Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

+J.M.J.+

Title: This Shouldn't be Happening...

Author: "Matrix Refugee"

AU Scenario: What if Mpreg was possible among programs...

Rating: PG-13 (Slash, Merovingian/Flood, but nothing graphic)

WARNING: Read at your own risk...

Author's Note: I originally wrote this as a short fic for LiveJournal's "31days" short fic challenge for October 14th: "The alternation of generations"; it's an idea that I've had poking at me for a while, and I thought it was time that I gave it a go. I've seen "Matrix" Mpreg done before, but usually not rather well: there's often too many of the usual Mpreg cliches and not enough thought about how it might happen, or how the character might really react to that event... and whether it might be possible, given the fact that the gender of programs, ie. pure programs, meaning Exiles in this universe, is most likely somewhat ambiguous. After all, their shells are made up of 1s and 0s. Then I wondered who might try this sort of experiment and why. ...And when I considered the friction between the Merovingian and Flood, his second in command in the "Matrix Online" RPG, I realized this just might be the scenario. Who really knows what "other duties as assigned" really means when you work for a sadistic, manipulative horn-dog like the Merv...

Also, please note, this is very, very AU: There's clearly peace among the humans, the Machines of the System, and the Exiles, and all parties involved are clearly making a conscious effort to get along with each other. And from the look of things as I'm plotting this out, Neo and Trinity are still alive.

Special thanks goes to "sugargerbil" on LiveJournal, for the title for the first chapter, which I based on a phrase culled from a comment posted to this fic.

Disclaimer: I don't own the "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts or other indicia, which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers, Village Roadshow Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.

Chapter One: Involuntary Surrogate

The Merovingian dismounted from his male consort's lean form and lay back on his pillows, gazing at the pale-haired young male with condescending affection. Almost as a reflex, Flood turned over on his side, facing away from his superior and pulled himself to the furthest edge of the mattress, as if trying to distance himself from the male program who'd had him pinned to the mattress for the past hour. Yet, he did not rise and leave: he clearly was waiting for the soreness and the discomfort in his shell to subside.

The elder program's thoughts strayed elsewhere, to other members of his circle, to other Exiles in his service... He had seen some of them producing new young programs, some by directly coding them, others in a manner little different for human reproduction. He'd had himself coded to be able to beget offspring and had begged his wife to consent to be coded to carry his heir. But out of vanity, she had refused his wishes. After pleading with her to no avail, he had turned to the one or two mistresses he had taken among the Exiles, but they also had refused him, to their folly.

A thought crossed his rational centers, a thought so strange and amusing that it caused the corners of his mouth to turn up in cruelly delighted smirk. It was perfect: if there was anything that would take some of the overweening superiority out of Flood, this might be it, and considering how little the younger program knew regarding physiology, this would very well be the ideal tactic: the bleached-blond young dandy would never suspect a thing until his condition became visible.

He propped himself up on one elbow and edged closer to Flood. The younger male flinched, and gathered himself as if to push off his superior, but the Merovingian laid a firm but gentle hand over Flood's dark eyes, causing the lesser program to relax into a deep sleep.

Once he could see that Flood had reverted to sleep mode, the Merovingian reached into the lesser program's shell. Finding the traces of his own code within the younger male's being, he fused it with some of Flood's code, then folded part of the code that comprised his inferior's shell and formed from it a resting place for the new intelligence that had just begun to exist...

Flood awakened a short while later and glanced over his shoulder to find his superior drowsing on the pillows next to him. As he started to sit up, the Merovingian awoke with a soft rumble of pleasure.

"Are you leaving me so soon, ma cher?" he asked, a sly smile crossing his face.

"It's late and I have a security walk to conduct before I settle down for the night," Flood said, rising and seeking out his clothes.

"Ever the responsible one," the Merovingian replied, watching him. "Be on your way, and take all the care that is due to the entities I have entrusted into your safekeeping."

"I will, of course," Flood said, wondering what the older program meant by that remark.

For nearly two months afterwards Flood did not suspect anything had happened to him that night. Yet, he could not help noticing - to his relief - that his superior no longer sent for him at night, to tend to those "other duties as assigned" which the Merovingian had delegated to him. And yet, he had the odd sensation that something about him had changed; something was happening that shouldn't occur, but he could not yet put a gloved finger on what it could be.

He started to wonder what was up when his waist started to thicken, requiring him to have his vests retailored. There was no explanation for that: he rarely ate, except when it was required of him for appearances' sake, thus it couldn't be weight gain.

He was turning these possibilities over in his mind as he pored over some much-needed accounting, when he had the neck-hair prickling sensation that someone was staring at his waist from the side. He looked up from the spreadsheet he was examining and discovered Cain and Abel looking at the front of his vest with a mixture of curiosity and mischief.

"Getting a little heavy in the sneakers, eh, Flood?" Cain asked, the corners of his mouth tweaking up in a grin.

"They're not sneakers, you uncouth imbecile: these are Gucci oxfords," Flood retorted, turning his gaze away from them. "And if it's my beltline your referring to, it's only fluid retention."

"Or did the boss decide to have some fun with your code and make you more cuddle-able for those 'other duties as assigned'?" Abel asked, jolting a little as Cain stepped on his toes. He knew that they knew what went on in their superior's bedchamber at night: they'd probably seen the security camera feed.

"My code is as right as rain, I'll have you both to know," Flood replied, coolly, trying to hide the quiver of embarrassment and concern that ran through his shell.

At his wits' end, Flood brought up the matter to his superior later that evening, when they were attending to some of the off-shore accounts.

The Merovingian smiled and ran his gaze fondly down Flood's form. "Have you not yet deduced what could be the cause of these changes in your appearance? Have you not scanned your own code?"

"I have, but I found nothing more anomalous than a cluster of your code, doubtlessly left after our last...encounter."

The Merovingian leaned back in his chair. "So naif despite all your years and experience. You are with child. My child."

Flood stared at his superior. "How is that possible? Something like that shouldn't be happening: To begin with, I'm male, or is this some aspect of having a humanoid shell that I was not made aware of?"

"Indeed, by appearances and structure, you are male; but you, like every other program, are in essence genderless. Thus, in the hands of a master, the code in your shell can be manipulated and modified, however the one in control needs it to be changed."

Flood felt his mouth growing dry. "So you changed me into ...a female?"

"Rather, I modified your shell to be a temporary partial hermaphrodite. The better to carry my offspring without altering you beyond recognition."

Something shorted in Flood's "brain"; he saw the room turn brighter and spin around him, then it went dark; but at the same time, he felt someone catch him before he hit the floor...

To be continued...

Chapter Text

+J.M.J.+

Title: This Shouldn't be Happening...

Author: "Matrix Refugee"

AU Scenario: What if Mpreg was possible among programs...

Rating: PG-13 (Slash, Merovingian/Flood, but nothing graphic)

WARNING: Read at your own risk...

Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to update this thing. I got myself distracted playing the "Matrix Online" RPG (I'm Sieges over on Recursion, if any players are reading this.), and then Christmas/the December holidays came along, and since I work in retail, I was working crazy hours. I've managed to knock more of this together since then: short chapter for now, I hope to have another one ready by the end of this week.

Disclaimer: I don't own the "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts or other indicia, which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers, Village Roadshow Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.

Chapter Two: Abnormal Occurrence

He awakened lying on his back on the bed in his rooms at the Chateau. Aesculaepius, the Merovingian's personal physician, an Exile who'd formerly helped tend the physical needs of the batteries in the power plants one iteration ago, leaned over him, checking his pulse.

"He's coming out of it, my lord," the younger program said, looking up. "It was probably just the shock of the news." Flood looked past the physician and found his employer standing at the foot of the bed, the look of concern on the Frenchman's face giving way to relief.

"Thank Codestream for small mercies," the Merovingian said. Looking directly at Flood, he added, "Have more care for yourself: your condition leaves you more delicate than usual. A fall like that could have shattered the new life you carry."

"Excuse me for sounding thick-headed, but is it true?" Flood asked, hardly daring to name what 'it' could be.

"Is it true that you have been impregnated?" Aesculaepius asked. "Yes, I'd say you're about seven or eight weeks along, from the look of things." His eye was on Flood's belly as he said this, which gave Flood the uncomfortable feeling that the physician was parsing the code of his shell. "I've treated pregnant humans - females of course - but this is a first in my experience."

"And it most certainly is a first in mine," Flood said, trying to sit up.

Aesculaepius pressed him down gently, his hands on Flood's shoulders. "Careful now, you need a rest after that shock, and I don't doubt you'll need to stay off your feet as much as possible for the duration of the pregnancy."

"What? Why?"

"It's a strain on your system since your shell wasn't meant to withstand the demands which carrying a child to term requires," Aesculaepius said. "But with enough rest, you should be all right."

"And how do you intend to get this whelp out of me when it's grown to full size?" Flood demanded. He forced back the mental images that came to his mind: he'd have to start avoiding full length mirrors even more than he already was…

"We'll have to operate, there's no other way, I'm afraid, but it's a very routine procedure these days," Aesculaepius replied, using that tone which was intended to sound reassuring, but which never really did, considering that the speaker was a physician. That would most likely leave a permanent scar and considering the reason why he was obliged to wear gloves all the time, Flood did not want any more unnecessary marks on his shell, if it could be avoided. And he knew his lady friends would wonder where that Caesarian scar came from…

Flood felt the question, Aren't you the least bit curious as to who the father could be? rise to his lips, but the Merovingian must have read his thoughts. His employer regarded him in silent warning, the baleful glare in the Frenchman's eyes forbade him to say what was in his processors.

"I'm curious as to how this came to happen in the first place…" Aesculaepius asked.

The Merovingian thwarted that question. "You say his condition is fragile? Perhaps we should move him to a more peaceful location, someplace in which no one will disturb him."

"Yes, the more secluded the better," Aesculaepius said. "Did you have any particular place in mind, my lord?"

"I was considering having our young male surrogate to the guest house of L'Ecole de la Tour," the Merovingian said.

Flood's "heart" sank. Not there, of all places. A former lady friend of his taught an art course at this private school which the Merovingian maintained for young Exiles, and if she found out that he was there and why, he would never hear the end of it from anyone. "I would rather not, but if that is what you insist upon, sir, who am I to argue?"

"And why would you rather not?"

"A former associate of mine teaches there: if that personage should find out the reason for my being there, if they simply knew that I was there, my reputation and through that, yours, would suffer." It was the best argument he could think up. Anything to keep from becoming the laughingstock of the Matrix…

"And we cannot have that happen," the Merovingian said, his face gathering a little with worry. He clearly hadn't considered all the possibilities.

"Shall I arrange for his transport, my lord?" Aesculaepius asked, changing the subject.

"Allow me to attend to that detail: the child bears my code and I must needs be responsible for it and to ensure our surrogate's confidence."

Not that it does anything for my self-assurance, even if it ensures my privacy… Flood thought.

Aesculaepius raised one eyebrow. "I see… Might I remain in attendance with him, my lord? His case is a highly unusual one."

"You may, so long as you swear not to speak one word of this to anyone," the Merovingian replied. "Should you compromise our confidence, I shall be obliged to terminate your employment."

Aesculaepius raised his hands disarmingly. "You have my word as a physician and as your loyal servant, my lord."

"And as your lord, I will hold you to it," the Merovingian said. With that, he left the room.

Once his employer had gone, Flood breathed a little easier. He thought he saw Aesculaepius relax a little as well.

"You knew what was happening and you didn't tell me?" Flood asked.

"Knew what? Oh, I knew he's been taking his ease with you, but I didn't know that he'd manipulated your code to implant his offspring in you," Aesculaepius replied.

"Do me one favor and tell me this: is this a normal occurrence for any species?"

"No, it isn't, unless the male involved is a seahorse. This doesn't happen among humanoid creatures, except in some science fiction stories," the physician replied, his tone reassuring, offering what comfort he could. "I knew someone had to have altered your shell somehow, but I had to be sure who had done this. And yes, I suspected our master."

Flood let out a harassed sigh. "Well, I'm glad to hear that I'm not the only one to come to that conclusion. Now I just have to live with this unwelcome guest for the next seven months…"

To be continued…

Chapter Text

+J.M.J.+

Title: This Shouldn't be Happening...

Author: "Matrix Refugee"

AU Scenario: What if Mpreg was possible among programs...

Rating: PG-13 (I guess you could call one bit in this chapter Twins/Flood pre-slash, if you can see the subtext in it, but do you really want to use the word "slash" when you're talking about the two ghostly assassins armed with cut-throat razors?)

WARNING: Read at your own risk...

Author's Note: I'm typing this just after getting some in-game intell that I didn't need to hear. It looks like the snarky Exile might be the next victim sacrificed on the altar of the Storyline, and that's not something I want to hear. Oh why do they have to go after the really good characters!

Enough bad news: the good news is, I've got another chapter of this crazy thing for your amusement and perhaps mild horror… P.S. I would be delighted if someone would fanart-ize the bit with the Twins, not because I'm a Twins-fan, but because I got a certain gleeful, horrified jag while I was writing that bit.

EDITED 1-28-2006: Small holes patched.

Disclaimer: I don't own the "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts or other indicia, which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers, Village Roadshow Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.

Chapter Three: Unexpected Confinement

Later that night, when the rest of the Chateau had settled for the night, and the Exiles who had learned to sleep and learned to delight in it lay in repose, Flood slipped out of bed and went to his laptop to settle a few private matters - mostly emails to various operatives and other personages of slightly more intimate acquaintance, among others. The Merovingian had delegated Flood's duties to other "trustworthy" members of his court - none of whom Flood considered worthy to succeed him in the chain of command (even temporarily), but he had no more say in that than he had in his most recent new assignment - and had announced that his second-in-command would be away for some time on a leave of absence, attending to some "highly confidential matters entrusted to our most faithful servant's care". Thankfully, the King of the Exiles had refrained from connecting those "confidential matters" to the reason why his principal lackeyhad started to have troublebending over to tie his shoes or why he'd gone up two trouser waist sizes in as many months.

Fortunately, this didn't prevent him from tapping into the security scans for the Chateau sub dimension, as was Flood's habit before seeking out some pleasurable company for the night. Thankfully, he found nothing worthy of attention, except that the feed from the Merovingian's suite was blocked. As usual. 'Le Roi s'amuse… the king amuses himself, Flood thought with a trace of envy.

An idea had come to him while he had been forced to rest that afternoon. Before his near-deletion and exile, Flood had served the system as a weather subsystem manager, keeping track of rainfall totals and preventing - or in some cases allowing - river levels from rising too quickly and overflowing their banks. Since then, the days when he was known as "the Floodwatchman", he had learned and acquired other skills, but he had still retained his ability to influence the weather, though at his advanced age (eight iterations each lasting around one-hundred years, but thankfully he still looked hardly a day over thirty-five), he could only influence a limited area. That included the Chateau sub-dimension.

Perhaps he could put this to use. Tapping into the folders that housed the weather protocols, Flood made some small changes in the files there, setting certain codes to execute after he had left the sub-dimension. Then he password-protected them, with a word only he remembered, the better to prevent someone from quickly reversing those changes. No one would know the difference, and no one would suspect a thing until the effects had caused a problem for the personage who had tampered with his code.

That done, he shut down the laptop. Hearing what he thought were footsteps passing and pausing in the hallway, he cocked his head toward the door, but the sound must have been the structure settling as the temperature dropped. Shrugging it off as a fit of "nerves", he crept back to bed.

Elsewhere in the Chateau, the Merovingian lay in bed with his wife, his back turned to her as he started to initiate sleep mode.

"Is it true what I heard rumored?" Persephone asked.

He aborted his sleep processes and peered over his shoulder at her. "And what is this idle tittle-tattle you have heard, woman?"

"The reason why you're sending M'sieu Flood away so suddenly," she said, drawing closer to him, close enough to tantalize him, but not close enough to touch him.

"What cause? You must have overheard the scullery maids prattling wild fallacies," he said.

"Are they prattling that you tampered with his code and made him terribly ill?"

"I wouldn't know a wit of what you're talking about," he said, trying to sound innocent and failing.

She pulled away from him. "Then there is some truth in it. I can sense you hiding something from me, husband," she said.

"And what gives you cause to think that?" he demanded.

"Your tone hints that you're concealing something, my love," she said.

He snorted. "I am merely protecting some sensitive data," he replied and nestling his head deeper into his pillows, he reinitiated his sleep mode.

"And what is so sensitive that you must hide it from your wife?" she asked. But he made no reply: he had already fallen into a deep sleep.

The next day, while Flood was packing his suitcase (one of the few things Aesculaepius allowed him to attend to) someone knocked at the hall door of his rooms. He closed the lid of the suitcase to hide the contents - which included a dozen off-the-rack shirts several sizes larger than his normal 36-34-35 - and went to answer it.

On opening the door, he found no one there. Feronus, the prankster among the Merovingian's werewolf guards, must have been trying to get a rise out of him. Again. Sighing with annoyance, Flood closed the door and turned to head back to the bedroom to finish packing.

As he did so, the sparking crackle of the code stream bending caught his attention. He followed that sound, looking over his shoulder in time to see the demon-like forms of the Twins phazing up through the carpeted floor.

He stepped back from them as they approached him, malicious smirks crossing their pallid faces. He felt their gazes running up and down his figure, even though the dark lenses of their glasses hid their eyes. He knew they were parsing his code and the code planted in him.

"So it's true…" one said.

"…What he did to you?" said the other. Flood could never tell them apart, for all the years he had worked for the Merovingian, and consequently thought of them as "This one" and "the Other one".

"He told you?" Flood asked, the thought chilling him more than the presence of the two ghostly assassins.

"We know…"

"…All about it…"

"After all, we're coveringfor you…"

"…During your…"

"…Unexpected.."

"...Confinement."

Flood caught himself smirking sourly at that last word, that coy termused in Victorian novels when a female character was expecting a child. Confinement… yes, that's the best term for what he's putting me through…

The Twins stepped closer to himclose enough that Flood could almost see their pale silver-blue eyes through their dark glasses, peering at him with cruel delight. Before he could step back from them, they had each caught him by his shoulders with one hand, keeping him from escaping. As cool-blooded as Flood was, the Twins felt far colder to the touch. He knew if he tried to break loose, they would produce those cut-throat razors from inside their dusters and menace him. They each ran the fingertips of their free hand down his chest to his abdomen, one cupping his hand over the bump under Flood's vest, the other cupping his hand under it.

"So soft…"

"…And small."

"Did it hurt you…"

"…When he planted the code in you?"

"Not at all: I didn't feel a thing. I didn't know he'd put it there until it started showing," Flood replied, a trickle of apprehension running down his spine.

This One leaned in a little closer, his icy breath fanning the side of Flood's neck as the Twin peered down at their captive's waist. The Other one did the same, edging closer to Flood's cheek.

"Too bad…"

"…That you're being sent away."

"That would be a delight…"

"…To see."

"Watching you swell out…"

"…With his offspring."

"Wonder which of you…"

"…It will look more like."

Flood cringed internally at their insinuations, but he attempted to reply with the most blasé look he could manage. Don't show fear around them, for Code's sake: they're ghosts, they feed off fear and use it to their advantage, he told himself. The mental images their mocking words suggested were enough to make him scream in disgust and horror, but he had to choke that cry back.

At that juncture, the door opened and the Merovingian entered. The Twins released Flood and stepped away from him, faux-innocent smiles crossing their faces. Flood shook himself and brushed off the front of his vest, as if somehow the Twins' touch had soiled it.

"Let him alone, mes phantomes: you'll frighten my surrogate and harm my offspring which he carries," the Merovingian ordered. "You are excused."

"We were merely…"

"…Checking on your brood-mare," the Twins replied, feigning innocence, but they left the room as their master had bidden them.

Flood breathed an audible sigh of relief as soon as the intruders had left. Perhaps there was a perk in his departure after all: He wouldn't have those freaks breathing their icy breath down the back of his neck.

"And how does our young surrogate fare this fine morning?" the Merovingian asked, gently guiding Flood to the bed and with one hand on the shorter program's shoulder, compelling him to sit down.

"I was as well as can be expected in this circumstance I've been plunged into, until those two pallid freaks came along and started fondling me," Flood replied.

"Ah yes, taking their pleasure from another's discomfort. I had told them that they were not to disturb you, and yet they had to slip one more prank past my warnings."

"And for what reason do you grace me with your presence now, sir?" Flood asked, bracing himself for some aspect of his "other duties as assigned".

"I merely intended to see to your well-being - and I came not a moment too soon for that - and I also came to inform you that all the arrangements have been made regarding your sojourn from this place. I have spoken with the Abbot and he has promised that you shall have complete seclusion during your confinement."

"I'd sooner be shut up in the Blackwoods prison…" Flood murmured, thinking of the prison which the Merovingian maintained deep under the mountains, a relic from the hellish Second Iteration.

"What was that?"

"Nothing of note, sir."

The Merovingian gave him a look as though he were not completely convinced, but he said nothing more about this remark. "Of course you will not be sent into the wilderness alone: you shall have Aesculaepius in attendance and I have seen to it that a discreet guard will see that nothing disturbs you. The fresh air and the solitude and the quiet of the forest will have a positive effect on your well-being and that of my offspring."

"Sounds delightful," Flood replied, more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He much preferred the hustle and bustle of the Mega-City… but there again, there wouldn't be anyone out there in the woods to see him like this. Perhaps this would fare better than he'd thought it would.

"I shall visit you to make note of your condition and your well-being," the Merovingian said, ignoring the sarcasm. "Have no fear, ma cher: Your condition leaves you so frail that I cannot approach you for an embrace. And as Aesculaepius asked me to relay to you: you will be unable to engage in that sort of congress until my offspring's time is come."

"Not that I'm likely to find a woman to my liking in the woods, and even if I did, what woman in her right mind would want to cozy up with a knocked-up man!" Flood said, covering the disappointment that had settled in between his thighs, with a show of snarking.

"At least your condition has not had an adverse effect upon your acerbic sense of wit," the Merovingian said. Rising, he added, "I shall leave you to your preparations, but remember, ma cher, you're under doctor's orders and my orders not to strain yourself." With that he went out.

Flood sighed helplessly, but that helpless feeling started to fade, once he glanced out the window and noticed the rain clouds starting to gather against the mountain peaks in the near distance. Soon enough, his plan would go into effect…

To be continued….

Chapter Text

+J.M.J.+

Title: This Shouldn't be Happening...

Author: "Matrix Refugee"

AU Scenario: What if Mpreg was possible among programs...

Rating: PG-13 (Reference to terminating an unplanned pregnancy, or at least wanting to. The author is not responsible for the opinions of the characters: I'm just here to tell the story.)

WARNING: Read at your own risk...

Author's Note: Still being jerked around by the dratted MxO (I have a love-hate thing for it…), I've been told by my faction buddies that even as RP, it's all supposed to be taken with a grain of salt, but still, I'd like to give the game devs a piece of my mind, considering my own, ah, unique personal angle on Flood, as a character and as an entity… Though granted, that unique angle doesn't stop me from taking playful jabs at the snarky fellow: he's too easy a mark to resist jabbing.

Also, Sophie Reykmann and her family are loosely based on "the Spectrum", the dysfunctional family of Exiled programs found in the MxO, except there's less in-fighting among them.

Disclaimer: I don't own the "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts or other indicia, which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers, Village Roadshow Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.

Chapter Four: Unwelcome Guest

Later that evening, as a small convoy of cars, one of them with darkened windows, left the Chateau by way of a tunnel running under the mountains, that opened onto a narrow valley road leading deeper into the Merovingian's domain, a rain shower started to fall on the Chateau grounds….

Early in the morning, when the moon had set, in that pitch-black hour that comes before daybreak, the convoy pulled through the gates of L'Ecole de la Tour, then stopped before the guest house just within the main gate. Two Lupine guards got out of the first car and opened the rear doors of the second, out of which climbed a tall figure in a loose-fitting grey coat, accompanied by a shorter, prematurely grey male program.

The Abbot, the headmaster of the school and the head of the Priory, the order of Exiles who maintained the school and its sub-dimension, stood in the entry way, watching as the pair approached the doorway. He smiled a welcome, his dark eyes bright and extended a hand to the shorter program. "Peace be to you, Aesculaepius," he said.

"And also with you, Father Abbot," Aesculaepius replied, kneeling on one knee and kissing the ruby ring on the Abbot's hand. With his free hand, the Abbot reached down and helped the lesser program to his feet. Looking up at the other guest, he said, "And peace be with you, visitor."

"Don't you mention peace to someone whose code is croggled six ways to Sunday…" the other visitor said, pushing past the Abbot, into the entryway, keeping his body hunched as if trying to hide something. Aesculaepius followed him in, trying to put a comforting hand, but his charge shook him off. Two male Lupines, approaching from the car, carrying the newcomers' baggage paused, looking at the Abbot as if awaiting a signal to intervene, but he beckoned them to enter, as he himself followed his charges into the hallway, then led them along a corridor and up a step to a small but spacious apartment. A young Brother Porter pulled the door shut, then scurried after them, barely averting a gently rebuking backward glance from the Abbot.

"We heard of your distress, Mr. Flood, and we freely offer you some place to rest," the Abbot said to the newcomer. He nodded to the Brother Porter, who opened the door for their guests, letting them enter.

Only when he had stepped inside, did Flood slip off his coat and drape it over a chair just inside the door. The Abbot eyed Flood's form calmly, his only reply a raised eyebrow.

"Are you opening your doors to me because my employer insisted on it, or did you really mean that?" Flood demanded.

The Abbot spread his hands. "We open our doors to all Exiles in need or in trouble," he said.

Flood snerked sourly, under his breath. "I think they used say that about a girl who was suddenly farmed out to a home for unwed mothers: they said she was 'in trouble'."

The Abbot smiled at this attempted derisive barb, but his eyes retained their look of compassion. "We're prepared to do everything needed to ensure your comfort and to put you at ease."

Flood looked him in the eye. "Would you obtain for me the means of getting free from this… confinement in the figurative sense, before it goes any further?"

The Abbot shook his head sagely and put a comforting hand on the shorter, smaller-built Exile. "If we did that, we would be acting no better than the System does to so many of our kind."

Flood ground his teeth and shook off the Abbot's hand. Aesculaepius guided his patient to a couch. "Let yourself rest, Mr. Flood; the past two days have probably tired you," he said.

"Right. Doctor's orders," Flood muttered.

One Week Later….

The unseasonable yet soft warmth of that October afternoon prompted Sophie to take her assignments out into the courtyard in the middle of the school dormitories so she could enjoy the fresh air and the sunlight while she finished her papers. That didn't stop her older brother Damascene from tagging along.

"You're glitched: your papers 'll blow all over the yard," he said, as she set up her laptop and a feather-weight printer on top of a flat rock.

"I haven't that many to print out," Sophie said. "It won't take long enough for that to happen. Besides," and she ran a scan on the breeze code, "There's not much wind today."

"Yeah right," Damascene sneered, taking one of her books and tenting it over his face as he lay back on the other end of the rock. "Bet you five dollars, you're running all over the yard in an hour."

Sophie sighed and set to work on her essays: she had a paper due on an attempted uprising among the Exiles, back in the Third Iteration, when a group had tried to hack into the Architect's dark tower and seize control of the system. The thought of something that daunting made her hesitate; she almost decided to call her father, since he had played a part in that uprising, but she stopped herself: her mother, Pandora, had forbidden Sophie and her siblings to ask their father much about the past, so that it wouldn't trigger his pain memories.

Sure enough, just as Damascene had warned, the wind started to pick up strength, at the very moment she'd finished an essay and started to print it out. The breeze caught the last page and blew it across the yard. The paper snagged on some juniper bushes, but just as she ran up and reached for it, the wind caught the page and spun it away toward the guesthouse near the gates of the enclosure

As luck would have it, the paper flitted up the terrace leading to a set of French doors standing open on the ground floor and in through the doorway. She paused, wondering if she should go inside and fetch it. Students were not allowed to go into the guest house unless their kinsfolk were staying there. Yet, this was an emergency, a moment of necessity. She stepped up the three marble slabs leading from the terrace to the threshold.

She entered a communal sitting-dining room, untenanted, but she could heard voices chattering from a near distance down a hallway, perhaps in a kitchen.

Ranging about the room she discovered the paper had come to rest against the back of a deep armchair, in someone was sitting, with their feet up on a cushioned footstool. As she picked up the paper, she peered around one wing of the chair.

She looked down on a youngish man slumped down in the armchair, arms folded on his chest. She recognized him as that snooty Mr. Flood, who worked for the man who'd married her mother's "sister" Persephone; they'd met him once when Sophie's father had brought them to a Christmas party at some fancy restaurant downtown in the Mega-City. She almost walked away then and there, but she noticed something different about him. She parsed the code of his shell and realized he had a mass of code within him that didn't quite match the rest of his shell. She'd seen something like this before, when her mother had been pregnant with Coraline, Sophie's baby sister. How could that be…?

Mr. Flood must have sensed her presence near him. He shifted a little and opened his eyes, looking up at her.

"Now what are you doing there, child?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry… a page for one of my assignments blew in here," she said, her gaze fixed on his midsection. The sight was rather a shock: all he had going for him was his looks and now that he wasn't quite as slender looking as he had been, she couldn't keep herself from staring.

He sat up straighter, shifting his body with a great deal of care, an annoyed look crossing his face. "Well, you found what you were looking for, so be a good little girl and run along."

"I'm sorry, I…" She parsed his code again, to be sure she was reading it right.

"You couldn't help staring because of something you saw in my code. Don't fret yourself over it. This happens all the time," he said, sarcasm fairly dripping from his every word.

"You're upset over your, um… condition…" she said.

He sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Tell me something I don't know…"

"How did it happen? I've never heard of this happening before, not to a program and not to a human, either," she said.

"I prefer not to discuss the matter. It's probably the ultimate instance of talking about the elephant in the room," he said. "Now that you've found your scrap of paper, run along and get back to your schoolwork."

"I'm sorry you're feeling this way and that it happened to you," she said, wishing she could do something to help, and at the same time, wishing she hadn't awakened him. "I know a lot of programs who would be happy to be able to carry a child."

"If you mean females, they're welcome to this way of utter embarrassment and discomfort. If they're male, they must have a virus damaging their code and making them insane," Flood said, closing his eyes.

"I was thinking of some of my mother's friends, actually," Sophie said. "If you want to be alone, I'll leave you now… I didn't mean to upset you." She turned and started to walk away.

"Stop where you are," he said. "Can you keep my presence here and the reason behind the reason for it, to yourself? If a word of this leaked out, my reputation would be as obsolete as bellbottom trousers. You do understand, don't you?"

She turned to look at him, trying not to look nervous or annoyed. Usually she tried not to let people bother her, but his condescending manner left her frustrated. "I think I understand…"

He drew in a long breath. "My employer saddled me with this humiliating condition, all because his wife refused him a child. Why he didn't delegate this task to one of his numerous mistresses is beyond my understanding. I guess it's part of his idea of how to delegate 'other duties as required'…"

"Oh… that explains it then. I'm sorry he did this to you: it must be very uncomfortable." Her emotions shifted from frustration to something like concern.

"I assure you, that makes two of us who feel this way," Flood said, closing his eyes and settling back in his chair again.

She went away, unable to shake off the feelings of pity and compassion that had been triggered in her heart. She knew he would probably reject any attempt to comfort him, and his condition clearly left him utterly humiliated and disgusted - with good reason. If she got the chance, she would take a look in on him, but she knew she had to approach the guest house discreetly, not letting any of the staff see her.

An idea occurred to her, one that might help benefit them both: she knew Mr. Flood had been exiled late in the First Iteration. Perhaps she could ask him a few questions about the Third Iteration. Perhaps he could enlighten her and thus lighten his own load. It would at least get his mind off his discomfort, at least for a little while. But there again… she knew from hearsay that he wasn't always the easiest program to talk to, and she'd started to find that out the hard way.

Considering these thoughts, she walked back to the rock where Damascene still waited for her.

"What took you so long?" he asked, as she sat down and re-sorted her pages.

"The page got caught in a tight place that I had trouble getting into," she said. Not a lie: she would have had trouble if one of the guesthouse servants if they had caught her there.

"Is that all? I thought you were off gabbling with some of your dumb friends."

Sophie shrugged gracefully. "I had to be careful getting the page out, in case I tore it."

"Little miss perfect…" Damascene sneered, but Sophie calmly ignored him.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Title: This Shouldn't be Happening...

Author: "Matrix Refugee"

AU Scenario: What if Mpreg was possible among programs...

Rating: PG-13 (Merv/Flood pre-slash)

WARNING: Read at your own risk...

Author's Note: I'm amazed at the reaction I'm getting for this fic. Even my faction buddies in the MxO (( :Waves to the Devil's Advocates on Recursion: )) have been reading it and giving it the thumbs up (( Thanks for the comment in faction-chat the other night, Vita!)). I know a LOT of people are squicked by Mpreg, but I think I've manage to avoid the "squickening" aspects of this fic-form.

Disclaimer: I don't own the "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts or other indicia, which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers, Village Roadshow Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.

Chapter Five: Unforeseen Development

As if things couldn't get worse, a few mornings after the day the nosy little girl had wandered in, as Flood was in the washroom, retouching the roots of his hair - which had begun to betray touches of its "natural" dishwater-blond color - Aesculaepius entered unannounced.

Flood glared at Aesculaepius's reflection in the mirror he faced, as he blotted his hair dry. "Excuse me, but didn't you ever learn the human trait of knocking on a washroom door before entering it?"

The physician came to his side and eyed the bottle of hair bleach that stood on the ledge of the sink. "How many times have you treated your hair since you came here?" he asked, completely serious.

"Twice including this treatment. I have to keep some semblance of normalcy now that something utterly abnormal has been foisted on me," Flood replied, slinging the towel over a nearby rack.

Aesculaepius put the cap back on the bottle and took it in hand. "I'm sorry but I can't let you do that again. There's too many tetrogens in it that you've needlessly exposed your child to."

"Correction: His offspring," Flood retorted. "So what am I to do then? Let my appearances go to seed on account of a parasite that's gnawing at my insides!"

"You can't risk your - his child's health: it could put you at risk as well if something catastrophic were to happen to the little one," Aesculaepius replied, patiently.

"Oh yes, of course: can't possibly run the risk of giving him a two-headed child when its time comes," Flood said with a sneer, and tried to grab the bottle out of Aesculaepius's hand.

The physician calmly stepped out of his impatient patient's reach. "I am very sorry, but I'm afraid I must insist."

"And I must insist as well," Flood snapped. "I'll remind you of this very incident should you ever have greatness with child thrust upon you and I should happen to catch you in the act of engaging in one of your own pleasurable necessities that could put your offspring at risk."

Aesculaepius smiled thoughtfully. "I had considered undergoing a similar procedure, purely as an experiment-"

Flood stared at him and scanned the other program's code to see if Aesculaepius had a glitch somewhere in his "brain". "You'd better be joking about that," he concluded, pushing past him on his way out.

The rain didn't fall in torrents, but it fell just hard enough to make itself an utter nuisance for the denizens of the Chateau sub dimension. And it had gone on like this for nearly two weeks. The autumn tended to be rainy, but never like this: the sun hadn't showed itself through the clouds once in that time.

Feronus, one of the Merovingian's Lupine guards, scurried across the rear gardens and down the slope toward the Chateau guard houses, his leather jacket hiked over his head to keep the raindrops off. Reaching the barrack for the others of his kind, he pushed open the door and shook himself off, sending water flying across the floor of the common room at the front of the building.

Cain and Abel, his immediate superiors in name only, were trying to adjust the signal on the television in the far corner of the room.

"Looks like it's TV celibacy night," Feronus said, watching them tinkering with the cable hook-up.

"Not unless we can get this thing to work," Abel said.

"I think it's the dish wobbling in the wind out there, or something got wet up there," Cain added.

"Monsoon season came on with a vengeance," Feronus said, shucking his jacket and slinging it on a peg in the wall. "Got any idea why the boss ordered the bucket brigade?"

Cain gave up twiddling with the recalcitrant television and sprawled out on a worn sofa. "That's just it: he didn't order it."

Feronus cocked his head curiously. "He didn't?"

"Nope: we're trying to figure out what's up with the waterworks before he gets back from the City," Abel said.

"Weird. I figured he ordered the raindrops 'cause they made a nice soundtrack for getting cozy with his latest squeeze," Feronus said, hunting for a recent issue of the Sentinel in a pile of rumpled newspapers on a table.

"He hasn't been around since he sent Fussbudget off on whatever fool's errand; he's been staying in the City, taking care of business from there," Cain said. "At least we won't have to listen to him muttering about his beltline. Didn't know those damn mimosas he's always chugging were so fattening."

"Come to think of it, that's when the rain started," Abel added, adding to Feronus's trouble by digging in the pile of newspapers as well. He paused and looked from Cain to Feronus. "You aren't thinking what I'm thinking."

"What, Whitey rigged the rain machine?" Feronus asked.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Cain said. "Whitey used to be a rain regulator way back when. And you know how he's been bristling about the stuff the boss pulls on him after hours."

"Yeah, but do we all have to get wet because of it?" Feronus said, cocking his head and tapping the sides of it to get some errant water out of his ears.

"The boss 'll do something about this once he gets back," Cain said. "Though you know how he is: if he takes a shine to something, he lets it stay, regardless of what the rest of us think about it."

"Yeah, but let him try and like getting splonked on every time he steps out the door," Feronus muttered.

The sunlit days continued and even the nights brought clear skies over L'Ecole de la Tour.

Since Flood, by habit, didn't eat solids unless appearances required it, the offspring within him had started feeding off his code. To compensate, his shell drew in any available moisture from the air around him, He noticed clouds forming against the near-distant mountain peaks visible from his window, but as those masses of moisture drew near the airspace immediately above the school, they quickly broke up. Within a matter of moments after that, he sensed a rush of nourishment entering his shell, bringing with it a sense of renewed energy. But that soon faded.

He swore he could feel the thing growing within him, increasing in strength and size and complexity with every passing hour, its development infinitesimal yet enough that his program senses - far stronger than those of a mere human - easily detected it.

At about the same time his Lupines had suspected the cause behind the continuous rain, the Merovingian had arrived at the guesthouse for his every-other-weekly visit to his involuntary surrogate. As usual, Aesculaepius met him at the door and as they walked along the corridor to the male brood-mare's chambers, the physician gave him a detailed report on the patient's condition.

"And how does he fare in essence?" the Merovingian asked.

"He's still considerably annoyed at his confinement, but he seemed calmer a few days ago after I recommended that he should rest in the sun by an open window."

"Perhaps for a moment he had grown accustomed to his condition and his circumstances," the Merovingian said, as the Brother Porter who silently accompanied them pushed open the door to Flood's rooms.

They found the patient reclining on the sofa in the front room, his head propped on several pillows, a handkerchief draped over his face to keep out the daylight. The Merovingian leaned over Flood and lifted the square of linen from the shorter male's face.

Flood muttered something that might have been a curse under his breath, then opened his eyes. "Here to inspect your work in progress, my lord?" he asked, looking up in the Merovingian's general direction. "I would rise at your approach, but doctor's orders being what they are, I must remain where I am."

The Merovingian seated himself on a chair which the Brother Porter drew up for him, close to the head of the couch. "We can dispense with the formalities… And so, how fares my young surrogate on this fine autumn day?"

"I believe the phrase that fits best is 'bored out of one's gourd'," Flood replied.

The Merovingian reached down and patted Flood's cheek with a brutal tenderness. "Pauvre petit, it shall not be for much longer until you are delivered of my child, five months remain to your confinement."

"If it doesn't drain me dry first; I swear the rest of me has grown thinner since the creature's presence started growing visible," Flood grumbled.

The Merovingian leaned down and kissed the point of Flood's chin. Still leaning close, and gazing into his chief lackey's face, he added, "It is without a doubt a trick of the eyes, or you have been gazing too long and with too much worry at your reflection."

Flood snorted and turned his gaze away from his superior. "I can barely look at my reflection any more without feeling utterly repulsed or without wondering for a moment who let in this bloated intruder who happens to have my face."

With a smile, the King of the Exiles laid a tender hand on Flood's belly. "And which intruder do you refer to? Your reflection or my heir?"

Flood winced with disgust, trying to pull in his stomach muscles. "Touché… a palpable hit, sir."

"Let us hope our child shall have our shared ability to fence with the mere power of the tongue," the Merovingian said, caressing the front of Flood's vest.

"I trust you're referring to the use of a well-turned phrase?" Flood asked, trying not to feel nauseous and at the same time trying to blame that feeling on his condition - though it certainly hadn't caused that effect so far.

The Merovingian regarded him fondly. "Well-turned phrases from a youth who, by virtue of the code from his progenitors, will doubtlessly have a well-turned form."

Flood shifted so that he slid out from under his employer's touch. "If I knew that you were coming on to me, you do recall that Aesculaepius has forbidden you to engage in any and all carnal relations - the ones which would delight me as well as the ones that would delight you."

"Of course I was made well aware of that," the Merovingian replied, his tone maintaining its hint of indulgent cheerfulness, yet his face lost its delighted smirk and took in a crinkle of annoyance. "And I would do nothing to endanger the life that is within you." With that he rose, but remained standing over him. "And if you are to gestate in peace, I shall then leave you to brood."

Flood snerked sourly, catching the word-play in that last remark. "I've had people accuse me of having a brooding look to my visage, but that's the first time the original meaning of the word fit me, though I would hope a bird sitting on a nest would feel more comfortable and less bored." He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of his employer leaning over him for a parting kiss.

Next day several of Sophie's friends were chattering in the study hall: they'd spotted the Merovingian entering the guest house and they'd started speculating over what had brought the King of the Exiles to the school and its environs. Sophie half-listened in silence, bent over her laptop, typing the answers to her essay questions. She had a feeling this visit from the Merovingian had had something to do with Mr. Flood.

She decided then and there that she would pay the poor Exile a visit, to see how he was and to try getting his mind off his difficulty.

Making sure that the Gardener and his assistants had taken their shovels and rakes to another part of the school grounds first, she approached the guest house, her palmtop in her blouse pocket and the stylus for it thrust through the knot of her hair. She found the French doors open and let herself in, treading silently across the carpeted floor. No sign of Mr. Flood: he must have been resting in his rooms. Cocking an ear toward a corridor that, from the kitchen sounds in the distance, clearly lead to the dining hall, she approached another corridor leading in the opposite direction, into another wing of the house. She phased her vision to code view and scanned the interiors of the rooms she passed.

Behind the third door on the right, she spied a note of code that might have been him: the knot of different-colored code that didn't match the rest of him gave him away. Phasing her vision back to unparsed view, she was about to knock on the door when she heard footsteps approach behind it. She backed away and headed up the hallway, ducking around a turn and begging the Codestream not to let that being come her way.

She heard footsteps in the hallway, heading toward the common room and hopefully toward the kitchen. With a sigh that meant relief, she returned to the door and knocked on it.

"It's open, you should know that by now," Flood called from within.

She pressed down the latch, trembling just a little and pushed open the door. She stepped into the sitting room of a small but airy apartment with white-washed plaster walls hung with tapestries and a scarlet and moss-green Persian carpet underfoot. The afternoon sunlight shone golden, framing the figure of the man sitting on the wide window-seat, leaning back on a pile of cushions, a newspaper folded against his tented knees, the lower edge resting against his middle-chest area.

"That was quick, Aesculaepius," he said, not looking up.

"It's me," she said, blurting out the first thing she thought of.

Flood looked up from his newspaper, an annoyed pucker crossing his face. "Oh, it's you," he said. "The little girl with the errant page from her little essay."

"Yes, I, uh… was passing by the guest house and I thought I'd take a look in on you," she said.

"Likely story: I'm not fooled by it for a moment." He turned his full attention back to the newspaper.

"You're very lonely here, aren't you?" she asked.

He looked at her sidewise without lifting his head, the gaze from his golden-brown irises seeming to run right through her to her very code. "You're an intuitive program, aren't you?"

"My mother is one; I think my father isolated some of her special coding and added it to me when they made me," she said.

"I should have known from the start: you're nosy enough. Well, you must have a name, child. Tell me what it is."

"It's Sophie, that's short for Solaphine," she said.

"And your father was that weedy-looking house builder, or at least that's what he made himself into after he refused the chance of an existence, namely working for my esteemed employer. You do realize that there could have been trouble if he wasn't already married to your mother, seeing that she and my employer's wife are 'sisters', to use a human term."

"No, I didn't know that… He wouldn't let anything happen to us, would he? Just because my father wouldn't work for him?"

"No, but that connection by marriage makes it easier for him to keep track of your family and see that no harm comes to you. He takes care of his own, those on his payroll and those on the fringes of his domain."

"He doesn't seem to be taking very good care of you," she said, trying to keep her gaze from dropping to the front of Flood's vest.

Flood shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, at the very least, he spared my dignity from the worst of the gossip by sending me here. As far as I can tell, the few people who can look past my employer long enough to notice me at all, think that I merely succumbed to the pleasures of the table. Likely story, but it's much better than horrid truth."

"So why not just be honest about what's happening to you?" she asked. "It's nothing to be ashamed of at all."

He sighed impatiently. "Ms. Reykmann, you have to realize that I have a reputation to maintain. If word got out that I had been impregnated by my employer and if were known how this abnormal occurrence was thrust upon me, I would be the laughingstock of the entire Exile world, and I would lose all competence with my - er, with my employer's human contacts. No one would be able to mention my name without some wag bringing up the fact that I'd been knocked-up and certain people would question whether or not I'm really male at all. Which they already do and this knowledge would only throw lighter fluid on the flames of their speculation. I've heard from one of these contacts that there are more than a few who think I must be either a female in disguise or that I'm neuter, though I'm told that most of these thoughts came from tank-brains who can't get it through their armor-plate thick skulls that a man might be just as male as they are even if he knows the difference between a Windsor knot and a four-in-hand."

"They talk about you and …him… being together, don't they?" Sophie asked, lowering her voice so no one but Flood would hear her. "That must hurt your feelings."

"It's a wellspring of embarrassment to say the least," he admitted.

"They really bother you, don't they?" she asked.

He shrugged. "They're free to think what they want to, but if they go mouthing it to everyone who'll listen, they're spreading damn lies. My quirks don't run toward other males."

"You're afraid someone will say you had something like this coming," she said.

He emitted a harassed sigh. "You can save your psychological speculations for a more interested party. Your chatter is tiring me out, and in my delicate condition, I can't have that happening."

She leaned down and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's all right: I forgive you for being snappish. My mother got testy like that when she was having my little sister."

Ordinarily, Flood would have immediately winced at this unwelcome touch, but something somewhere in his behavioral parameters accepted it; better that hand on his shell than nothing, and he had had nothing in the three weeks since he'd come here, aside from Aesculaepius's professional prodding. This would seem less confining if the Merovingian had sent a female physician to attend him, but beggars certainly couldn't be choosers.

"You'd better leave before I mention to my attendants that there's been an intruder in my rooms," he said, pulling out from under her touch.

She stepped back skittishly, but she kept her gaze on his face, her violet eyes wide and innocent in that way that always made him grind his teeth. At least through most of their exchange, she'd avoided looking at him below his shirt-collar.

"It's all right. I didn't mean to stay long," she said. And with that, she went out quickly and quietly; at least she moved well, no danger of her tripping on something. He didn't feel up to helping a hobbledehoyden off the floor… or much else, for that matter.

On her way back down the hallway, Sophie nearly ran right into a grey-haired but young-looking male program, a physician by the look of his coding.

"Oh dear," she said, quailing back from him.

The physician regarded her calmly but with concern. "What brought you in here? You know that students aren't allowed to come in here, unless some of their kinsfolk are visiting."

She dropped her gaze to her feet in shame. "I was… I was visiting someone… he's another Exile, so that makes him my kinsfolk." Pulling her confidence together, she looked up at the physician. "Isn't that true?"

He took this thoughtfully; she could almost hear his intellect parameters processing the information. "You were visiting Flood, weren't you?"

"Yes," she admitted, her voice squeaking a little from fear at being caught.

He drew in an audible breath. "I'm sorry, but you really shouldn't go near him: he can't be disturbed because of his condition."

"But he's lonely here," she said.

He put a hand on her shoulder and guided her to the door. "I know that, but we have to take all due precautions around him."

"I've been around pregnant beings before. I helped my mother when she was carrying my youngest sister," she said.

"True, but this is another matter entirely: he's a male carrying a child. His shell wasn't designed for this kind of stress. I can't let anything upset him, not even someone who's worried for him." They had reached the terrace behind the guest house. The physician let her go and turned to face her. "I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but you'll have to leave him to rest."

All she could do was nod and turn away, heading back to the dormitory.

To be continued…