The journey home from the hospital was Andrew's first glimpse of the outside world. Through his infant eyes, the cityscape appeared as a blur of dilapidated buildings, overgrown vegetation, and few people hurrying along cracked streets. What struck him most was the absence of men—not a single male figure moved among the scattered women traversing the worn pathways.
Eva carried him close to her chest, walking beside Amara who chattered excitedly about their improved rations that would arrive the following day. When they reached their apartment building, Andrew understood why Eva had seemed embarrassed when the Matriarchy officials inquired about their living conditions.
The structure leaned slightly, its exterior weathered by decades of neglect. Inside, they climbed five flights of stairs, the elevator long defunct. By the third floor, Eva's breathing had grown labored, but she refused Amara's offers to carry Andrew.
"This is my son," she said firmly. "I'll manage."
Their apartment door featured three separate locks—security apparently valued even in this decaying neighborhood. When the door swung open, Andrew took in what would be his home for the foreseeable future. The single room contained a large bed that dominated the space, a small table with two mismatched chairs, and a dresser with a cracked mirror. The kitchen was merely an alcove with a hotplate, mini refrigerator, and a sink with visible rust stains.
"Welcome home, little cultivator," Amara announced, gesturing grandly as if presenting a palace rather than their humble dwelling.
Eva placed Andrew carefully on the bed, surrounding him with pillows. "It's not much, but it's ours."
That night, Andrew experienced the first of what would become their routine. With no air conditioning and summer heat penetrating the thin walls, both sisters stripped completely before climbing into bed, positioning Andrew between them.
"The heat's brutal this year," Amara sighed, her naked body glistening with sweat in the dim light filtering through tattered curtains.
Andrew, with his adult consciousness, felt deeply uncomfortable. These women were technically his family now, yet he retained his previous life's sense of propriety. Eva's bare breasts pressed against him as she nursed, while Amara's naked form lay inches away. His infant body responded naturally to feeding, but his mind struggled with the jarring disconnect.
As days passed, Amara's curiosity about his male anatomy became increasingly apparent. One evening, while Eva changed his diaper, Amara leaned over, studying his genitals with unconcealed fascination.
"It's so strange to see one up close," she marveled. "The medical texts don't really capture it properly."
Eva swatted her sister's hand away. "Stop staring. You'll make him self-conscious."
"He's a baby," Amara laughed. "Besides, it's educational for me."
Later that week, during Eva's bath time with Andrew, Amara joined them in the cramped bathroom, perching on the toilet lid.
"When he's older," she began casually, "would you mind if I asked him to father my child?"
Eva nearly dropped the washcloth. "Amara! He's barely two weeks old!"
"I don't mean now, obviously," Amara rolled her eyes. "But eventually. You know how rare viable males are. Most women never even meet one, let alone have the chance to conceive."
Eva's expression softened. "I understand. But that's his choice to make when he's grown."
"If I wait for the Matriarchy's breeding program, I'll die childless like most women," Amara said, her typical cheerfulness giving way to something more vulnerable. "At least this way, the child would stay in our family."
Andrew, floating in the lukewarm bath water, processed this conversation with growing unease. In this world, his reproductive capacity wasn't just valuable—it was precious beyond measure, a resource women literally died without accessing.
The change in their circumstances arrived as swiftly as the Matriarchy's black delivery vehicle, which rumbled to a stop outside their building one afternoon. Two uniformed women carried up crates of supplies—fresh vegetables, protein packs, purified water, and even small luxuries like chocolate that Andrew hadn't seen in their apartment before.
Eva stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as the deliveries continued. "This... this is too much."
"Not according to your allocation, citizen," replied the delivery woman, checking her tablet. "Male cultivator classification A-3 entitles your household to premium rations. You've been upgraded."
Neighbors' doors cracked open along the hallway, eyes peering through the slits as the bounty entered Eva's apartment. When the delivery women departed, Eva quickly shut and locked the door, leaning against it as if expecting someone to break it down.
"They're all watching," she whispered to Amara, who was already tearing into a chocolate bar with unrestrained glee.
"Let them look," Amara mumbled through a mouthful. "What can they do?"
Eva moved away from the door, picking up Andrew from his makeshift crib—a drawer lined with their softest clothes. "They could report us for hoarding. They could try to... to take him."
"They wouldn't dare." Amara's expression hardened, all playfulness vanishing. "Everyone knows what the Matriarchy does to anyone who harms a viable male. Remember what happened to the Kazinsky family in Building C? Three generations executed because their grandmother tried to steal that baby from the hospital."
The tension in the apartment eased gradually over the following weeks as they settled into their improved circumstances. Eva and Amara continued their shifts at the neighborhood bar—a dingy establishment that served synthetic alcohol to women seeking momentary escape from the bleakness of daily existence. But now they returned to a home stocked with food, their faces less gaunt, their steps lighter.
One evening, after her shift, Eva found Amara dancing around the apartment with Andrew in her arms, spinning him gently while singing an old lullaby. She stopped when she noticed Eva, but didn't set Andrew down.
"Look at our little provider," Amara cooed, peppering Andrew's chubby cheeks with kisses. "Barely three months old and already taking care of his family better than any man in the old world ever did."
She kissed his forehead again, then his nose, each cheek. "When you grow up," she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "I'm going to thank you properly. Kiss you right on your little man parts for all you've done for us."
"Amara!" Eva snatched Andrew from her sister's arms, her expression thunderous. "That's inappropriate. He's a child."
"Relax," Amara flopped onto their bed, stretching languidly. "I'm just joking. Mostly." She winked at Andrew over Eva's shoulder. "Besides, it's years away. And he's the reason we're eating real food instead of synthetic protein paste."
Eva cradled Andrew protectively, her glare boring into her sister. "His value isn't just what he can provide. He's a person."
"A very special person," Amara agreed, unrepentant. "One of maybe fifty viable males in this entire region. You can't blame me for making plans."
Andrew, trapped in his infant body but processing everything with adult comprehension, felt a cold unease settle in his stomach. In this world, he was currency, a resource, a treasure—everything except simply human.
With each passing week, Andrew's motor skills improved, though not without the frustrating limitations of his infant body. During moments alone when Eva and Amara napped or busied themselves with chores, he practiced focusing his eyes on the few books scattered around their small apartment.
The cooking book became his first target—a volume with a faded cover showing vegetables he didn't recognize. Eva had left it propped open on the table, and from his position on a blanket nearby, Andrew concentrated on making sense of the text.
Relief washed over him when he realized the writing system was essentially English. The alphabet contained familiar shapes, though some letters featured slight variations—the 'A' had an extra line, the 'R' curved differently at its leg. After several days of examination, he could decipher most words with relative ease. Recipes for "protein-enhanced bread" and "synthetic egg substitute" filled the pages, alongside preparation methods for vegetables he'd never seen in his previous life.
This discovery eased one of his greatest fears—that he would be trapped in a world where even communication through reading and writing would be denied him. At least now he knew that when his body caught up with his mind, literacy would come easily.
The sisters' casual nudity, however, remained a constant source of discomfort. As summer blazed on, clothes became increasingly optional in their apartment. Eva and Amara moved about completely naked, their bodies glistening with sweat in the oppressive heat.
"Why waste water washing clothes when it's this hot?" Amara had reasoned one afternoon, stripping completely after returning from her shift. She'd tossed her work clothes into their single drawer and sprawled across the bed, spreading her limbs to catch any hint of breeze from their cracked window.
Their work attire, when they did dress, consisted of minimalist garments that covered only what society deemed absolutely necessary. Eva favored a simple wrap that bound her breasts and a short skirt that barely reached mid-thigh. Amara opted for even less—a thin halter that strained against her chest and shorts that disappeared beneath the curve of her buttocks when she moved.
"The customers tip better when they have something to look at," Amara had explained to Eva, who rolled her eyes but didn't disagree.
One evening, Eva sat cross-legged on the floor with Andrew, helping him practice sitting upright. Her naked form loomed large in his field of vision, sweat trickling between her breasts in the stifling heat.
"You're getting stronger every day," she encouraged, steadying him with gentle hands when he wobbled.
Amara burst through the door, her minimal work clothes clinging to her damp skin. "Inspection tomorrow!" she announced, kicking off her sandals. "The Matriarchy is checking all cultivator households."
Eva's posture stiffened. "Official or surprise?"
"Official. They sent notices to the bar." Amara peeled off her halter top, her breasts bouncing free. "We need to clean this place up. They'll be evaluating our living conditions for cultivator standards."
Eva lifted Andrew, cradling him against her bare chest. "What are they looking for?"
"Adequate space, nutrition records, developmental tracking." Amara wiggled out of her shorts, now completely naked. "Basically making sure we're worthy of raising him."
Andrew observed the sisters' sudden flurry of activity—Eva organizing their ration packages into neat rows while Amara scrubbed the sink until the rust stains faded. Their naked bodies moved efficiently through the small space, concern evident in their hurried movements.
As night fell, they collapsed exhausted onto their shared bed, positioning Andrew between them as usual. The heat made sleep elusive, and Andrew lay awake, acutely aware of the Matriarchy's imminent evaluation. Tomorrow, strangers would assess his value to society, his development, his future—all while he remained powerless to influence their judgment, trapped in the body of an infant with the mind of a man.
The Matriarchy officials arrived precisely at noon, their crisp black uniforms a stark contrast to the faded walls of the apartment. Three women entered with tablets and scanners, their faces impassive as they methodically examined every corner of the small living space.
The lead inspector, a tall woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun, directed her attention to Andrew immediately. Eva stood nervously beside his makeshift crib, hands clasped at her waist while Amara hovered nearby.
"Cultivator A-3, six months of age," the inspector recited, running a scanner over Andrew's body. The device beeped and displayed readings that Andrew couldn't see from his position. "Physical development appears within acceptable parameters."
The second inspector documented their food supplies while the third measured the room dimensions, muttering calculations under her breath.
"You understand this is a mandatory assessment," the lead inspector stated, not looking up from her tablet. "Male cultivators must demonstrate appropriate developmental progress at each six-month interval."
Eva nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"The next evaluation will be conducted in precisely six months. We expect to see continued progress in motor skills, vocalization, and cognitive development." She finally looked up, her gaze clinical as it swept over Andrew. "Your ration allocation remains at premium level provided the cultivator continues to thrive."
After twenty tense minutes, the officials departed, leaving behind the scent of antiseptic and authority. Eva collapsed onto a chair, exhaling loudly while Amara performed a little victory dance.
"We passed!" Amara twirled, her skirt flaring. "Six more months of premium rations!"
Andrew watched their relief from his crib, his mind wandering. These evaluations meant little to him beyond the momentary disruption. His current helpless state frustrated him—unable to speak, barely able to sit unassisted, entirely dependent on Eva and Amara for everything.
But this wouldn't last forever.
As the summer heat gave way to autumn's cooler embrace, Andrew found himself contemplating his future in this strange world. The restrictions of infancy were temporary inconveniences. Soon enough, he would walk, talk, and establish his own life. The adult knowledge locked within his infant brain provided him a roadmap others lacked—he understood the value society placed on him not as a burden, but as an advantage he could leverage.
Nighttime brought Eva and Amara's whispered conversations, unaware of his comprehension as they discussed the future.
"When he's older, the breeding requests will come," Eva murmured, stroking his hair as he pretended to sleep. "The Matriarchy will demand access."
Amara snorted softly. "They'll have to get in line behind me."
Andrew processed these exchanges with detached amusement. Their world's desperate shortage of fertile males had created a sexual economy where he represented the ultimate prize. Eventually, women would compete for his attention, his genetic material, his favor.
While the sisters worried about Matriarchy regulations and breeding programs, Andrew's concerns were more practical. He needed to reach an age where he could exercise choice, where his adult mind could finally match his physical capabilities. The coming years would require patience as he navigated childhood in a body that housed knowledge far beyond its years.
He had no intention of becoming merely a "bread machine" as the Matriarchy might desire. The biological imperatives of this world aligned conveniently with the prospect of enjoying encounters with beautiful, willing women. The competition for his attention—sometimes comical in its intensity even now—would only grow fiercer as he matured.
For now, though, he remained trapped in infant helplessness, biding his time while the world moved slowly around him. These mandatory evaluations and the sisters' anxieties were merely the background noise to his internal countdown—marking time until his body caught up with his mind.