Eight Months Later (for 096831)

A little over eight months had passed since Dave Preston, then an 18-year-old on the hunt for trouble and quick conquests at the Sunny Day Mall, had slammed the ill-tempered woman in the gray skirt up against a movie advertisement display and seeded her womb in an act of petty, vindictive ****. Now, Dave stood outside Brinda’s apartment door with an oversized, cheaply made, floral arrangement clutched awkwardly in one hand.

He kicked the door lightly. "Open up, Brinda! Your babydaddy is here!" he shouted, unwilling to wait for a proper knock or a formal invitation. His usual brash manner hadn’t dulled a bit.

The lock clicked instantly, and the door opened inward. Brinda stood framed in the doorway, a sight drastically changed from the severe, pristine figure he had encountered that fateful day. She was now overwhelmingly pregnant; her slim frame had swelled dramatically to accommodate Dave’s impending offspring. She wore comfortable, loose maternity clothes--a stark contrast to the knee-length gray skirt and matching business jacket he remembered.

"Must you announce your presence to the entire complex, David?" she asked, though the cutting edge of her voice had softened into something resembling weary tolerance. She still insisted on calling him by his formal name, David, which he hated.

"Jeez, you look ready to pop, old lady," Dave remarked, stepping past her and nearly clipping the doorframe with the ridiculous flowers. He dumped them unceremoniously onto a nearby side table. "I thought you were going to file a restraining order, not start looking like a giant melon."

Brinda sighed, running a hand over the taut curve of her belly. "I informed you repeatedly, David, that once the act was concluded, the resulting biological imperative superseded my desire for retribution". She moved slowly into the living room, indicating a comfortable armchair for him. "The Pass required me to carry this child to term, regardless of the father’s quality--or lack thereof."

Dave settled into the chair, crossing his arms and grinning smugly. "So, whatever happened to that police report?"

"You already know that story, David! Every time I tried to go submit my documentation, something would come up. A flat tire. Overwhelming dizziness. Emergency home repairs. Eventually, my documentation itself was shredded when a squirrel got into the apartment. I documented all of my setbacks, but it was no use," Brinda replied, leaning heavily against the back of the sofa. "I quickly realized the limitations of my options when dealing with something as absurd as a Breeding Pass."

Dave appreciated her highly organized, if cynical, way of processing their catastrophic first meeting. It was, surprisingly, something he had come to respect.

"So, what’s the agenda today, hooligan?" Brinda asked, the old insult delivered with a wry tone that implied an inside joke, rather than genuine contempt.

"I brought food," Dave said, pulling a greasy bag from his jacket. "Kurt’s shift at the food court ended early, so I grabbed us some burgers. You need to keep up that weight, Mommy."

Brinda pinched the bridge of her nose but didn’t refuse the offering. "You know perfectly well I have a highly regimented diet plan to maintain during the third trimester, David. However," she conceded, "I seem to be experiencing a momentary lapse in discipline that coincides with the smell of fat and preservatives."

"See? That’s the baby talking," Dave said, pleased that his brash attempt at providing comfort food hadn't been rejected. He watched her slowly waddle towards the kitchen counter.

"Nonsense. The baby is currently pressing its foot firmly against my diaphragm, forcing me to breathe shallowly. It is in no state to discuss dietary choices," Brinda countered formally, as she opened the bag. "This arrangement is still strictly a transaction, Preston. You fulfill your obligation to provide sustenance and company, and I tolerate you."

"Yeah, yeah, a transaction," Dave mocked playfully, standing up and crossing the short distance to the kitchen. He knew the terms of their 'transaction' had shifted long ago from **** submission to a strange, co-parenting partnership based on shared reality.

He leaned against the counter beside her, watching her tackle the burger with surprising eagerness. "You still hate my 'generation of lazy halfwits,' though, right?" he teased, recalling her rant near the car.

Brinda chewed slowly, fixing him with her intense gaze, still capable of delivering a formidable look despite her maternal state. "Intellectually, yes. But practically, David, you are remarkably punctual for our scheduled visits, and frankly, you are the only person who doesn't treat me like a fragile glass figurine destined to shatter." She paused, her eyes catching the light. "Plus, the child needs to be acquainted with the full range of its genetic lineage, however juvenile that might be."

Dave shrugged, a cocky smile stretching across his face. "Hey, I knocked you up in one go. That's not juvenile. That’s virile," he boasted, recalling the pride he felt immediately after the act.

Brinda made a small, exasperated sound, yet the corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "You still confuse sheer biological **** with competence, Preston." She swallowed the last bite and looked him directly in the eye. "Now, if you want to be useful, I need you to document the current fetal movement intensity for my midwife report. Grab the tablet."

Dave grabbed the requested device, a familiar task now. He leaned in, placing his hand gently on her massive belly where the baby was pushing out, rubbing the firm skin in a gesture of genuine affection.

"I still think we should name him Chad, just for the irony," Dave mused.

"Absolutely not," Brinda stated sharply, momentarily regaining her "don't fuck with me" aura. "We are sticking to the pre-approved list. Now help me, David. And try not to be a lazy halfwit about it."