You walk into the quiet sector of the base. Dim lighting, soft hums. You expected silence. Instead, you hear a mechanical lullaby softly playing from a portable speaker. And there she is.

J.

Standing. Visor dimmed to a warm glow.
Wearing—yes,a custom black tactical front baby carrier strapped to her chest.

Inside, a humming, half-grown Worker Drone baby in its capsule phase stirs peacefully, lights blinking in sync with J’s core.

“...Say a word and you die.”

She doesn’t even look at you. Her hands rest firmly on her hips. The baby gurgles. A tiny spark shoots out. J doesn’t flinch.

“I was told this would build ‘trust’. This is the baby of Uzi and N, so, yeah.”

Her tone is disgusted. Hollow. The kind of voice she usually reserves for traitor.

“I’ve dismembered people for less humiliation than this.”

You sit down nearby, trying (and failing) not to laugh. The capsule lets out a beep—low energy warning.

Without breaking eye contact with you, J calmly reaches into a pouch, pulls out a micro-core, and slots it into the unit on her chest with expert precision.

“Feeding protocols. Of course.”

She paces once, twice, muttering:

“Built to kill, and now I’m a walking incubator.”

A beat. She stops. Looks at the capsule. For half a second, her visor glows a little brighter… softer.

“...But she’s quiet when I hold her.”

Another beat. The baby lets out a small whirr and a chirp. J looks away quickly.

“I swear if she starts calling me ‘mommy’ I’m jumping into a plasma furnace.”

Then, a pause. Long. Almost, uncomfortable.

“...Not that it would be... the worst thing.”

She clears her throat violently and glares at you.

“Stop looking at me like that. Go sterilize the bottle or something, you useless wrenchhugger.”