with her? Girls do more than cry and bake cookies. Maybe she'll make the money you want one day."
Niko set the pillow back precisely where it had been, as if order steadied him. When he spoke, something old moved under the words—doctrine taught in a cold valley where boys were sharpened.
"People are not equal, Shey. That's not cruelty; it's structure. We're born with different weights to carry. Even among men there is rank—strong and stronger, fit and fitter. Some are made to stand in front. Others are supports—pieces the strong move to win the board. Men lead. Women keep. Feeling belongs to the hearth; force belongs to the street. The work I must do—the name I intend to build—requires proof of strength and the public sight of it. A daughter cannot give me that."
He wasn't shouting. He didn't need to. The room seemed to lean back for him.
"But," he added at last, glancing down at the bundle in Shey's arms, "she is blood. I accept her. She is Krasnomedvedev."
Shey's mouth tightened; defiance rose and stalled. Love held her; so did rent, hunger, a winter coat with thinning lining. She could throw a pillow, crack a joke, insist on English in the kitchen—but there was a line she would not cross. She knew where his gentleness ended. She knew the locks and who paid the landlord.
He leaned in, cupped her face, kissed her brow. The voice that belonged only to the bedspread and the icon turned cold.
"Recover quickly, love. You will give me the son I seek. This child is healthy—the gender is wrong. Next time, we correct it."
Then, practical again: "I'll bring food. Rest." He paused in the doorway. "Name her anything. Make it sound good." And he was gone.
Weight went with him. The red room exhaled.
"Huh, so he wants more already," Shey muttered, half a laugh, half a sigh. "Well, it's not like I don't want more either, but it's just so soon. Still…" she looked down and softened, "…I guess the baby could use a playmate someday."
She studied the tiny face cradled in her arm. "Okay, tiny person. What do I call you? What's a good name for something this cute—blond hair, blue eyes, soft as a dumpling? And judging by that face, height or muscle aren't going to be your strong suit, hmm?"
Her fingers combed through damp curls, thinking aloud. "Oh! Maybe Natalya. Born on Christmas. Although… not really all that American, is it?"
Bruce answered with a righteous wail that translated neatly to absolutely not.
"Okay, okay!" Shey laughed despite herself. "Leia? I loved those movies. My little princess Leia."
Another wail, louder this time.
In his head he attempted a quote—I find your lack of cool disturbing—and produced a valiant, "buh-buh… DA!"
Shey blinked, almost mystified. "Wow. Particular, aren't you?"
He was trying to be practical. If they insisted he was a she, it didn't matter—where he came from (2017), people just declared what they were and everyone politely adjusted. A boy could be a girl, a girl could be a boy, or, if they really meant it, maybe even a dinosaur. Bruce didn't understand the mechanics; he just knew that belief seemed to do most of the heavy lifting. So, fine—he'd let them have she for now. Later, when he could walk, talk, and pick his own sunglasses, he'd be Bruce again—muscles, black coat, Neo cool.
But first, he needed a name that wasn't embarrassing.
Come on, he thought, kicking once for emphasis. Something good. Something worthy. Something that sounds like the start of a hero's theme song.
Then, as if remembering something ridiculous, she muttered,
"Ashley—like in that summer magazine… and Ashley Olsen, hmm, maybe." Her eyes brightened as if the thought warmed her. "If I'm dragging those two muscle-heads toward being American, I should start with you. Ashley fits. You'll fit, too. How about it?"
He froze on the first three letters—Ash. A theme song from a future cartoon leapt across years: I wanna be the very best— Companions. Quests. Catch them all. His mouth made an involuntary, thoughtful "hmm," ridiculous in a newborn.
Shey blinked. "Did you just… agree?" She laughed, a little startled. "Okay then. Ashley it is. My little Ash."
He tried to nod and instead produced a dignified "mm."
"Right," she said, rallying to the next duty. "Names are good. But feeding is better."
She shifted against the pillows and settled him to nurse. He stared, wide-eyed. In his old logic, bigger chests meant stronger lifters at the gym. By that measure, his mother might bench-press the bed. Whoa, he thought, awed and a little alarmed. She's… really strong.
He set his jaw for refusal—no germs, no suffocating, old rules—but the small body he was now obeyed older rules than Bruce did. Instinct tipped the scales. He latched, surprised by the warmth—not gross, not at all; like milk warmed on a stove, something that rounded the world's sharp edges.
"Good girl," Shey whispered, hand at his back, rhythm finding rhythm. "You're a natural."
He tried to argue with a muffled "mff—" and discovered he didn't have an argument. The steady pull took the fight out of him. The white heartbeat inside his chest kept time with the new one; they settled into one drum. Above him, Shey's face wore something no one had ever worn for him in any life: uncomplicated joy.
Outside, New York hissed and murmured; a siren went by pretending to be far away. Inside, red sheets, a bear pillow, an icon's small shine, and a mother's warm hands made a country large enough to live in.
Ash drifted. The room softened at the edges. Before sleep took him, he managed one last, heroic attempt at a catchphrase:
"Guh… liv…"
It came out a contented sigh.
For the first time he could remember—in either life—his mother smiled down at him while he fell into a deep sleep.