The clinic's long corridor felt oppressively white. Somewhere near the ceiling, an air conditioner hummed softly, circulating cool air through the building. We sat waiting on a hard examination bench: me in the middle, with our attorneys positioned on either side like an escort detail. Gordon idly studied the toes of his shoes while Miss Watson scrolled through something on her phone with intense concentration.
Behind the heavy door was Selina. The procedure was well underway, though calling it surgery felt absurdly dramatic for what was, at its core, a fairly routine intervention. It was not even full IVF, with its weeks of preparation and hormone treatments. This was pure mechanics. I had provided my genetic material in a neighboring room, a lab technician had loaded it into a long catheter syringe, and the contents had been delivered directly where they needed to go.
Officially, the clinic marketed the service as an "express program for couples seeking to maximize their chances of conception to one hundred percent on the first attempt." For us, though, it was not medicine. It was a dry legal instrument, permanently tying the fact of fertilization to the contract we had signed an hour earlier.
The rustle of a disposable sheet drifted through the door, accompanied by quiet voices. Sounded like they were finishing up. The whole thing had happened surprisingly fast, although considering what Selina had paid for a private appointment, delays would have been ridiculous. The entire visit had taken maybe two hours. At a public hospital, I would have spent half that time standing in line at reception, trying to explain the purpose of my visit to an overworked nurse.
The door swung open, and Selina stepped into the hallway first. Her face was a little pale from perfectly natural nerves, but the familiar gleam of triumph had already returned to her eyes. Right behind her came the doctor, a woman in blue scrubs adjusting her stethoscope as she walked.
"The procedure went smoothly, but as a physician, I should temper your expectations," the doctor said, shifting a stern gaze from Selina to me. "Even with ideal indicators on both sides, there is no such thing as a one-hundred-percent guarantee in this field. Be prepared for the possibility that a second cycle may be necessary. Male reproductive cells can sometimes behave unpredictably, remain inactive..."
"I'm already pregnant, Doctor," Selina cut in calmly. She rested a possessive hand on her perfectly flat stomach and smiled. "If Tom said he'd take care of it today, then that's exactly what happened."
The doctor paused for a moment, clearly unaccustomed to patients with such unwavering faith in their partners' reproductive abilities. She cleared her throat politely, masking her discomfort.
"Well... that kind of confidence in your man is certainly enviable." She stepped back into the room, retrieved a folder, and handed it to the suddenly energized attorneys. "Here are two copies of the medical report documenting the intrauterine procedure, complete with your identification numbers. Exactly as your lawyers requested."
Gordon and Watson reacted instantly. They snatched the paperwork with the speed of starving dogs lunging for freshly thrown steaks.
"My work here is done. If there are any concerns about your condition during the first few weeks, call my office number. You already have my cards." The doctor gave a courteous nod and disappeared back into her office.
"Everything's airtight," Gordon declared, snapping his briefcase shut with a crisp click. "Mr. Ross, I'll personally take this package to the bank and secure it in our deposit box. Make sure you call me directly from the delivery room the moment the babies are born. We'll need to file immediately so we can settle the custody issue before the system has a chance to crank up its usual bureaucratic machinery."
That effectively concluded our attorneys' mission. Unless Selina and I somehow managed to start a legal war within the next nine months, we would not be seeing either of them again anytime soon. After saying our goodbyes, they headed toward the elevators in perfect sync.
Only two people walked down the long, empty corridor toward the parking garage: Selina and me. The silence was broken only by the sharp click of her heels against the tile floor. We had, in effect, just set the process of creating a new life in motion. We were going to have children together. Yet we walked half a step apart without even brushing shoulders. From the outside, it would have looked bizarre. I found myself wishing this endless white tunnel would finally come to an end.
"Tom, don't think for a second that I've forgotten your little stunt in the conference room today," Selina said, breaking the silence in an icy tone. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. "I agreed to sole custody for one reason and one reason only. I want these children, and your genetics are the finest biological material I could possibly get. But if you've convinced yourself that you'll get to mold them however you want while I sit around like a good little girl waiting for Friday visitation rights to my own son or daughter, you're making a huge mistake. I'll make your life hell over every detail. The private school you pick. Their sports programs. The clothes they wear. What they eat. I'm not going to let you erase me from their lives."
"I know, Selina. That's exactly what I expect from you," I replied calmly.
She stopped so abruptly her heels nearly slid across the polished floor and turned to face me. Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed.
"What exactly is that supposed to mean? What's the angle here?"
"Selina, do I look like an idiot who dreams of becoming a proud, exhausted single father?" I stopped as well and met her gaze head-on. "If my goal had been to completely cut the mother out of the picture, I wouldn't have been sitting across the table from you. I'd have come to this very building, gone down two floors, signed an anonymous surrogacy contract, and walked away with a healthy baby and none of the baggage."
Selina frowned and folded her arms across her chest, making no move to lower her guard. "Then what was the point of all that theater about demanding sole custody?"
"Because I couldn't let that card end up in your hands," I said evenly. "You're the smartest, most pragmatic, and most ambitious woman I know. That's exactly why I'll never ignore your opinion when it comes to our children. Even though the legal authority stays with me, I intend to consult you about every major decision in their lives. And if we can manage to build a normal, functional relationship without all those little barbs you like to throw, you'll be free to see them every day if you want."
"I can do that without your gracious permission," she said, lifting her chin arrogantly, though the tension in her shoulders had noticeably eased. "Any family court judge would leave newborns with me for at least the first six months on medical grounds alone. Breastfeeding. Your lawyers aren't going to beat nature."
"Nature? No. Facts? Absolutely." I allowed myself a faint smile as I resumed walking toward the exit. "It'd take me no effort at all to hire the best pediatrician in the city, buy the most advanced hypoallergenic formula money can buy, and walk into court with a stack of receipts and expert testimony saying that diet would be better for a developing infant than breast milk. Family courts have become remarkably accommodating toward wealthy fathers who can provide ideal care. So this round goes to me too."
"God, you're impossible, Tom. You've got a document ready for every argument," she scoffed, turning away and picking up her pace. Even so, I caught the corner of her mouth twitching in the faintest suggestion of a smile.
We continued down the clinic's endless hallways, but this time the silence did not last.
"Tom, were you serious?" she asked quietly, slowing her steps. For the first time all day, something soft crept into her voice, something almost unguarded.
"About what?"
"About being willing to revisit the custody arrangement someday. If... if things work out."
"I don't make promises I don't intend to keep, Selina. Never have." I glanced at her briefly. "Keep yourself in check and ease up on those predator instincts of yours, and my door will always be open to you. Every day if you want. I'm not planning to put a wall between you and the kids."
"I can't promise anything. I've got a terrible personality," she said with a faint smile, clearly appreciating the honesty. Then, a little more quietly, she added, "And... thanks for the compliment. About my intelligence. Since we've managed to reach some kind of understanding, would you be willing to talk about a few ground rules? For the future."
"I'm always willing to listen to a reasonable proposal. Go ahead."
"First, here's my non-negotiable condition. I'm not letting you turn my children into brawlers. No boxing, karate, or any other form of organized face-punching. It's barbaric."
I smiled to myself. On that subject, we were completely aligned.
"I couldn't agree more. Traditional combat sports come with unnecessary health risks. Concussions, damaged joints, and their practical value in real-world self-defense is highly overrated. Besides, people who make a living with their brains tend to do a lot better than people who entertain crowds by getting punched for money."
"Well, look at that. We're finding common ground faster than I expected," Selina said, sounding genuinely pleased.
"That said, I still insist on practical training," I added dryly, and her smile vanished immediately. "I'll personally make sure they learn the fundamentals of Krav Maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. They need to know how to control a situation, whether it's dealing with a bully at school without ending up in the principal's office or handling themselves on the street when a couple of correct moves can determine whether you make it home for dinner."
"You're hopeless, Tom. You've got an answer for everything." She rolled her eyes dramatically but did not bother arguing. "Fine. Teach them whatever you want in the backyard. But if I see so much as a single scar on my beautiful babies, you'll answer to me."
"They've existed as a cluster of cells for all of thirty minutes, Selina. Where exactly is this confidence in their flawless looks coming from?"
"Hold it!" She stopped again and stared at me in genuine outrage. "You said yourself that you programmed everything! That was our deal. Your biology on the inside, my aesthetics on the outside!"
"I keep my word. I spent quite a bit of time working with the [Special Team], building the right genetic sequences around your phenotypic markers. Trust me, their appearance isn't something you need to worry about."
"And how could they possibly be anything but gorgeous after that?" She deliberately adjusted a perfect blonde curl and fixed me with her striking blue eyes. "I'm proud of my genetics, and thanks to your technical wizardry, I'm completely at peace about the future family photo albums."
"Selina, do you happen to have German ancestry?"
"I do." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "My grandparents were from Berlin. Why?"
"No reason. It's just that about a century ago, a certain European nation was also obsessed with blue-eyed blondes and creating perfect human beings."
"I'd smack you for that comparison if I wasn't afraid of ruining my manicure!" she snapped, lifting her chin indignantly before striding toward the exit.
"Smart choice." I easily matched her pace. "Overexertion isn't good for pregnant women."
Our conversation bore very little resemblance to the picture-perfect family scenes from breakfast cereal commercials, but I was perfectly fine with that. Clear terms, cold logic, and no illusions. You could build something solid on a foundation like that.
***
For the next three days, I barely left my hotel room, turning my desk into the functional equivalent of a real estate office. Before Selina started showing, I needed to solve the problem of a permanent address in Washington. Babies needed a home, not a series of rented apartments.
Washington real estate prices were vicious, as if every square foot had been forged from solid gold, but I was not discouraged. My new rank of Second Lieutenant guaranteed a steady flow of money into my account, and headquarters had promised that my share of the pharmaceutical project would be paid out before the end of the year. In the absolute worst case, I would take out a standard twenty-year mortgage. My credit history was spotless, and banks loved clients like me.
Every spare hour went into two things: steadily expanding my S-Power reserve and preparing for my first deployment through a portal. Energy gains came slowly now. Progress had noticeably stalled, as though I had hit a ceiling made of reinforced concrete. Still, an extra hundred units of reserve was never wasted in a war zone. At the same time, I prepared for the upcoming operation. Thanks to Selina's leak, I knew exactly what we were walking into. We were being deployed to clear out the Loz'an.
Inside my memory palace, I replayed lectures from training camp over and over, reconstructing every detail of their biology, tactics, and vulnerabilities. I also dug through the restricted databases on the laptop Selina had granted me access to. There I found an enormous amount of information that the quartermasters had apparently deemed unnecessary for cadets. One example was a linguistic analysis of the Loz'an language.
The Loz'an language was a nightmare: guttural, jagged, and demanding constant strain on the vocal cords. The database itself was sparse, lacking nuance and synonyms, which was hardly surprising given that it had been compiled from interviews with a captured officer rather than a trained linguist. In an actual war, the odds of having a meaningful conversation with the enemy were effectively zero. That was why headquarters had never bothered burdening us with the language. Even so, I decided to memorize a couple hundred key phrases. The practical value of that skill in the field might be negligible, but in my personal risk assessment, it was not zero. In war, even a broken rifle can fire.
My assault on the vocabulary list was interrupted by the buzz of my phone. An official Corps notification appeared on the screen.
Mobilization Notice. Second Lieutenant Ross, pursuant to Operational Directive No. 412, you are hereby ordered to report to Bogotá, Colombia, within twenty-four hours of receiving this notice. Your electronic ticket and access credentials are attached. Failure to report to the designated assembly point without valid cause will result in court-martial proceedings.
I closed the message, locked the screen, and slowly rose from my chair. The games were over. Time to pack my bag.