Two women, their smiles strained and their eyes slightly wide with amazement, stared at a two-year-old toddler. The boy was watching TV and laughing. No, he wasn't just laughing—he was cracking up, rolling on the floor, wheezing and snorting with delight, flailing his little limbs.
What had him in stitches was a show about the failure of a program aimed at artificial insemination and gender 'programming.' Specifically, his wild laughter erupted after the presenter said, "Despite the staggering investments from giants like Stark Industries..." Before that, the boy had simply been staring at the screen with a look of profound bewilderment.
"Judy," one of the women whispered to the other, "Why is he laughing so hard at documentaries? Should we… I don't know, take him to a psychologist? Or maybe to church?"
The other woman shot her a sharp look from piercing blue eyes and hissed, annoyed, "Betty. He's a boy! How many times do I have to tell you? A boy! They're all like this! Trust me—I practically grew up with my cousin. He was weird too at first. They're all like this. This is normal. Ours isn't even fussy, and he's super smart. That's what's throwing you off! What were you doing at his age? Eating sand in the sandbox and babbling nonsense! And our little one? He's reading books! Already knows all the letters…"
Her gaze softened, shifting from annoyance to a dreamy look, her frustrated whisper now tinged with cooing. "And when he comes up to me with a storybook, pointing with his tiny finger and saying, 'Mommy! Read!'—ugh, he already speaks better than those apes you work with! I'll take you to a psychiatrist, but our baby? He's a genius, you hear me?"
At that moment, the boy stopped rolling around, let out a surprised squeak, and looked at the women with a pout.
"I peed…" the toddler said in a small, forlorn voice. He hesitated, then added even more quietly, "And pooped…"
Oh, the shame. Goddess and Emperor, how humiliating. I'm a big boy now; I use the potty all by myself! But I held it in because of that show, and when I finally pieced together what kind of world I'm in... Well, let's just say I got a bit too excited. Yeah…
While they scrubbed my backside in tandem—ugh, the shame. The first twenty times or so were the worst, but now? I don't even care anymore. I mean, I literally can't wash myself properly yet. Dressing? Sure, I can manage that. Thankfully, my clothes are in the lower drawers, so grabbing fresh underwear or a shirt and pants isn't a problem. But taking off a shirt or sweater? Nightmare. My arms are weak, clumsy. And anything involving the adult stuff, like baths? Completely out of my league.
Back in my previous life, when I read stories about reincarnated kids who became aristocratic leaders, brilliant scholars, or master swordsmen by age three… I always wanted to skip those parts while shouting, 'BULLSHIT!'.
Dude, I can barely talk right now at two years old. My tongue doesn't cooperate, my vocal cords feel stiff, and let's not even discuss coordination. Picking my nose? That's a saga filled with pain and disappointment. And here you are talking about changing the world in diapers.
Ahem… Sorry for the rant. Let me give you a quick summary of my situation.
So, as you've probably guessed, I'm a reincarnator or transmigrator. Died in my old world at a relatively mature age after living a pretty standard life: kindergarten, school, army, work, trade school, more work, college, family, kids, work, work, work… and then death. Lived, lived, and then died, you know how it goes.
Everything after that was a blur—like coming out of anesthesia. I started becoming self-aware around the age of one. Before that, it was all dreamlike: faces, voices, things being given to me, funny moments, sad moments, hunger… Very chaotic. It took days, maybe weeks, for my consciousness to fully "turn on." Perception and self-awareness became sharper, fuller, more coherent.
And that's when it hit me: not only was I alive, but I was also a baby. That realization shocked me so much that my moms got concerned about their little one's strange behavior. Oh yeah—moms, plural.
At first, I thought I'd been born into a family of lesbians. I was already brainstorming a list of quips and comebacks to every smartass that would tease me over it. But, over time, as my understanding of the English language improved, my opinion shifted and imagined verbal battles got postponed. Turns out, yes, they're lesbians, but not by choice. And they weren't as hardcore feminists as they seemed, nor as crazy. I'll get back to that in a bit.
In my previous life, my English was limited to "London is the capital of Great Britain." Russian was my native language, and I was fluent in German, thanks to my grandmother (a German) and my grandfather, who brought her over from Berlin. But I never got around to properly learning English—it felt like too much effort. Most video games without a Russian localization had German options, and the scraps of English I knew were enough for work. That was enough for me.
So yeah, understanding the people around me was a challenge at first. Thankfully, conversations with professional booger eaters and poop slingers, that were my peers, involved simple phrases, so they weren't completely incomprehensible.
As I was saying, it turns out, in this world, men are not only the weaker sex, but they're also significantly outnumbered. And judging by the behavior of the women here, the first point is very much a result of the second.
My suspicions were confirmed when Betty's work bonus allowed our little family to get a TV. No matter what channel you flipped to, it was all women—girls, ladies, grandmothers—and only rarely a man. And when men did appear, they were delicate, over-groomed, and not the least bit rugged. After my first few dozen encounters with them, I developed an eye twitch and a reflexive urge to mutter baby curses. Thankfully, one show featured a proper manly man in a classic suit. Well-groomed but without garish colors or excessive makeup. That gave me hope that I wouldn't be gifted makeup and shawls for every birthday.
Once I understood all this and a few more things, I felt guilty for jumping to conclusions and thinking poorly of my moms. But come on, hear me out, the fairy tales they routinely read to me were wild!
Here they are about handsome princes trapped in towers by evil dragonesses/witches/queens, and they're rescued by a princess wielding a two-handed sword, her younger sister (a powerful mage), and their best friend (a sharpshooting archer). A bit unconventional but alright.
They slaughter the forces of evil, barbecue the dragon, turn the witch into a pincushion, and take turns carrying the prince back to their castle, where he swoons over their bravery. If the story ended there I'd say: 'laying a bit thick there, aren't you?'.
But it doesn't end there, does it?
Oh, no! The prince and the princess don't just marry and live happily ever after.
No, no, no! He marries all three of them! Or four! And if it's an educational fairy tale recommended by the ministry (I learned about them later), then it's six or eight wives total.
I think by that point the opinion 'what the fuck is wrong with you, woman?!' is more than justified. After all she waxed poetically about unconventional gender roles and virtues of feminism throughout the book and now decided to stuff it with polygamy fetish?! Wtf?
At first, I hoped that I'd misunderstood due to my limited language skills. But no. This world is just… like that.
So having no clue about 'common sense' about this new world, it was no wonder I thought that my moms were a hardcore lesbian couple with a penchant for harems and a few screws loose.
I was scared shitless for a bit back then, cuz of it. My moms were crazy, their stories were crazier and on top of that both of them were definitive shotacons! What else was I supposed to think when coo'd and aww'd at my pee pee at every chance.
Ahem. Got sidetracked again, sorry. Anyway, as I was saying—my moms turned out to be quite normal women, with some adjustments for this world, of course.
Betty is tall, has dark brown eyes, and a sporty figure. Her demeanor is a little stern, and she works as a cop—the breadwinner in our family.
Judy, on the other hand, is half a head shorter, with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a bit of post-pregnancy softness. Yeah, she's the one who actually gave birth to me. She's a stay-at-home mom, running the household, managing the budget, and doting on me 24/7. Sweet and kind by nature—unless someone dares to criticize or upset her precious "little munchkin."
We'd go on evening walks when Betty wasn't working, they'd spoil me, play with me, read me stories. Honestly? I was happy with them.
And yes, play. I might not be a child development expert, but in my past life, I was the father of three, so I knew a thing or two about healthy growth. I "played" with my moms to the best of my ability, crawled around, toddled here and there, babbled, tried forming words—all to ensure my tiny body developed as it should. But! None of that extreme stuff like "power training" or spending hours in a library absorbing knowledge like you see in some reincarnation novels. Kids shouldn't even be standing too early, not until they're at least six months to a year old, to avoid messing up their joints and bones.
So, I acted like a regular kid. Sure, maybe a bit precocious—still careful with the cruel mistress called gravity, not shoving fingers into sockets—but still, just a child. The only "advanced" things I allowed myself were getting potty trained remarkably quickly and starting to learn to read. Well, "learn" might be overstating it. I'd grab a book, waddle over to one of my moms, and point at words, going, "Mama, what's this say?" or "Mama, read me a story!"
I had a solid plan for this new life: enjoy it. In my previous one, I had a family, kids, and a mountain of responsibilities. Work, work, and more work to pay for their education, arrange weddings, and all that jazz. In this life, I aimed to kick back. Indulge in hedonism. No serious relationships, just a chill job that covered the basics. Travel. See the world.
Everything seemed to align with my brilliant plan. This world's gender imbalance—far fewer men than women—meant endless perks and privileges for the "weaker sex." So much so that white, cisgender males from mid-20th-century America would've hung themselves out of jealousy.
First, hefty government subsidies for families like ours. Enough that neither of my moms technically needed to work.
Second, I had personal grants—money deposited into an account in my name at birth—that would grow to the equivalent of a hundred grand by the time I hit adulthood.
Families with sons got free public transportation, free healthcare, and heavy discounts on higher education. They even offered mandatory psychology courses to parents, so they'd know how to properly care for their "delicate" boys. Basically, if you had a son, your whole family hit the jackpot.
Socially? Even better. Families with boys were envied, but politely so. Everyone wanted to be friends with you, invite you over, and advance your career. Boys were born in maybe one in ten families, so marriage proposals started rolling in before the kids could even walk. My birth, it seemed, had turned my mom Judy into a walking lottery ticket. Her two younger sisters suddenly became hot commodities on the marriage market too.
As for the men themselves? Free transportation (except for taxis, planes, and intercity routes), free healthcare, free education. The government footed the bill for almost everything. Banks handed out loans with laughably low interest rates. Any job in almost any company? You're hired. Just show basic competence, and they'll gently train you up. Having a man on the payroll was a status symbol. A rarity. Like owning a gold-plated Montblanc pen, but cooler.
The law was practically always on the side of us fragile beings with the "elephant" in our pants. Even criminals usually treated men with kid gloves. If a gang of thugs (thug-ettes?) caught you in a dark alley, they'd more likely escort you home safely, scold you for wandering in dangerous areas, give you their phone numbers, and giggle as they left. No joke—I saw a news report about a bank robbery once, where the first thing the robbers did was politely escort all the men and their families out of the building before the police moved in. It wasn't just the strict laws; society itself revolved around protecting men.
Sure, bad things could still happen—people are people, not fluffy angels. Domestic violence existed, though the law would almost always side with the man. But punishment for offending women wasn't extreme unless they went completely overboard. Usually, it was a fine, a restraining order, or the occasional child custody revocation. But if you didn't seriously injure your husband and he wasn't too upset, you'd mostly just get a stern talking-to.
How did I know all this? No covert ninja missions for intel or hacking Pentagon servers with a rotary phone. Just TV, newspapers (which I could just barely read now), and eavesdropping on my moms' chatter. Social workers also visited regularly, checking in and sharing advice.
My moms loved talking about me. It was their favorite topic. Judy gushed nonstop, while Betty was more reserved but still bragged occasionally. Betty was awesome, by the way. A bit tomboyish—she liked slacks, shirts, and generally masculine styles. She often told Judy to quit babying me so much, claiming it'd turn me into a spoiled brat. But when we were alone, she'd cuddle and coo at me even more than Judy did. Probably compensating for her public "tough mom" image. She was the badass, "harsh Matriarch" of the family, after all.
By the way, I'm still getting used to all this gender-role swapping. It gives me occasional mental whiplash. Oh, and yes, there are "reverse feminists" here, though they're mostly pretty chill. For instance, men aren't allowed to serve in the military here, and these so-called masculinists are actively protesting it. Until recently, men couldn't even work in law enforcement, but those same activists managed to get the law changed in some states, so now you can occasionally see male police officers. I overheard Mom Betty complaining about it once, saying it's caused more trouble since some adrenaline-junkie guys insist on doing fieldwork instead of just sitting at a desk. She grumbles about it, sure, but there's this faint tone of approval in her voice too.
Men rarely work in this world. Most stay home, often entirely dependent on their spouses, and not even as active homemakers. Independent guys, though, are generally respected. In my old world, those "dependents" would've been the equivalent of trophy wives living off their sugar daddies. Yeah, something like that.
But anyway! The plan! My plan was solid! It was perfect! And yet, as the classic meme goes: "It's ruined."
I only just realized this—with my spotless baby bottom, no less. Stark Industries. That's right, Marvel. The fact that men here are way outnumbered by women? Means it's Marvel-11 adjacent. A massively popular Marvel fanfic universe inspired by genderbent DC-11. And I, ladies and gentlemen, am living in New York. The same New York crawling with superheroes, supervillains, Thanoses, Galactuses, and who knows what else.
And here's the kicker—I don't have superpowers. Probably. At least, I haven't noticed anything. Unless you count my ability to flash adorable puppy eyes and beg for cuddles, which, let's face it, isn't going to help much against Thanos. And by the time he shows up, I'll be too old for that "ultimate skill" to work anyway.
So, what do we fanfic-savvy Marvel reincarnators say in moments like this? Exactly: "Oh, fuck me…"