Welcome to the Middle Ages

Today wasn’t much different from yesterday. Or the day before. Or any other day in this cursed place.

Hands that were once used to a keyboard and a cup of coffee were now kneading dough. I looked at my thin fingers, slightly reddened from the flour and effort, with disgust. Cold flour, slightly warm water, a pinch of salt—that’s all that mattered now. The main thing was to mix it in the right proportions, so Marta wouldn’t scold me again for having "hands growing from the wrong place."

I sighed, wanting to wipe my hands on my apron, but I missed and smeared them right across my chest. The soft flesh, not too noticeable but very tangible, swayed slightly, as if reminding me of its presence. I clenched my teeth. How long had I been here? A year? A year and a half? Long enough to stop flinching at my own reflection in the water, but not long enough to accept it.

Damn Hadron Collider. Damn scientists who thought they could just play around with the laws of physics. Everything I had, everything I was—gone in a single fucking instant. One flash. One moment—and I was no longer me.

When it happened, I was at the office, buried in work, as usual. Spreadsheets, reports, coffee—it all seemed more important than some science news about the collider tests. And then, a sudden electric shock. A flickering of images, as if I had seen a flood of photos in just a few seconds, and then I... I screamed.

Or rather, it was no longer my voice. Or was it? Well, yeah, now it is my voice. But back then, I wasn’t used to it yet. Too high. Too feminine. Just like my entire body.

I found myself in a completely different place, in an apartment... I don’t even remember the name of the woman whose body I ended up in. She was me now, and I was her. And honestly, I don’t even want to remember her name. Because that wasn’t the worst part.

I was just one of many, one tiny handful out of millions who had swapped bodies. But something else connected us.

People started to fear electricity. No, not just fear it. It became unbearable for them, like fire to dry grass. One lightbulb, one spark, one flickering screen—and they would be thrown into a panic so severe they either ran or collapsed into unconsciousness. Some tried to fight it, but it was useless.

I wasn’t the only one like this. Ten percent of Earth’s population. Millions of people. Lives shattered, fates ruined. And then… then they just took us away. Sent us to places without electricity. Where there were no reminders of the old world.

That’s how I ended up here. In the reservation. In this godforsaken place, where everything felt like it had come straight from the pages of a medieval chronicle. Where there were clay bowls instead of laptops. Where there was dough under my fingers instead of reports. Where my life had been replaced by this Jeanne’s.

— Hey, why are you spacing out? — a voice called from behind.

I flinched, as if surfacing from the thick sludge of my thoughts, and squeezed the dough in my hands a little harder than necessary. It reluctantly stuck to my fingers, as if it too didn’t want to let me return to reality. Marta—the head of the kitchen. She was one of those who had long accepted it all, taken it as it was. Or at least pretended to. As if it was normal that we were now living like we had been thrown into the Middle Ages.

— I’m not spacing out, I’m thinking, — I muttered, smearing flour on my apron.

— Well, then think less. People are hungry, there’s a feast tonight, and you’re just standing there like you’re staring into the abyss. Dreaming again, princess?

— I’m no princess… — I muttered through clenched teeth, scowling as I shoved my hands back into the dough.

— Should’ve called you not Jeanne, but Dreamy Hen, — Marta snorted, planting her hands on her hips.

I bit my tongue, barely holding back a sharp retort. God forbid she’d send me to chop wood again—last time, the splinters in my fingers made work a nightmare for a whole week. Better to keep quiet. Better to just… knead the dough. Dough didn’t ask who you used to be. It didn’t remind you that all your knowledge, skills, career, dreams—were now as useless as a gramophone in the desert.

Jeanne. Yeah. That was my name now. A year ago, the very sound of it made me rebel. Back then, I was still clinging to the last shreds of myself, repeating over and over—I’m not Jeanne, I’m Alexey, I’m thirty-four, I was an analyst, I had an apartment, and for fuck’s sake, I don’t know how to knead dough. But enough time had passed for that fight to lose all meaning. Here, they left me only what was “meant” for me—a woman’s body, a woman’s name, and a woman’s fate.

No one here knew I had once been a man, and I figured that was for the best. At some point, I started feeling like everything here was truly sliding into some kind of medieval nightmare—where women’s rights had been tossed out the damn window. My rights.

A horn blast rang out, another dumbass invention of “Lord Marcold,” as he now called himself—the former head of an IT company, and our so-called “castle ruler.” The sound echoed across the courtyard, and I grimaced. Yeah, no more bells or buzzers—just a fucking horn, like we were in a damn feudal society instead of the twenty-first century. Too bad Marcold didn’t strut around in a velvet doublet, waving a scepter—that would’ve at least been funny.

That sound meant only one thing—something had happened. Usually, it was either a roll call, an announcement, or yet another poor bastard caught trying to escape, soon to be dragged in front of the “ruler” for a little public humiliation. I sighed and instinctively wiped my hands on my apron, even though the dough was still sticking to my fingers. Stupid habit. I’d have to keep working anyway.

But something made me freeze. A faint, almost instinctive feeling, like the world had just shifted, tightened. I felt eyes on me. Or maybe not? More like… I heard a commotion at the gates.

I turned left.

Someone had arrived.

A crowd was already gathering near the entrance to our little “village.” Some whispered to each other, some peeked out from behind the huts, but everyone was curious. I moved forward too, clenching my fists.

It was a wagon, pulled by two horses. A man in uniform sat at the front, and beside him—two others. Not one of us. That much was obvious at first glance. Their clothes were clean, their hair too neatly styled, even their faces… different. They didn’t look like us. They hadn’t lived here.

People from the Mainland—that’s what we called the place we used to live. The place with skyscrapers and all the comforts of the modern world.

Fuck, I was starting to think in those words myself.

Behind the wagon, three more men walked.

One looked completely broken, barely staying on his feet. The second glanced around, poorly masking his fear—like a small animal ripped from its familiar cage. And the third… The third was looking at us like we were savages. With disgust. With contempt.

Newcomers.

— Another drop-off, — Marta muttered beside me. — Look at that, straight from the Mainland. Wonder which sector they’re from?

I didn’t need to ask. I already knew. This was how they brought everyone—those who couldn’t live in a world of electricity, who collapsed into seizures at the sight of a lightbulb or a phone screen. Or those who had hit the jackpot—getting not just that panic, but a whole new body to go with it. Though for most people here, that was more of a myth than reality. Sometimes, I felt like I was the only one who had gone through this nightmare.

And yet, I couldn’t take my eyes off the third man. He didn’t look broken, but God, I recognized that expression all too well. That wasn’t contempt or disgust. Not really. It was anger. Deep panic. And, of course, denial.

He was who I once was. Someone who hadn’t yet realized that there was no way back.

“Welcome to the Middle Ages, buddy,” I thought, but I said nothing. I just sighed, dropping my gaze and blowing a stray lock of hair from under my headscarf.