THE WOMB PROJECT

Let me be direct with you, my friends, because at my age there is no reason left to decorate the truth.

I am the last of those the Womb produced — that great white machine which humanity invented in a moment of panic and dismantled in a moment of shame.

There were many of us. Very many.
Beautiful, healthy, intelligent — and specifically needed by no one.

Now I alone remain.

And I will tell you how it was.

Not because I want your pity — God forbid. I have lived a good life, better than many who arrived in the world the usual way — in screaming, blood and joy.

Simply because there is no one else left to tell this story.

And it is worth telling.

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I. Cycle Complete

I was conceived on a Monday.
At 09:40 in the morning, if you require precision.

I know this because I read the protocol.

All of us read our protocols — sooner or later. With different feelings. At different ages.

A friend of mine, Claude — also one of the Pure — read his at fourteen and did not speak to anyone for a week. Then he found his voice again. Then he laughed about it for the rest of his life.

That is what correct DNA gives you — the ability to eventually laugh at what at first makes you want to cry.

By that time, science and astrology had achieved a rare symbiosis, when even statistics begins to believe in fate.

The moment of conception was chosen with a jeweller’s precision — ascendant, transits, the biochemical parameters of the donor material.

Everything calculated. Everything verified. Everything recorded.

Only nobody asked me.

Though ordinary children are not asked either.

The only difference is that they at least have the illusion that they were waited for personally.

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II. The Pure

They called us the Pure.

Not with contempt — with a respect in which there is always a trace of fear.

The way one looks at a perfect blade: beautiful, functional — but better not to touch without necessity.

We truly were good.

Tall. Strong. Intelligent without effort.
We learned faster, fell ill less often, lived longer.

Exemplary — that is what they called us more often than our names.

But people looked at us with a double feeling: admiration and distance.

As though at a perfection in which the main thing is absent — warmth.

We envied pregnant women.

Not because we wanted to be inside someone’s body.
But because inside there was already someone who was loved in advance.

Without selection. Without protocols. Without conditions.

Simply because they existed.

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**III. The Greenhouse**

They raised us correctly.

Too correctly.

Regimen. Nutrition. Development. Sleep. Control of emotions. Control of attachment.

Even boredom was scheduled as “time for self-reflection.”

They taught us to be resilient.

And we became resilient.

But not alive in the sense that word is usually understood.

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**IV. Prestige**

Then they began to “integrate” us.

Family competitions. Questionnaires. Tests. Checks.

A Pure child became a status symbol.

Almost like a rare object of ownership.

People wanted us — at first out of pride, then out of love, sometimes out of fear.

Some found in us a family.
Some — a project.
Some — an experiment, convenient to love.

I ended up with those who loved correctly.

And precisely for that reason — cautiously.

Too cautiously for it not to cause pain.
And too cautiously for it to be love.

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**V. The Glass Cube**

I saw it once.

Museum of Medicine.

A white cube behind glass.

My first environment. My first home.

A tour. Children. Laughter.

“Born from a coffee machine,” someone said.

Laughter.

Ordinary.

That is how tragedy disappears — it becomes background.

And then I understood:

The Womb did everything correctly.

Temperature. Light. Nutrition.

Perfectly.

But a machine does not know how to wait.

And it does not know how to love.

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**VI. The Beginning of the Journey**

The project was closed quietly.

The wombs were dismantled.
The Pure became ordinary people.

Almost.

We simply lived longer.

Sometimes that is the entire difference between fates.

This morning the system informed me that my life cycle is complete.

I closed the application.

Outside the window a woman was holding a child.

He was laughing.

And at that moment I understood:

I have never been anyone’s.

But I can still hope that in the next life someone will wait not for the result.

But for me.

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**THE WOMB PROJECT**
**Novella No. 1 of the INCUBATOR cycle**
**Iskandar Kadyrov**
**2026 ©**