As it turns out, you don't quite make it to the toilet in time – you're sure that you've just killed a camelia bush with the way that you're vomiting into it. You retch again, and again. Your hands are shaking, your eyes watering and dimmed.
You've also resigned your pride to dying a slow, and painful death, with the way that two major Fire Force companies are currently fussing over you.
"Why is she vomiting?"
"She's pregnant, you idiot! We told you that just now, didn't we?!"
"Ah, so one vomits when pregnant! I see now!"
"Is this really the time to be learning new things?!"
Oh, yes.
Whatever's left of your pride has definitely shriveled away.
"[ NAME'S ] face is super green!"
"Like the old hag's zunda mochi!"
"Should we get someone?"
"We're Fire Soldiers, not maternity experts –"
"Company Eight, please calm down –"
You lift up your head to give them an indignant piece of your mind, but heat crawls up the back of your neck and you only barely have enough time to turn your face towards the bush before heaving, spitting bile back into the soil. There's nothing left in your stomach, but it doesn't seem to care.
"Move."
You'd know the sound of your husband's voice anywhere. A wet handkerchief is pressed to the back of your neck, leeching the heat away from your skin and turning the nausea into something infinitely more manageable. You feel his hand on your shoulder and hear his soothing murmur through the roaring in your ears. You manage a relieved sigh, a vague breath resembling a thank you. There's a tentative little nudge in your womb; you wonder if your baby had been scared. It's okay. We're okay, you think, towards your little kicker. I'm sorry.
A flask of water is handed to you, and you rinse out the taste of sickness from your mouth. The nausea is over as quickly as it had come, and Beni's hands are gentle as he guides you back onto your feet.
A twist to your mouth. "Beni, so help me, if you tell me to rest –"
A clench to his jaw. "You should."
"There's no time." A bad feeling hovers over your gut, icy fingers of dread tightening your bowels. Still, you keep your hands folded over your belly, hoping to spread the calm you don't quite feel down to your baby. "Put the entire Company on high alert. There's something – Something isn't right here."
The first blast comes from the center of town. The stampede of people and screams come in the seconds after. The chaos turns the world on its side and makes placing your feet on solid ground almost impossible; you're suddenly glad for Beni's solid presence, supporting almost all of your weight as you try to find your bearings once again.
"Oh no," You whisper, as the next explosion rips through the air. Your baby twists about, either an increasingly active child, or one who is carefully in tune with his mother's growing distress. "Oh no."
Are we too late?
"Young Master, this is –"
"Is it the White-Clads?"
"There's no other explanation, is there?"
"[ NAME ] –"
"You have to go." A sudden pain radiates into your pelvis and halfway up your spine, forcing a whimper from your throat before you can stop it. You force breath back into your lungs, and wait for the pain to pass. It does. It's just a cramp, you tell yourself, even as some small part of you thinks that you're a terrible liar, and that this will definitely come back to haunt you. Beni's forehead pleats in worry, reluctant to separate himself from you. "I'll stay with Konro. You just – do what you have to do. Don't worry about us."
Beni's hand drops from your shoulder, down to your stomach. His touch is feather-light and rests there for the briefest of seconds. The baby offers a half-hearted kick, as if worn out by the entire situation, but still wanting to impress his father nonetheless.
"I'll come back soon," Beni says, a promise, and a vow all at once. His hand drops back down to his side, leaving you struck with a sudden, painful loss.
"I know you will."
You watch as Beni leaves, cutting a swift pace through the darkness. You bite your lip, unable to control the panic flooding through you. It's all you can do not to run after him, screaming for your husband to come back.
