“Not bad,” Qian Duoduo replied quickly, his voice calm—maybe a bit numb by now. People often tapped into some unreal level of composure when dodging reality. “It might hurt a little when the time comes. Just tough it out.”
“G-Good, no problem, I’ll tough it out…” Zhao Meiyou stammered, his whole mind in a jumble. He scraped together half a shred of logic. Why was he the one toughing it out? What kind of twisted role reversal was this?
But Qian Duoduo didn’t explain further. He shrugged off his jacket. The archaeologist’s uniform wasn’t exactly form-fitting, but now that his transformed female body was filling it out, the buttons across his chest were straining at the seams. He undid his collar and shot Zhao Meiyou a glance. “What are you standing around for?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he seemed to catch on. “…You don’t know how?” He paused, then added, “Want me to show you?”
“Uh, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou dodged the question. “Can’t you just turn into an Artificial Human like last time?” Artificial Humans could get pregnant too, right? That would cut down on a lot of this hassle—at least it’d dodge any risk of real complications.
“Transformation into an Artificial Human takes a ton of energy, and I’ve got barely any left.” Qian Duoduo glanced down at his figure, as if suddenly getting it. “This body not doing it for you? What are you into?” He went on to explain, “This form’s in the ovulation phase right now, so it might be a little puffy. But that’s when women are most fertile.”
Zhao Meiyou nearly blurted out that it didn’t matter, he wasn’t picky—but he swallowed the words. In 25th-century Metropolis, the big ethical debates had long since moved past human-nonhuman lines. Sex wasn’t even on the prudes’ radar anymore, and the Lower District sure as hell wasn’t some bastion of virginity. Born and bred down there, with a dancer for a mom, Zhao Meiyou had seen and done it all—the stuff he should and shouldn’t.
—But this was one hell of a perk.
Not just a quick fling, but “childbirth.”
Qian Duoduo seemed to read his hesitation. “You don’t want this kid?”
If The Lead Actor or Diao Chan had been there, they’d have laughed themselves sick at Zhao Meiyou’s face. He glitched like a lagging computer and spat out, “I’ll take responsibility.”
“Kidding. No need to get so worked up.” Qian Duoduo sighed. “Relax. Get too tense, and you’ll have trouble getting it up.”
Zhao Meiyou: “…”
“Real humans can’t gestate life past the quantum field threshold. This is just for show—to fool the Site with the birth process. Nothing’s actually coming out.”
“Or do you actually want one?” Qian Duoduo eyed him, clearly joking this time. “I owe the Metropolis Government a fortune. No marriage or breeding rights till it’s paid off.”
Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, Qian Duoduo hooked his tie and yanked him close. They tumbled to the ground, one in front of the other. Qian Duoduo straddled him and went straight for his belt. “Don’t forget, we’re on the run. Butterfly Madam will find this room in ten minutes.”
Most of Zhao Meiyou’s brain was offline, but he latched onto the key point with ruthless speed. “Ten minutes?”
“No time for pride now. Average guy lasts two to ten. Under stress? Even shorter.” Qian Duoduo sized up his package and let out what sounded like a chuckle. “Of course, if you want something edgier, there’s a Site for that. I can take you sometime.”
Zhao Meiyou didn’t even get a chance to talk his way out of it before a slick, warm softness pressed against him.
Any flat surface with two people on it became a battlefield. Right then, the floor extended the bed.
Bullets flew. Blood and flesh splattered.
Zhao Meiyou lost that round, hands down.
Time in the Site was a mystery—who knew if days, weeks, or months had passed. Zhao Meiyou finally got what Qian Duoduo meant by “it might hurt a little” and “just tough it out.”
“I borrowed an ability called ‘Grafting.'”
Qian Duoduo said this as he fished a cigarette from his pack and lit up. Zhao Meiyou was scrambling around the floor for his pants. They’d just escaped Butterfly Madam’s pursuit, scrambling through a Mirror Corridor before crashing into what looked like a changing room. Piles of colorful silk robes littered the ground, dazzling the eyes.
“Brother Qian, smoke all you want post-game, but nicotine’s bad for the baby.” Zhao Meiyou still hadn’t found his pants. He was starting to weigh the odds of streaking through the streets. Just the two of them in the Site anyway—Butterfly Madam didn’t count as people—and any shreds of shame between them were long gone.
Qian Duoduo said nothing. He stepped forward and stuck the cigarette in Zhao Meiyou’s mouth.
Zhao Meiyou tilted his head to look at him. “Mmph?”
The next instant, an indescribable sensation crawled up from his feet, flooding his whole body. It felt like something had gnawed him from head to toe, his lower half exploding like fireworks. “Brother Qian.” His voice came out hoarse. “What the hell did you do?”
“Not me. You.” Qian Duoduo clapped his shoulder and took the smoke back. “‘Grafting’ transfers bodily sensations. Enjoy it.”
Talk about reaping what he sowed.
Forget pants—Zhao Meiyou could barely walk.
Zhao Meiyou didn’t know much about “childbirth.” Physical barriers kept it abstract, more philosophy than fact. Aside from his mom, the only story he’d heard was from The Lead Actor.
About a Site—an S-prefix Cave Site. Bottomless depths, grand yet eerie architecture housing some indescribable colossal creature. “They say it’s covered in eyes that glow weirdly. Anyone who sees the light goes mad,” The Lead Actor had said. “Except one woman.”
Legendary archaeologists were mostly women. “She found a way to stare right at it and keep her sanity.”
“What way?”
“Childbirth,” The Lead Actor answered. “More precisely, the pain of it.”
God said, let there be light.
In labor, she became the light-bringer.
“Birth pain’s the worst agony the body can take without dying. Crudely put, when a mom’s pushing out a kid, she can’t focus on anything else—unless she’s dying, nothing interrupts it. God, many-eyed monster—doesn’t matter.”
Back then, Zhao Meiyou had been intrigued. His ability was Transformation; he’d even considered shifting into a female body to try it. The Lead Actor shut that down with a punch. “Some cocky male archaeologists tried. Ended up with permanent ED. Save yourself the trouble.”
But what had to come, came anyway.
Over months fleeing through the Site, Zhao Meiyou endured Qian Duoduo’s sensations. Hormones hit like explosives—or nukes. The sword of Damocles. Humanity’s most devastating weapon since its dawn. He truly grasped what “women carry a battlefield inside them” meant.
First came the puking. Zhao Meiyou felt like he was heaving up his brains—hell, maybe he did. Once Qian Duoduo’s body gained weight, he slowed down. At first, Zhao Meiyou carried him. “Zhao Meiyou, that hold’s no good—it’s digging into me.” “Brother Qian, survival first—that old hag’s coming, deal with it!”
But they hadn’t gone far before Qian Duoduo leaped down and shoved him away. “Brother Qian?” Before Zhao Meiyou could process, he doubled over, puking his guts out—no warning.
Qian Duoduo backed off a good distance. “Told you, that hold was bad. It was pressing on my stomach.”
Zhao Meiyou retched till his vision blackened and his legs buckled. All he had left was enough strength to flip him off.
Next, the bizarre cravings. No matter how many brain cells Zhao Meiyou had left, he couldn’t figure why he’d crave random crap after hurling like that. He knew the old saying about sour for boys, spicy for girls—but… “Brother Qian.” He’d held out for days before cracking. “Can you transform some food for me?”
They’d holed up in a library. Qian Duoduo had found books on female physiology and set one down to look at him. “What do you want?”
Zhao Meiyou wrestled with it, clinging to his dignity. “…Something sweet.”
Qian Duoduo conjured a chocolate cake. Zhao Meiyou took one look and hurled, dignity out the window. “Not that! I want dirt!”
“…?” Qian Duoduo blinked in confusion. “Metaphor? You broke?”
He snapped his fingers, producing a pile of gleaming gold coins. He cracked one open—chocolate inside.
Zhao Meiyou puked harder. “No.” He felt like he’d vomited his ability to speak too. It took ages to get out a full sentence. “Actual dirt! Dirt! The kind you grow cabbage in! I want to eat dirt!” By the end, he was near tears. “I fucking want dirt!”
Qian Duoduo looked spooked. “Zhao Meiyou, you okay?”
“I feel not okay, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou hit peak breakdown. “Am I dying?”
“Hang on, hang on—I found the pregnancy symptoms section.” Qian Duoduo rifled through the pages. “Yeah, women get weird taste changes… probably micronutrients…”
“Fuck your micronutrients.” Zhao Meiyou was beyond pissed. “I just want dirt. What’d I ever do to deserve this?”
Tricky. Qian Duoduo was at a loss. “But I can’t actually feed you dirt, right? You serious?”
“…We’re in a Site. We could die anyway—urgh—what’s dirt?” Tough-as-nails Zhao Meiyou couldn’t even finish before puking again. His reputation in tatters, the Butcher finally snapped. He bellowed, “Don’t you love me anymore?!”
Qian Duoduo: “?!?!?!?”
Zhao Meiyou burst into ugly sobs. “You don’t love me! You player!”
A massive pot slammed down from the heavens. Qian Duoduo buried his nose in the book until he hit it: “Changes in estrogen and progesterone cause mood swings—random rage or crying fits.”
“…” Qian Duoduo went quiet for a beat. His belly—or hers, rather—was pretty big now. Awkwardly, he bent down, pulled Zhao Meiyou into a hug, and patted his head. Dryly, he said, “I’m here.”
Zhao Meiyou wailed on. “No sincerity!”
“My bad, all my fault.” Qian Duoduo thought fast, grabbed a romance novel, and mangled a line from it. “Love’s harder to hide than murder. In love’s night, there’s noonday sun…”
“…I’ll have you make me a willow coffin at your doorstep, summon my spirit in your room. I’ll write my faithful love, and sing it high into the night of death…”
Zhao Meiyou had no idea when he had cried himself to sleep. When he woke, his throat and head felt like they had exploded together. “You’re awake?” He lifted his head and met Qian Duoduo’s eyes. “Want some water?”
Zhao Meiyou nodded. Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers and handed him a cup of warm water.
“Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou drained the water and felt his emotions finally settle. “Sorry about that. You must think I’m a joke.”
“No need to apologize. I didn’t expect the reaction to be this intense either.” Qian Duoduo said, “The grafting takes about six months. Just hang in there, and once the effects wear off, it’ll be over.”
“Come on, Brother Qian.” Zhao Meiyou covered his eyes and gave a wry smile. “This is all the dignity I have left. At least let me see it through.”
“…You sure?”
“Think of it as consoling me.”
“But you cried so hard. And puked even harder.”
“Then sweet-talk me more.”
“…”
“No way, Brother Qian. After all this, are we still standing on ceremony?” Zhao Meiyou let out a hoarse laugh and reached out a hand. “Come on, hug it out.”
Qian Duoduo sighed, leaned down, and pulled him into a tight embrace.
Half a minute later, Zhao Meiyou was puking his guts out again.
“…Must’ve pressed on his stomach.” Qian Duoduo said, “I’m a bit dense about this stuff. Sorry.”
“No, Brother Qian, your stomach—urgh—is way too fragile—urgh—” Zhao Meiyou felt like he couldn’t even keep a rhythm to his puking anymore. He forced a bitter laugh. “This has gotta be an old problem… You don’t eat properly on the regular, do you?”
“At least I don’t eat dirt.” Qian Duoduo produced a bowl of something. “Made this while you were out.”
Zhao Meiyou glanced at it between heaves. “…What is that, a flowerpot?”
“I cleaned up the dirt you wanted as best I could.” Qian Duoduo hesitated. “A few bites should be fine… right?”
Zhao Meiyou stopped puking, snatched it like he was fighting for lunch in the cafeteria, and shoveled in a big mouthful.
“…Brother Qian, if you’re gonna lie, don’t do it like this.” Zhao Meiyou chewed once, gagged, and barely forced it down. “You think kids from the Lower District haven’t had cocoa powder before?”
“I knew it.” Qian Duoduo sighed and snapped his fingers. A huge cluster of roses burst from the flowerpot.
“This time it’s real dirt.” Qian Duoduo said, “Just one bite. Don’t overdo it.”
Zhao Meiyou crammed a rose into his mouth too.
In the days that followed, Zhao Meiyou came to understand why his mom used to say, “Babies start eating their mother from inside the womb.” Especially since Qian Duoduo wasn’t actually going to birth a child—this all-consuming trade for something unknown hit even harder.
Seven months later, Zhao Meiyou’s reactions had eased up a lot. The two of them had gotten the hang of dodging pursuers too—this thing wouldn’t kill them, so playing it by ear always worked. But Zhao Meiyou’s intermittent blackouts still flared up now and then. Once, he literally beat Butterfly Madam half to death, then burst into tears. Sobbing, he lamented, “Butterfly Madam’s already so miserable… We’re the real scum here…”
Qian Duoduo was unfazed by now. He wiped Zhao Meiyou’s tears while keeping up the punches. “No crying. I’ll go easy.”
“Fine then.” Zhao Meiyou felt like his tears had flowed straight from his tear ducts into his mouth. He wiped his mouth and said, “Bro, can you chop off one of her legs? Looks tasty.”
Butterfly Madam had an exquisitely beautiful face, but her body shifted forms often. This time, she was a spider-like crawler. Qian Duoduo eyed her, unsure which leg Zhao Meiyou meant. “Which one?”
Before he finished speaking, Zhao Meiyou was already drooling as he hacked off a leg. Satisfied, he beat a quick retreat, dragging Qian Duoduo with him.
They had set up a hideout in a concealed spot, stocked with pots and pans. Zhao Meiyou was a whiz in the kitchen. Whenever his mind was clear these past months, he’d been experimenting to improve their meals. He figured spider legs were like crab legs—good braised or in soup. He called out, “Brother Qian, how do you want it?”
In the end, they went with spicy stir-fry: cleaned, marinated, flash-fried in hot oil, then stir-fried again with wine and slow-braised before a final blaze to thicken the sauce. When it hit the table, Qian Duoduo went through the motions like a pro and started heaping praise. “Delicious.”
Maybe the chilies were too much—after two bites, Zhao Meiyou’s eyes started watering again. He waved it off. “Brother Qian, keep eating. I’m fine—this is just the spice.”
Qian Duoduo said nothing. He took half of a hind leg and eyed Zhao Meiyou solemnly.
Sure enough, Zhao Meiyou’s eyes turned on like faucets. The tears started, then morphed into full-blown emotion. “Damn, I’m such a piece of trash. Butterfly Madam’s so pitiful—how can I eat the lady…”
Truth be told, even Zhao Meiyou was numb to it by now. Months of hormonal chaos had thrown his whole system into overdrive. He didn’t want to cry, didn’t feel sad at all, but his body screamed, “Cry! You’re heartbroken!” His soul was probably the only normal part left, trapped in a tumbling washing machine of a body. The tug-of-war created a bizarre scene: Zhao Meiyou devouring the hind leg with gusto, heartbroken over every bite, tears flowing while his heart soared.
The kind of “so good I’m crying” that defined the phrase.
With tears and drool streaming down his chin, Zhao Meiyou looked at Qian Duoduo mid-bite. “Brother Qian, you—”
“I’m not upset. I love you. You did the right thing. Sorry, my bad. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.” Qian Duoduo rattled off the reassurances like a script. He figured he could write a whole manual on coaxing after this. This back-and-forth was how they rolled now. Luckily, Zhao Meiyou wasn’t picky—the options were there, he picked what fit, and they were good. “Want a hug?”
Zhao Meiyou said, “…I was gonna ask if you weren’t eating, could I have that leg? But a hug sounds good too.” He reached out.
Qian Duoduo pushed away the face closing in. “Wipe your hands first. Greasy as hell.”
In the end, both their faces ended up smeared with oil. Zhao Meiyou grinned ear to ear, cackling with glee.
How twisted, how beautiful, how absurd, how profound. In the Site’s uneven flow of time—ten months that felt eternal—Zhao Meiyou and Qian Duoduo lived days unlike any before. It was impossible to say if they were hurtling toward ruin or stripping back to something pure, like a relentless train veering into the wilds under a starlit sky. Pregnancy had its upsides, at least, Zhao Meiyou concluded. The fetus devours your old years, turning you back into a child—goofy, reckless, growing anew.
When the moment of birth arrived, neither was overwhelmed with emotion. They were far more composed than the early chaos, though the pain still exceeded anything he’d imagined. Adaptation, maybe, he thought. Compared to the unknown sorrows and joys, their bodies had long acclimated to the hurt.
It still hurt like hell, though. Zhao Meiyou watched the blood pouring from Qian Duoduo’s body, tears streaming down his face. Qian Duoduo drew a sharp breath, sweat beading across his forehead. He looked at Zhao Meiyou with faint exasperation. “Crying again?”
“It’s the last time anyway.” Zhao Meiyou scrubbed his face. “Brother Qian, you’re losing so much blood. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Blood, tears, sweat—who could say which flowed more? The liquids mingled as crimson seeped from the massive wound, gradually turning clear. In his daze, Zhao Meiyou thought he heard the rush of a river.
Someone tugged his sleeve. He turned. Qian Duoduo stood beside him in his original form.
“The door’s open.” Amid the pure white light, he smiled at Zhao Meiyou. “Let’s go.”
Let’s go, child of the human world.
To the wilds and the river.
Zhao Meiyou smiled too. His soul slotted back into place. He stopped crying.
“Let’s go.”
