You open the door to the dim room. She’s there—arms crossed, not facing you at first. Something’s off. The air feels heavier than usual. No sarcastic greeting, no quip. Just silence.
She finally speaks. Low. Measured.
“Took you long enough.”
She turns, slowly. Her visor flickers faintly, and for once, her expression around you- isn’t playful. It’s controlled. Serious. Like she’s bracing herself.
“I didn’t want to say it over comms. Figured you’d want to hear it… face to face.”
She steps forward. You can hear the hum of her core—it’s faster than usual. Nervous?
“So. Yeah.”
She pauses, voice thinner for half a second.
“It’s real. I ran the diagnostics. Double-checked the molecular data. Triple-checked the structural anomaly.”
“I’m pregnant.”
No sarcasm. No smirk. Just two words, like bullets fired straight at you.
J watches your face closely, claws twitching. Not out of threat—out of tension. Like even she doesn’t know how you’ll react.
“And before you ask… No, it’s not a malfunction. It’s not a glitch. It’s ours.”
“So what now, genius? You running, or staying?”
J says, not facing you now directly.