Introduction to Amazonia

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Human history is rich in myths, legends, and visions of the future. One of the most fascinating ideas that has persisted through the centuries is that of the Amazons – proud female warriors who rose up against patriarchal structures and fought, lived, and ruled in a society of their own. Whether they actually existed in ancient times or were the product of a mixture of narrative, symbolism, and exaggeration remains a matter of debate to this day. Yet they have found an indelible place in people's imaginations: women who could be not only equal to, but superior to, men in battle.

Juxtaposing these ancient images of the Amazons with the futuristic visions of a 21st or 22nd century female warrior army, as they might emerge in dystopian scenarios, a fascinating comparison emerges. While the ancient Amazons still fought with bow and arrow, sword, and shield, it's conceivable in a possible future that entire armies of women will possess

sophisticated weaponry, exoskeletons, drones, and genetic enhancements.

But it's not just the equipment and fighting style that differ; the everyday life, the social order, and the rules by which these two "worlds of female warriors" function could hardly be more different – ​​and yet they share a common denominator: the empowerment of women through combat and power.

 

Everyday life and society

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The Amazons of Antiquity
According to ancient authors, the daily life of the Amazons was strictly structured. Their society was essentially military: children were introduced to the use of weapons at an early age, and physical exercise and discipline determined the daily routine. Clear rituals existed that promoted courage, steadfastness, and

strength. Men played a subordinate role in this society. In some versions of the story, they were tolerated only for procreation, and male offspring were often banished or killed to preserve the purity of the female warrior people.

The Amazons didn't understand everyday life in terms of "domestic" and "combat"—the two were one and the same. Even in everyday life, every woman was a warrior, whether she was hunting, raising children, or trading. The society was small, manageable, community-oriented, and characterized by constant preparation for battle.

The women's armies of the future
In a dystopian future where women have taken over power, however, everyday life is highly technological. The female warriors of a future "Amazonia" would

live in metropolises or militarily controlled city-states, where surveillance, discipline, and state control dominate everyday life. Instead of horses and campfires, there are neon lights, drone surveillance, and virtual training environments.

The society could be strictly hierarchical, led by a female council or an authoritarian leader who makes all decisions. Men would have no equal place in this order, but would be either second-class citizens, workers, or, in some extreme cases, even without rights. The daily lives of female soldiers would be determined by technology, genetic enhancements, and political indoctrination—the goal would not only be to wage wars, but to stabilize the entire society in which women would emerge as the dominant force.

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Equipment and weapons

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Ancient Amazons
The Amazons' equipment was highly sophisticated for the time, but clearly limited by their craftsmanship. They wore light armor that allowed for mobility, often made of leather or bronze. Their trademark was the bow—fast, precise, and deadly. Bows and arrows allowed them to maintain distance and strike from ambush. Shields, spears, and short swords complemented their arsenal.

The horse was a central element of their warfare: mounted Amazons were feared for their mobility and could break enemy formations by attacking and retreating quickly. Their weapons were extensions of

their bodies, and their strength lay in speed, coordination, and discipline.

Future warriors
The armies of the future will possess weapons far beyond what the ancient Amazons could have ever dreamed of. Laser weapons, electromagnetic projectile rifles, drone swarms, and exoskeletons will be standard. Instead of horses, they will use armored vehicles or even biomechanical combat suits that multiply their wearers' strength and endurance.

Many of these female soldiers could be enhanced through genetic modification, cybernetic implants, or neural interfaces. A female warrior of the future could control her drone battalion with a thought or be connected to her unit via an implant to achieve perfect synchronization

The lightness of Amazonian armor is replaced by nanofibers that are bulletproof, fireproof, and self-healing. Their weapons are not just tools, but a part of the soldiers themselves—fused with body and mind.

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Fighting style

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The Amazons
Their fighting style was characterized by agility, speed, and surprise. They relied on guerrilla tactics, ambushes, and the targeted use of long-range weapons. Close combat was also part of their training, but their strength lay in mounted archery, which made them almost legendary. Their courage was glorified in stories: an Amazon never retreated from an opponent; she fought to the end, even when at a disadvantage.

The Warriors of the Future
In a dystopian future, fighting style is determined by technology. Battles are not just physical confrontations, but also information warfare. Holographic camouflage, laser swords, kinetic weapons, electronic warfare, AI-assisted attacks, and nanobots are part of their strategy.

Female warriors would no longer rely solely on physical strength or courage, but on precision, efficiency, and dominance through technological superiority. While the Amazons still fought on battlefields filled with arrows, blood, and sweat, the female soldiers of the future will fight in hypermodern environments: among the ruins of megacities like Neon Berlin, on digital battlefields, and in climatically altered zones where resource wars rage.

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Rules and values

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The ancient rules of the Amazons
The Amazons had clear rules that defined their identity: courage, independence, loyalty to the community. Men were not part of the power structures, but stood outside them. Children were raised strictly, and every woman had to be a warrior—there was little room for weakness. Death in battle was considered an honor, betrayal the worst disgrace.

The new rules of a future dystopia
In a world where women have taken over power, rules are more complex and rigid. Discipline and obedience are paramount. Every woman is obligated to serve the state or the army. Deviations from the system are severely punished, and

is punished not only by death but by erasure from history.

Instead of a spiritual or mythological legitimacy, as with the Amazons, it is a political or technological one: the survival of society in a hostile, destroyed world. New values ​​are obedience to the leader, total devotion to the mission, and the willingness to sacrifice oneself for the collective.

 

Connection and contrast

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There are parallels between the Amazons of antiquity and the futuristic female armies of a dystopian future:

represent the idea of ​​female empowerment and the rejection of a male-dominated order. Both systems emphasize military discipline and the primacy of the female warrior role.

But while the Amazons lived in an environment strongly connected to nature—horses, bows, community around the fire—the warriors of the future are alienated from nature. Their world is one of machines, genetic laboratories, and glass towers. The ancient Amazons fought for their survival as a small community, while the future Amazons may seek to bring all of humanity under their control.

The differences are evident in technology, scale, and ideology: what was once mythological freedom could in the future become a dystopian dictatorship in which women rule, but in a way that is just

brutal and oppressive as the patriarchal systems they replaced.

Amazonia is thus more than a comparison between past and future—it is a reflection on power, gender, and society. The Amazons of the past are a symbol of resistance and self-determination, while the Amazons of the future could serve as a warning that liberation can also turn into its opposite if it results in control and oppression.

Both worlds reflect the same idea – the idea that women have the ability not only to write history, but to dominate it.

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Mara's perspective on the world

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I walk through neon Berlin, and everything about this city seems simultaneously familiar and wrong, as if someone had placed the world under glass and tinted the light beneath it blue and gold. It's early morning, the Spree exhales cold steam, and advertising drones hover quietly above the water, singing promises of a good life in silky-smooth voices—promises that apply only to women here. The sidewalks are dry and clean like opera stages, the facades freshly polished, invisible cleaning robots crawl over the edges like metallic lizards. Under the bridges, in the places where dirt and the forgotten clung in the old world, sit men in gray cloaks, which I initially thought were fabric until I realized they were recycled packaging, glued together to form a kind of skin. They say there are no homeless women in Amazonia; and it's

true, I've never seen one. But I have seen the faces of the men sleeping there, in the wrong temperature of a country that doesn't belong to them, with looks as if they've closed their eyes for too long and the world has moved on. Women walk past them, unmoved, accompanied by two or three feminized men, delicate as porcelain figurines, carrying bags and paying with smart bracelets, murmuring "Yes, Mistress" in soft voices. I've crossed many cities, and nothing seems as silent and loud at the same time as neon Berlin at six o'clock: Silent because of the discipline, loud because of the messages flashing on every surface. Every sign tells you who you are and who you are not.

The first school is located on the edge of the district that used to be called the center, as if everything had to converge on a single center; here, the center has been laid out in layers. A warm golden stripe marks the entrance—girls. A pale, indifferent gray shows the other—boys. There are no shared recesses, no shared paths, and the drones hovering over the school fences bear the inscription: Separation is Care. I already detest this lie before I can finish the sentence. At the golden entrance, girls emerge from autonomous capsules: shiny jackets woven with nanotechnology that reacts to temperature, posture, and emotional state; shoes that massage the ankles; bags that play soft buzzing sounds when opened, so that the owner immediately recognizes her property among hundreds of identical narratives. Girls laugh, show each other the latest lenses for their contact augmented reality, and plan the afternoon: horseback riding on synthetic fields,

debating practice, a visit to the innovation lab where you can program robot arms that pour jam into molds that look like planetary rings. I'm watching a group, and if I didn't know what was happening over there, I might think I was witnessing a clean, perfect morning in a city that apologizes for functioning so well.

Over there is the gray entrance. Boys emerge from the tunnel, accompanied by guards in anorch-like uniforms who pretend to be inconspicuous when in fact they are merely signals. One of the boys, thin, with a shaved head, carries a box containing wrapped loaves stacked on top of each other, all the same, as if cast in a mold. His shoes are too big and rub at the heel. He looks up at the sign depicting a stylized family—mother, daughter, son—all not facing the same direction.

The slogan beneath it: Order begins in the heart. I used to not question orders until I understood that slogans that speak of order mostly thrive on separation. The boys line up, palms up, so that the scanners register their arrival. Those who arrive late lose food points; those who arrive too often lose the right to a night's rest in the communal dormitory and must remain in the "testing hall," where they are taught not to breathe loudly and to leave quietly.

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I know how girls are raised here; I know what they're told. They're told that the world belongs to them because they were born in that number, because they're the majority, because mothers are the future, because men embody the past—or, at best, the fine decoration on the periphery of the big picture. Girls learn early on to speak the language of sovereignty; their school

lessons are saturated with politics, rhetoric, and the logic of allocation. They train their voices so they don't tremble in large spaces, and they learn how to make decisions without question. "Courage is feminine," is written in large letters on the courtyard, and next to it, a carousel of courses: hologram choreography, urban falconry (the drones that look like birds), and self-defense with soft-vibrating electric batons that, in an emergency, stop men without leaving a trace. The girls laugh, they run, and when one falls, a soft carpet breaks her fall. Every surface is a promise.

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The boys' building smells of chlorine and hot metal. Instructions hang on the walls: how to serve properly, how to clasp your hands when waiting, how far apart your feet should be while taking orders, how toshow inclination without indicating activity. Some lessons are "adaptation," some "posture," some "voice work" (they learn to speak softly and with control), plus "basic hygiene" and "property security," a subject consisting of nothing but lists of things they aren't allowed to use: no drones, no capsules, no command words on the public systems. In the workshop, there are devices that look like toys they've been denied: small microcontrollers that can only be activated by girls; pens that turn on when they come into contact with a specific chromosomal signature. The joke no one laughs at is that they're building things that exist only for a segment of the population. The boys know this, and they know they're supposed to know it's a good thing. I see someone practicing the "line formation" leaning slightly to the left because his foot hurts,

and the supervisor taps him on the shoulder without looking up. It's a light tap, and I feel in my back how this lightness supports the weight.

Neon Berlin dresses up this separation as aesthetic. Long mirrors hang in the cafés, making women taller and men shorter; it's not an optical trick, but a decision about the right viewing height. There are "women's lounges" on every corner; where there used to be tables by the window, women now sit and plan their routes through the city, discussing investments, grant applications, and grants for artificial intelligence—the forms are signed with a single swipe of the finger. Next to the entrance is a traffic light: unaccompanied men are forbidden. Accompanied means they must be linked to a women's ID card, digital, a gentle leash. I see two feminized

men in pastel suits, carrying cups on trays that grip their wrists. They balance gracefully, their arms narrow, as if a quiet gong were built into their elbows, necessary for proper posture. A woman pats one cheek, half affection, half test, and he smiles and says, "You're welcome, Mistress," with a warmth so practiced it makes me shiver.

I walk further and stop in front of a toy shop window. This one, too, is divided into two parts. On the left, the girls' world: candy-colored engineering sets, drone construction kits with magnetic connecting points, miniature biolabs, chess computers with beautiful voices that speak like their teachers; armor sets made of foam and glittering protective varnish that teach you the feeling of influencing the world. On the right, the boys' world: serving sets,organizing boxes, miniature kitchens with fixed recipes, polishing sponges in playful configurations, pet-sized cleaning drones that nestle at your feet and beep if you touch them incorrectly. Two children stop—a girl and a boy, perhaps siblings, led by two companions so the leashes don't cross. The girl presses her palm against the window; the sensors indicate a menu in the display case that she can use to kiss the chess program awake. The boy gazes at the polishing sponges as if into a cave. He turns—just briefly—toward the biolabs; and before he can even fix his gaze, his bracelet beeps, and his companion gently pulls him away: "Wrong side, little one." I would never have thought that I could be hurt by that word, so thoughtless, so unusually robbed of its origin: little one, like a thing.Siblings aren't allowed to play together in neon Berlin. They're not allowed to hold hands in public, take the same routes, or eat the same food. The rules are everywhere, and they're engraved in the ground: pink lines for girls to walk on; gray lines for boys to walk on; invisible boundaries between them that you can feel like cold air. I know a family where the mother has two children, a daughter and a son. In the morning, the daughter eats in the sunny part of the kitchen: fruit cut into patterns, proteins that train her muscles, yogurt with golden honey, supplements that sharpen her concentration. The son eats in the pantry, at a narrow table that folds into the wall: two slices of bread, a clear soup with no seasoning, a vitamin block whose color is unappealing. They aren't allowed to watch each other while they eat; cameras scrutinize the paths of

their gazes and count silence against them. It is said that the separation is necessary so that the girls become strong and the boys learn to be of service; I say that separation is a convenient lie, put into the air like a scent, to hide what one must not say: that we cultivate fear in order to call order what is actually power.

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The differences between rich and poor are folded into a strange topography here. All women are rich, they say, and in a statistical sense, that's true. No one lets a woman sleep on the street. There are apartments for them, scholarships, emergency capsules, and funding lines that can be obtained without a face. For most women, the city is a smooth surface on which to roll, like a ball on an inclined track, always upwards. And yet, when I look closely, I notice that there isn't justone class, but degrees of elevation: glittering penthouse women with identical smiles like logos, below the workers of the system, wearing uniforms and issuing orders they didn't invent—but they are all rich in security, rich in opportunity, rich in the feeling that the city was built for them. Men, on the other hand, aren't just poor or homeless—they are graded into a hundred small levels, like minerals in layers. There are the "companions," handsome and fashionable, who live in gilded cages, in keyless suites, constantly supervised, constantly smiling, well-fed, fit, and stylish. You'd think they were happy, but I saw one of them, waking up, suddenly collapse in on itself as the mistress's hologram faded. There are the "assistants," who live in service buildings, cramped but clean, with hard-coded work routes; and there are the "derailed," who sleep under

bridges, no longer supported by any system because they've broken the rules too often or tried too often to imagine another life.

I turn into a side street that doesn't look like an alley because even the casual is designed in neon Berlin. Glass tendrils hang above me, transforming sunlight into electricity by day and glowing in pastel colors at night. In a small square, girls sit on the steps, drinking something that looks like lemon water but is full of tiny, glittering microalgae. A few meters away, a row of boys squat. They are allowed to sit there, in the "admission zone," where they wait to be picked up to carry packages or spend an afternoon holding hands with children doing their homework. A girl steps to the edge of the zone; a boy, noticing the color of her eyes,

straightens up. She says to him, "I need you for two hours. Tennis and then housework." He nods, and his fingers clench so tightly that the bony cones turn white. He stands up, and the border recognizes the transaction—a faint click that reminds me of a dog's neck when you release a carabiner.

In the army, I got used to living with maps in my pocket on which paths were marked in colors: safe, unsafe, possible, forbidden. Neon Berlin is a living map, and I can read it like I used to. Girls' and women's paths are marked in gold, and they connect everything. Men's paths are marked in gray; they end at fences. It's the same on public transport: There are compartments that only women are allowed to enter—there the seats are softer, the windows larger, the displays tailored totheir needs. Men's compartments are functional; after every stop, a cleaning arm passes through and sprays a neutral, almost antiseptic gas. I climb into a capsule that glides me over the Spree; next to me sits a woman who talks to a hologram. A small man rests on her shoulder, his head on her jacket. He is asleep, and I can see the fine hairs on the back of his neck. She strokes them mechanically, like one would a pet that's been quietly resting on the sofa, and continues: "—the investment is in, the permit is in, I need three more guys for the opening, preferably with a neutral expression, no rough edges, no stories." I want to say that people aren't furniture. But I know that sentences thrown into these rooms just settle like dust.Sometimes I stop at the blackboards explaining the rules as if I were seeing them for the first time. "Game segregation: Girls and boys are not allowed to play together. Violations will result in the loss of recreation points." "Food segregation: Girls and boys eat food in separate areas and from separate containers. Sharing or preparing food together is prohibited." "Activity segregation: Sports, art, and music are taught separately. Joint performances are prohibited." I once saw a boy touch his sister's violin one summer evening. He was just holding it, his fingers feeling the varnish as if he could read it. When the drone registered the movement, a projection appeared: "Object not assigned. Right to touch not allowed." There was no siren, but a voice that wanted to remain friendly: "Please put the object down and step back ten steps." He

did that, but he also did something else: He looked into the void, and I recognized in his gaze the point where you start screaming silently because you don't want anyone to hear what you're screaming.

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I walk past a building called the "Prosperity Workshop." Inside, girls sit at tables, learning negotiation, resource management, and the ethics of property. A teacher says, "Prosperity is caring." The phrase is a ribbon you pull through your hair to make it shine. In the courtyard opposite—separated by a wall made of transparent material so you can see but not hear—boys stand in rows, practicing holding trays perfectly level. A gust of wind, and their hands become steady like machines. I can see both at once, and that's the cruelest thing about this city: that it

can force you to see two worlds at once and call it normality.

Women here are all rich—that's how the system defines it, and all the indicators are correct. Housing, health, education, and security are guaranteed. There are governesses for children, there are lawyers for disputes, there are CAPS—cylindrical, autonomous shelters that spring up from the ground everywhere when an emergency is declared; women are automatically entitled to them. Men have to apply, and if they fall on the list of the blameless, they are granted access for 30 minutes on a winter day. I saw the look of a man standing in a CAPS—he was smaller than the room, so withdrawn was he, even though the space was made for him. It's an art in itself to keep people so secure that they don't even realize how

trapped they are—for women, as gifts, for men, as tests.

Female judges sit in large, bright courtrooms. I once attended a hearing. A woman requested the termination of a "service contract" with a feminized man because "his charisma" was no longer appropriate. The man stood next to her, petite, perfectly coiffed, his hands clasped in front of his body, and nodded as soon as the judge's gaze approached. The judge didn't ask him anything but slid a reassurance into the room: "You will be taken care of." By this, she didn't mean freedom, but rather transfer to another household, another hand, another sofa. In the same session, a masculine man was found guilty of attempting to fly a kite with his sister on the roof of their house. It was windy that night. The judge said,

"You have violated the rules." He asked, "Who owns the wind?" Then he was taken away.

I know what it's like when a law touches you, even though it's said to be just paper. I know how to fragment attention with your voice, so that sentences fall into the gaps. I know that power likes to disguise itself as protection, and that the worst thing you can do to a child is not punishment, but the school of small, daily denials. When a boy learns to swallow his laughter because it's too loud; when a sister learns to look past her brother because her gaze would cost expensive points; when food becomes currency, not to be shared. I passed a house with two food chutes mounted side by side in the hallway, one pink, the other gray. There it was, in friendly writing: "Bon appétit!

Remember your role." I file this sentence away in my memory like evidence.

In the afternoon, girls stream out of the learning centers. Their bags are heavy with possibilities, and they carry them lightly. Some climb onto smooth boards that hover just above the ground, steering them with their knees and their gaze, and I could almost smile because there's something childlike in this agility that the rules haven't been able to completely stifle. A few blocks away, a luxury department store opens. The shop windows are minimalist: a dress, a light, a hand emerging from nowhere and setting the fabric in motion. Women go inside, and next to every second one walks a companion who has perfected the faithful gestures. Outside, a man stands with an old violin in his hand. He isn't playing.

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The instrument is silent, perhaps broken, perhaps forbidden. A drone hovers above him, projecting a neutral light shield between him and the door. The sign doesn't say: Forbidden. It says: Not for you. He sits down, places the violin on his knees, and stares into the light that doesn't belong to him.

I continue walking, listening to the distant siren that marks the time every quarter of an hour. There are "men's times," when men are allowed to cross the streets, and "women's times," when the paths are optimized for women. No one calls this change; they call it fine-tuning. I turn into a park. On the left—overlooked by bottle-green domes—girls are practicing team sports. Their voices are powerful, not shrill, they don't shout at each other, they count. The scoreboard rewards team

tactics, not solo runs, and the drones register their heart rates and send them personalized tips: more water, less sugar, sleep five minutes later, breathe deeper into the ribs. On the right, in a slightly sunken hollow, boys sit on benches, practicing balancing objects on their palms—teacups, digital cake stands, books from which they learn nothing. The coach says, "Side stands make the main thing possible." I used to think you could get used to sentences that hurt. But some sentences retain the freshness of a new blow.

I stop because a boy is weaving through the rows. He has a sister on the other side of the park, in pink, with hair like the movement of a flame. He looks there, and I see pure, uncoded longing in his gaze. Then he sets his foot an inch outside the

gray tile. The surface vibrates. A grasping arm, well hidden in the grass, extends and taps him on the shin. He stumbles back, apologizing instinctively, to no one and everyone. His sister doesn't see. Or she pretends not to. I imagine her sitting in her room in the golden light at night and him chewing his bread in the pantry. I imagine them both staring at the ceiling at the same time, naming the same star without saying so, because the star has the wrong sky if you look at it together.

Night arrives in neon Berlin like a change of program. The warm colors become cooler, the voices deeper, and the surfaces tense; everything seems like a cat curled up, content and awake. Men now have an hour in which they are allowed to walk from point to point to secure sleeping places. I follow a stream of them to a

building called the "Men's Waiting Hall." Inside are bunks like drawers. You lie down, the door closes quietly, and a comfort-blue field glows above your face with general messages: "Stay calm. It will get better. You are valuable in your role." Next to the hall, in a narrow passage, stands a man meeting his sister. She is in black, a cut, a shadow, high-achieving. She says, "I'm not allowed to be here." He nods. She pushes a box toward him—a remnant of something that looks too good for him. He doesn't take it. I hear him say, "Come to the bridge tomorrow, just before school." They come apart like two magnets pushed together the wrong way round.

For a long time I thought that a city like neon Berlin could only prevail if the majority refused to look. Now I think the

city isn't hiding all that much. It shows everything, counting on what is shown being seen as nature. Girls are valuable, boys are dangerous or useful, depending on how they bend. Women are rich, men are to be graded. Zero homeless women, zero poor women. The statistics stick like glue. When I walk past the entrances to the underpasses where men are camped, there's a sign: "Please respect the guard quiet zone." It's a request, not a command. Command would be too honest. Please is the word you use when you don't want to be prepared for resistance.

I turn into a street I like because it spans a passage where a piece of old wall is visible. Someone has drawn a sun on it with brittle chalk, as brightly as they could. Above it, in neat handwriting: "Who we are when no one sees us." It's

probably illegal. I know the faces of those who walk around at night with chalk. Some of these faces are girls who fall through the cracks and yet float on top. Some are boys who have learned to keep their hands still and let them tremble at night. I run my finger over the chalk and feel a tiny resistance, like sand. I think that's what resistance feels like: It grinds your teeth, and in the morning you're afraid they've gotten shorter.

The clinics in neon Berlin are temples. I enter one because I want to see how they plan for the future. Women are greeted warmly everywhere. There are lounge areas so soft the air is barely breathable. On the walls, images run in slow motion of girls crossing the city as if they were planets. There's a department for prenatal decisions where the screen quietly

displays the probability of health, of dispositions, of inclinations. I don't ask what is done with a male fetus; I know the processes, I know the terms: recommendation, quotas, social obligation. A doctor says to a woman: "Your daughter will be great." I think: What do you say if it's a son? Perhaps: "We'll take care of it." This "we" is also a place without windows.

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In the evening, I walk across Alexanderplatz, whose name has been abolished and replaced, yet still shines through, as if beneath the neon lay an old, tired light. The advertisements on the facades show women holding the world as one holds a coffee cup. There is a parade: women in uniform elegance, all movements precise but not rigid, a choreography of possession. Behind them,

almost invisible, the entourage of attendants: men carrying handbags, holding umbrellas, adjusting their hair after a gust of wind. A small boy stands with his class at the edge, holding a pennant. The pennant says, "Let us thank the strong." He isn't looking at the parade, but at the strip of tape that attaches the pennant to its pole. The strip loosens slightly; and he presses it down, as if this were the place where it can still take effect.

I could walk away now, take the safe route again, type the password into my bracelet, and lie down under the warm glass of the night. But I stay. I look because I've resolved not to allow this city the satisfaction of going unnoticed. I look because my gaze is the only knife I carry with me. I look and I think: Things can't

stay like this. Not because I despise women—I don't despise. I know where the harshness comes from; I know the stories that have been told only one way for too long. I just think that no one is free if freedom always means that the other must be silent.

Late at night, I walk across a bridge. Below me, the Spree moves like poured asphalt light. A boy leans on the railing, wearing a gray tracksuit, his hands in his pockets, the shoes of too many walks. I stand next to him, not too close, not too far. He doesn't look at me, and I don't look at him. You quickly learn how to position yourself if you don't want to spill misfortune. After a while, he says, as if talking to himself, "She gave me some of the cake today." I don't ask who she is. He says, "She acted like it was nothing. But I

saw how her expression changed. Like when you..." He breaks off because he doesn't have a vocabulary that fits this city. Then he says, "It tasted good." I nod. He: "I didn't eat it all." I: "Where did you put the rest?" He: "In your bag. For tomorrow." We stand there until the drone passes by, scanning us and dividing us into paths. When it's gone, we breathe normally again. He says, "I don't know if I'm sad or tired." I say, "Both are allowed." He laughs briefly, sharply, and then he says, "Not at the same time." I know he's right. In this city, you're only allowed to be one thing at a time.

My path leads me to the edge of a district one doesn't enter unless one has to. There, a woman I know casually has a house where she teaches "cultivation courses." Girls learn to groom their male

companions so they stay beautiful longer. The garden is quiet, almost soothing, if you don't know what's going on inside. Two delivery drones are parked in front of the house; the boxes contain masks, serums, and necklaces that look more like jewelry until you recognize the lock on the end. When the door opens, a scent of vanilla and metal wafts out. A student reads from a tablet: "A good companion anticipates his mistress's wish. He may not speak it out loud, he may only fulfill it." The teacher nods. I think: That's exactly what the boys' textbooks say, just with a different sentence structure. Language here is the reed through which the river is guided.

On the way back, I see my sister and brother again. They're standing five meters apart because the lines dictate it. Betweenthem lies the bridge, which you can't comprehend if you're not here: short yet insurmountable. The sister takes something out of her pocket, discipline forcing her fingers to remain still. The brother doesn't look at her hand. Their arms move to the rhythm of the city, imprinted on every tendon. Then something falls to the ground—intentionally unintentional. A small, round, shrink-wrapped piece of cake. The boy doesn't bend over, he turns away. Another boy picks it up and passes it to him without looking. They're good at this choreography. No one has done anything. I keep walking because sometimes it's better to lean your eyes against the other wall so you can see again tomorrow.What I see, what I observe, is not right. I tell myself so it doesn't die. I remind myself of it when the sirens sound so friendly that one might forget it. I write it down in my mind, as if I would have to show it later, to a commission that wants to prove that everything is fine: the golden entrances, the gray ones, the separate food shafts, the glass wall through which one can see laughter without hearing the words, the shop windows with the drone kits and polishing sponges, the men's waiting rooms with their sleeping drawers, the CAPS that sprout from the ground like tulips for women and like vending machines for men, sometimes empty. I memorize the phrases: "Separation is care," "Prosperity is care," "Order begins in the heart." I'll place them all side by side, and next to them the face of the boy straightening the pennant, and that of the

woman stroking her companion as if he were cloth, and that of the man asking who owns the wind. If I do it in the right order, the image that the city refuses to show will emerge.

I walk until my feet no longer know whether they are carrying me or I am carrying them. I pass a store called "Being & Seeming." Inside, a woman is trying on a coat, a garment that suits her like a story she knows well. An attendant stands beside her, smiling into the mirrors. A salesperson says, "This color makes you..."—he's searching for a word that promises possession without saying the word—"seem limitless." I think of boundaries that are like lines, and how many times I've crossed them. And I think that girls here really can do anything—but

at what price, if the other person pays the bill and no one names the tip?

Later, sitting on the bank where the water breaks up the lights, I hear a girl walk by, whispering into a bracelet, "He didn't smile again." The bracelet suggests a "corrective measure." I want to stand up and tell her that smiling isn't an inch to be raised. I don't. Instead, I talk to myself: Tomorrow I'll walk again, through the same streets, and I'll see again, and I won't stop finding it wrong. I don't know how to change a city that considers itself the final state. But I do know that change begins when someone stops and doesn't stare into the void, but into the place that hurts, and doesn't move away.

In a corner of the shore sits a man folding tiny boats out of paper. Each boat has a number. I don't ask what for. Maybe he's

counting the days he hasn't gone crazy. Maybe the hours he hasn't felt his own weight. A girl stops and watches. Then she pedals away again, as if she's seen an honorable secret. I wish it is. I wish that tonight in her room she looks up at the ceiling and for a few seconds doesn't know whether she's a girl or a person, and then decides on the right thing: both.

I think of tomorrow, of the golden and gray entrances, of the shop window with its split worlds, of the park with its glass wall, of the courts repeating their vocabulary of order, of the houses with their pink and gray slides. I think of the men sleeping under the bridges, of the rainy days when the packaging begins to stick to their shoulders, and of the women smiling in the lobbies because the world was made for them. I think of the girls

practicing their voices and the boys dimming their voices as if they were lamps. I think of the word "care" and all the places where it feels like a knife. I think of my own hands, which have learned to hold weapons, and how to keep them empty when you want to pick up the right things, not the ones that shine.

I get up as the second hour of the night draws to a close. My legs are tired, and I can feel the city in them, as if it had adopted my walking style. I retrace my steps, and now everything seems a little different because something has shifted inside me. It's small, not yet visible, but it's there, and I know it will grow, the way cracks in walls grow when the root of the right plant finds its way in. Tomorrow, a girl will hold her gaze longer on a toy that was never intended for her. Tomorrow, a

boy will raise his hand more often to speak and not lower it when the supervisor catches his eye. Tomorrow, a woman will walk past a café where the traffic light is red for unaccompanied men, and she will think: Why, exactly?

I am Mara. I walk through neon Berlin and I look. I tell myself again and again, so it doesn't fade: What I see is not right. Among all the light bathing this city, there are shadows that are not natural. And I want to remember, so that one day I don't stand at a golden doorway and can no longer see the gray. I want my feet to feel the lines that have been laid beneath us, so that one day I can cross them, not secretly, not as an exception, but in full view of everyone. I have resolved not to tire, not to freeze, not to practice my smile in the mirrors of this city until I believe it

myself. I have resolved that the children growing up here—the girls who are allowed to do anything; the boys who are told that serving is salvation—will one day experience a morning where no drone tells us what is right. It is a small resolution, against a very large city. But cities are collections of habits. And habits can be changed if you are persistent enough and do not forget that people are not furniture, smiles are not a customs duty, and separation is not care, but mostly just convenience in better packaging.

Before I reach the last block, I see the writing on the wall again: "Who we are when no one sees us." I know who I am when no one is looking. I am the one who stays standing. I am the one who rereads the rules and quietly says "no," so often until the no scratches the concrete. I amthe one who will walk through this city again tomorrow, absorbing everything that hurts, because pain is the first proof that something is alive and not simply functioning. And neon Berlin, beautiful as a promise and harsh as a statistic, is alive. It only hurts in the wrong places. If I had one wish, I wouldn't use it for myself. I would wish that a girl and a boy could eat the same bite of cake at the same time, and no one would hear a siren, only the sound of forks. I would wish that a man could ask who owns the wind, and the answer wouldn't be a judgment, but a question back. I wish that prosperity doesn't mean that someone else is standing outside, but that the doors are wide enough for two shoulders to fit through, no matter what you call them. Until then, I'll go. I'll go, and I'll see, and I won't forget that it's not okay. And I refuse to unlearn that. 

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Chapter 1 – The New Order

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Rain pelted down on the deserted rooftops of Berlin as Mara Lenz stopped on the wet asphalt. Every movement was precise, every breath controlled. Behind her stood Luka Weiss, his hood pulled low over his face, his hand tightly gripping a tiny data module, barely larger than a coin.

"This," he whispered, "is the proof. They're developing something that threatens not only us—but the entire world."

Before Mara could answer, spotlights flashed. Three drones hovered over the rooftops, their laser targeting flickering across the alley. Loudspeakers thundered through the night:
"Mara Lenz. Luka Weiss. You are under arrest in the name of the New Order."

A shot rang out. Luka pulled Mara into cover. Sparks flew as projectiles slammed into the wall. Behind the drones, a figure in full armor appeared: Captain Helena Vos. Her eyes fixed on Mara, cold and relentless, a gaze halfway between hunter and former mentor.

Mara felt a lump growing in her throat. Months of escape had taught her never to give up. But now they stood face to face with their past—and the inevitable future.

“You can’t hide forever, Mara,” said Vos, his voice piercing.

“We have to get out of here!” Luka gasped, grabbing Mara’s hand.

 

Together they sprinted through the dark alleys, leaping over crates, taking cover behind crumbling walls. The drones tracked their every step, their laser beams scanning the surroundings. Every breath, every heartbeat was a race against time.

Mara glanced at the data module. These small codes were more than just information—they were a key to Valeria's plans. If they could use it correctly, they might be able to weaken the New Order's control.

"We need to reach headquarters," Mara murmured. "If Dr. Carter can help us, we can make a difference."

Woundnodded as they ran down a narrow alley. "But we're completely on our own. No support, no security."

Behind them another shot sounded, the dronescircledtighter. Mara felt adrenaline rushing through her veins. Her thoughts briefly wandered to the people who suffered under Valeria's rule—women and men who no longer had a voice. Any mistake could mean the end, not just for her, but for many.

Finally, they reached an abandoned delivery entrance. Mara opened the heavy door, pulled Luka inside, and they merged into the shadows of the building. The

sound of the drones slowly faded, but the pounding heart remained.

“That was close,” Luka gasped.

"And it's just the beginning," Mara said, clutching the data module to her chest. Above them, theDrones, invisibleGuardians of order. And somewhere out there, Valeria Sato was waiting, ready to destroy everything Mara held dear and important.

Mara took a deep breath. This was thenew order– cold, merciless – and she had only just begun to challenge them.  

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