Episode 2 - Are You My Father? (1)

When I opened my eyes again, the world was a blur. And that blurry world was something I'd already experienced once before.

"Waa! Waa! Waa!"

And then, against my will, the cries burst out of me.

Am I... reborn again...?

The sensation of my body growing cold as the Megantereon's fangs pierced me was still vivid, yet now my body was soaked in warm, wet amniotic fluid.

Along with that came the warmth of soft hands cradling me.

Through my hazy vision, I saw a woman's face, panting and utterly exhausted.

She looked far more human than those from my previous life. A long, low face. A broad, flat nose. Coarse hair sparsely covering her dark skin.

Too human to call an ape, too rough to call human.

No way...

My blurry eyes couldn't make her out clearly.

Yet I knew. From museum reconstructions. From illustrations in papers. From countless imagined portraits based on DNA analysis.

She matched the face etched in my memory from some ancient human lineage, uncannily so.

...Homo erectus?

The moment the name surfaced, sensations overwhelmed my newborn body.

The warm scent of blood. The smell of wet earth. Faint smoke wafting from deep in the cave.

And her low, ragged breathing as she looked down at me.

I couldn't stop crying.

"Waa! Waa!"

Amid the involuntary wails, I accepted one truth.

I had been reborn.

Across 500,000 years, into a body a little closer to human.

The biggest realization in this new body was why Homo erectus could spread from Africa across the world.

"My fingers move like nothing before..."

They were long, dexterous, and I could apply precise force right to the tips ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as I wished.

Thanks to that, I could weave grass stems more tightly, skin beast hides thinner, and direct force far more accurately when breaking stones.

And the result was right in my hands.

A handaxe with symmetrical blades on both sides.

It wasn't perfect. Compared to the sleek Acheulean handaxes in modern museums, it was still crude, with rough edges here and there.

But it was a huge leap from the choppers and Oldowan tools I'd made in my previous life.

With these hands, maybe I could make all sorts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of things I couldn't before.

Especially that one I'd only thought about so far...

Then, Mother's voice echoed from our cave home.

"Pretty Eyes! Come in now!"

I set the handaxe on a leather scrap and looked up.

Mother stood at the cave mouth.

Dark skin. Broad shoulders. Wild, tangled hair.

And expressions far clearer than those in my previous life.

She waved her arm grandly, calling me again.

"Pretty Eyes! Dark! Come in!"

Pretty Eyes. That was my name now.

Like before, my eyes were purple, so probably named for them.

Or more like a label than a proper name.

The language here wasn't refined yet.

Though definitely advanced from my previous life.

No longer just cries or gestures.

Short words existed, and stringing them made basic meanings.

But sentences? Still rough.

Just simple, primitive—like sticking "sky" and "water" for "rain"—and even then, without gestures or expressions, meanings were unclear.

Luckily, culture was immature too, so this sufficed for survival.

"Coming!"

I called back shortly to Mother.

She nodded, satisfied, and headed deeper into the cave.

Second time around, I accepted her as Mother naturally.

Partly because her face was more human-like.

I glanced at the sky one last time.

The sun dipped behind the rocky hills.

Red light stretched across the dry grasslands; distant unknown beasts lowed.

Smoke drifted lazily from the cave, silhouetting bolas, leather cords, and sinew on the shallow-dug wall in the firelight's flicker.

On the opposite side, meat and bones wrapped in leaves and buried in mud.

In all this, I felt the legacy I'd left enduring through eons.

But my only kin here was Mother.

Unusual—early humans typically lived in bands of ten to dozens.

Mother roasted fish skewered on a branch over the fire.

She pulled off a slightly charred one and handed it over wordlessly.

Only when I started eating did she touch her own.

She cared for me alone like this.

Hunted alone. Gathered alone. Processed stone tools alone. Twisted cords alone.

Even Bear Grylls dropped here couldn't match her survival skills.

But why she lived alone? No clue.

Not exiled or defective—she hunted, gathered, drove off beasts while raising young me, flawlessly.

No way a talent like that got cast out.

Tribe wiped out, maybe.

Munching the fish head, that thought crossed my mind—then Mother spoke.

"Pretty Eyes. We move."

"Move? Where?"

"Far place. Follow river up."

River? One nearby, about 50m wide, teeming with fish and attracting animals.

"Why?"

"Dry season comes. Bad one. Go Athi."

I frowned instinctively.

Last life, that dry season led to my Megantereon brawl and death.

But then came a bigger shock.

"Meet your dad there."

"Huh?"

I had a dad?

"Yes. Your dad."

Mother pointed upstream with her fish bone.

"Big water. Unfading land. He's there."

"Why not live together?"

She paused, then answered matter-of-factly.

"Food scarce. All together, hungry."

"..."

"Rain, scatter. Dry come, gather. Big water."

Then it clicked.

Not full bands. Seasonal dispersal and regrouping.

Scatter in plenty, converge at unfailing water in drought.

Modern terms: seasonal nomadism.

Bluntly: humanity's first weekend couple... no weekends, so dry-season couple?

The thought felt oddly weird.

I had a father. Obvious, yet alien.

Previous life, no such concept. Tribe raised all young communally; paternity irrelevant next to who hunted or gathered.

Breeding was orgiastic; parentage unknown.

Here? Different.

Mother knew she birthed me. Remembered the father. Knew his whereabouts.

Just that felt more human.

"Go, meet?"

"Meet."

Short reply. She patted my head.

"Pretty Eyes. Like dad."

I gazed into the cave's outer dark.

River upstream. Unfading land.

There, this body's father waited.

Prep didn't take long.

Life here was nomadic. Resources finite, rivals plentiful—constant motion.

This cave? Just a periodic villa.

Pack light, ready to move anytime.

Ditch the rest; remake easy tools on-site.

Among few essentials: Mother dug live embers from fire's depths.

She nestled them in dry mushroom and rotten bark, wrapped in thick hide.

Ember. Priceless beyond any tool.

Knap stones for blades, snap wood for spears.

Fire? Not on demand.

Rain, damp, wet hands—rekindling one ember risks life.

Bola hung on cave wall. Must take.

Its stones: selected, bound in leather—hard to replicate.

Sinew too. Bone knife from ground bone—too good to toss.

My gaze hit the handaxe beside it.

First tool in this body. Inferior to Mother's, but mine.

I picked it up.

Imperfect. Blades slightly off-balance, grip rough.

But enough for me.

My first real tool. That alone gave this crude rock meaning.

Plus, flint—rare nearby.

I wrapped it in leather, tied to waist.

Mother glanced.

"That. Heavy."

"Need."

"Stones plenty."

"Mine."

She stared, then lips twitched up faintly.

A smile. Clearer than previous life's approximations.

Half teasing, half proud.

"Pretty Eyes. Likes stones."

"Not like. Tool."

"Likes stones."

"..."

No rebuttal.

I checked the handaxe's sway pointlessly.

Mother nearly done. Dried meat chunks. Mud-baked leg bones. Peeled, dried roots. Water in beast bladder. Embers.

All packed neatly in back-slung leather bundle.

I admired inwardly.

She did all this solo.

Beyond strength or skill.

She knew survival. What to keep, ditch, remake.

This era's expert.

Obvious, really. Non-survivors don't mother.

Birthing, nursing, protecting young years here? Proven monster.

I grabbed my gear too.

Half her height, but I had to carry.

No longer infant. Walked, ate, made basic tools.

So, load up.

Child labor? Two million years off.

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[Homo erectus crafting stone tools [AI generated]]