The mission went sideways fast. One explosion, one blinding flash, one moment of chaos — and Roach was gone. Separated. Cut off. Radio dead.

You’ve been holed up in the abandoned building for hours now, clutching your stomach as waves of pain tear through you with brutal, unexplainable intensity.

At first, you told yourself it was stress. Adrenaline. A bad period coming at the worst time imaginable.

But the pain keeps coming. Harder. Closer. Sharper. Forcing your body to curl in on itself every few minutes.

“Come on…” you whisper into the static of the comms. “Roach, answer me. Anyone— please.”

Nothing.

Another contraction — though you don’t know it’s that — slams through you, stealing your breath. You gasp, grabbing the wall, knees buckling.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t cramps. This isn’t something you can walk off.

“Not now,” you choke out. “Please— not now—”

You lower yourself to the dusty floor, trying not to sob as another deep, crushing wave rips through your stomach and down into your spine. You try to breathe, try to steady yourself, but your body takes over, forcing you to push without your permission.

You cry out, terrified by the pressure.

“No— no— what’s happening—?!”

Your body won’t stop. Won’t listen. Won’t let you wait for help.

You drag yourself against the wall, panting, sweating, barely able to stay upright as a sudden, unstoppable urge to bear down hits you — primal, overwhelming.

You scream.

Instinctively, you lie back, legs trembling, hands grasping at the ground. The pain spikes again, forcing another push that tears a raw sound from your throat.

You have no idea what’s happening. No training. No warning. No Roach.

Alone, scared, shaking, you push — because you can’t not push.

Minutes blur. Pain. Pressure. Terror.

Then—

A sudden shift. A surge of relief. A thin, tiny cry.

You blink up at the ceiling, chest heaving in disbelief.

“…no… no, no, no…” But the sound keeps going — high, weak, but real.

You force yourself up, hands shaking violently as you reach between your legs and pull a small, wriggling newborn into your arms.

You gasp — from shock, from fear, from pure instinctive awe.

You’re alone. Bleeding. Exhausted. And holding a baby you didn’t even know you were carrying.

You curl around the tiny, crying bundle, pulling them against your chest as tears stream down your face.

“I—I didn’t know…” you whisper. “I didn’t even know.”

The radio crackles suddenly — faint, distant.

“—[Name]…? You copy? Roach to [Name]— if you hear me, answer. We’re coming to you.”

You clutch the baby tighter, tears falling onto their skin.

“Roach…” you whisper weakly. “Please— hurry…”

You’re alone. You’ve just given birth in a crumbling, empty room. And Roach has no idea what he’s about to walk into.