“Just wondering,” Kaelen replied, dangling kir legs over the edge of the platform. Below, clouds parted to reveal a patchwork of green farms and silver reservoirs. “What was it like when people were… split?”
One night, kai sneaked into the Old Archive—a dusty dome on the city’s lowest tier, where pre-Equilibrium artifacts were stored in cold storage. Kaelen had a curator’s pass, courtesy of a secret fascination. The archive smelled of metal and time. Rows of glass cases held things: a high-heeled shoe, a necktie, a note written on paper that said, “You throw like a girl.” futaworld
Kai closed the drawer and walked back up through the garden decks. The night air smelled of jasmine and ozone. Lior was waiting on the sky-dock, holding two cups of spiced tea. “Just wondering,” Kaelen replied, dangling kir legs over
“Limiting,” Lior said flatly. “Half the population could get pregnant. Half couldn’t. They built whole careers, whole wars, whole poems around that accident of birth.” Kaelen had a curator’s pass, courtesy of a
But what made Kaelen stop breathing was a small, unlabeled drawer. Inside, two photographs. One showed a group of people in stiff suits, all with flat chests and angular jaws—captioned “Board of Directors, 2023.” The other showed a circle of people in soft dresses, holding infants—captioned “Mothers’ Collective, 2024.” They looked like different species. But their eyes held the same hunger.