Many months later, Snowflake is on a different kind of mission

The video/audio feed shows the sterile, cramped, white-tiled office where many a heroine dreads ending up - the leave department. Male heroes don't like ending up there either, since it often means they have a gruesome injury or an engineered plague or a curse or something. But for heroines, it often has a different connotation. And, in this case, a particular genderqueer hero is unavoidably identifying a bit more with the heroines.

'Ka-CHUNK'

The sound of a heavy rubber stamp reverberates through the personnel office as La Petite Mort finishes up with a set of documents. "And voila, here you are. I don't see why you didn't come sooner so that we did not need to drag you into this. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"

"Mort, you... how dare you gaslight me like that? I know you recruited me onto that stupid team of yours with an evil asshole for a leader because you were setting me up to fail!" Snowflake says, shaking a clenched fist.

The tall, mocha-skinned hero with very short hair as white as their namesake was allowed to keep their super-suit after the Weather Watch fell apart. But one might suspect that they wish they hadn't kept it in spite of its many useful functions. The 'super-deep cleavage' of the outfit which had only a thin translucent layer over the space between Snowflake's breasts, running all the way down to their white thong, is now serving mainly to draw the eye to the round, protruding bump pushing out from behind their navel. The bulge made Snowflake look as if they'd swallowed a canteloupe - the resultant bump was spreading the sides of the opaque white portions of their outfit open, as if the outfit had been designed to solely for calling attention to it. The firm, round fullness of the bulge made it blatantly clear to anyone looking that it wasn't the result of neglecting diet and exercise.

The short, pale woman in the snug funeral dress and the veil standing behind the counter (on a stepstool, of course) brushes some of her stringy, unhealthy-looking black hair away. "Yes, yes." La Petite Mort's tone of voice is droll and dismissive. "And I'm sure that among dozens of new heroines crowding into the League this year as a result of the millennium fiasco, a few will make the same mistake their parents did, and end up in the same place they did, for the same reason - this quiet, cramped little room. And they'll all blame me, just like you. The trouble is, I simply don't care."

Despite the early hour of the day, La Petite Mort puts a wineglass under her veil and takes a dainty sip. "C'est la vie. And life is cruel. Some days we all think death would be la miséricorde. How pitiful it is for one like yourself, who cannot even use it as an excuse to partake in rich food because of that 'vegan' absurdité you subscribe to! I had to give up wine and smoking for 9 months. If I couldn't have even had the occasional ecliar or croque monsieur, I don't think I would have survived. Now, hurry up and take your papers."

Snowflake leans forward and snatches them from off the table, staring at them intensely. Petite Mort chuckles, with a deceptively harsh and raspy voice for such a small woman: "I didn't give you anything to make a scene over, as you see. Thanks to your heroic efforts, the League of Propriety will no longer give out 'maternity leave', and instead offers 'pregnancy leave'. No gender implied. The, ah, what is the term... 'cis-gender' male heroes complained that it excludes them, but that would be too great a moral hazard. Making it so all they have to do to get a year of paid leave is to go out and knock up some amateur villainess or scoop-seeking reporter? It'd be abused to no end."

With a heavy sigh, Snowflake looks up from the papers. "This League is a fascist, reactionary, regressive fucking disgrace. I should've just gotten rid of it," they point down to their swollen abdomen, "and become a supervillain. I could hardly make this city any worse."

La Petite Mort chuckles uncharitably again. "Ah, but think of it this way. You'll only be carrying some dumpy henchman's progeny for another seven or eight weeks, but you will get to carry around the resultant sense of grievance for the rest of your life. Isn't being a martyr what you wanted? A perfect cause célèbre to tour the talk show circuit with."

"Ugh..." Snowflake groans, putting a hand to their forehead. "I'm getting lightheaded again, I need to sit down, damn it." They slump into one of the seats, looking down at the papers while resting one hand on their swollen stomach.

Soon, Snowflake's eyebrows start narrowing in irritation as they read. "Actually, I do have a complaint about this form, Mort. But you knew that, because there's no way you made this choice by accident. This checklist on the right side here..."

Petite Mort groans in exasperation. "J'en ai marre! What is your problem with categorizing whomever knocked you up as 'other parent'? That is perfectly neutral!"

"Because it's a fucking checklist!" Snowflake belts out. "That's so demeaning! You're telling me this isn't a way for the League to shame and belittle pregnant heroes with these... these outdated stereotypes?!"

Snowflake points to the list on the documents. Under 'Other biological parent' there is a row of boxes with various categories: 'Civilian spouse. League Hero (long term/fling). Rescued civilian (long term/fling). Crime boss. Street-level criminal. Costumed villain (long term/fling). Costumed henchperson. Reporter. Corporate Sponsor. Public servant. Elected Official.'

Petite Mort is unimpressed. "Everything on that list is there because there were five or more cases noted in the last official study between 2005 and 2012. And you yourself didn't need to use the write-in box, did you, Snowflake?"

"Grrr...." Snowflake grits their teeth again.

"Speaking of that," Petite Mort continues, "since I know you will harass me about it sooner or later, I've take the initiative and managed to find the man who left you with that burden."

"What...?" Snowflake looks genuinely surprised. "But I thought he wasn't even in any of the records and couldn't be matched to any other incidents involving Queen and Bunny's gang. All I know about him is that he left Starburst, Wisp, and Garota Ensolarada are in the same boat as me. Thanks to a certain unqualified avian-themed hero who shall remain nameless completely botching the investigation due to being a horny idiot." They snort and glower down at the pregnancy leave form, where the spot for the name of the 'other parent' whose seed impregnated the heroine filing the form has been left blank, lists him only as 'Jack of Hearts'. "Fucking racist asshole..."

La Petite Mort gives a haughty laugh-snort. "Racist? As of the past year, he has gotten three white and three non-white heroines pregnant, not counting you. You have no room to argue for prejudice either way, you contentious brat."

"Damn it! You've been talking to Thunderbird about this, haven't you?! I swear, she's going to pay for th-" Snowflake suddenly stops mid-sentence as the realiztion dawns on them. "...what? Did you say SIX?"

"No, I said three and three." La Petite Mort says.

"That's the same fucking thing!" Snowflake shouts, their normally deep voice cracking into a shrill, feminine hysteria.

"Hah!" La Petite Mort gives a single dry, scornful laugh again and lights a cigarette. "I forgot, you're a humanities major. Three plus three equals six. It is not 'the same as' six. Mathematically-"

"Who the fuck were they?! Why weren't they in the... in the videos?" A flush is rising in Snowflake's face.

"Ah, you found out about those?" La Petite Mort sounds genuinely curious. "I would have though you would have made more of a nusiance of yourself over the existence of such filth in our archives, if you had. The camera created by Celluloid Crusader - a marvel of time-like spatial field mechanics, I was able to incorporate his advancements into some of my own best work - has a limited range, just 25 miles. Was that not obvious, even to someone who majored in politically correct pabulum like yourself? If it included every time an oversexed heroine carelessly made a baby anywhere in the world, it would be a dozen times larger!"

Snowflake groans and rolls their eyes. "Can you at least tell me where to find the guy?"

"Why?" La Petite Mort asks flatly.

"Excuse me?" Snowflake raises an eyebrow.

"Are your ears full of snow? I asked 'why'? Qu'est-ce que c'est? What are you going to do? Ask him to marry you?"

"Hah! God, no!" Snowflake says bluntly with a single mirthless laugh.

"I thought you were an atheist." La Petite Mort says, jabbing her cigarette at Snowflake. "No atheists when you have a little kit in the foxhole, non?" She jabs the lit cigarette in Snowflake's direction.

"First of all, could you NOT FUCKING SMOKE AROUND ME WHILE I'M SEVEN AND A HALF MONTHS PREGNANT, YOU THOUGHTLESS LITTLE SHIT?" Snowflake bellows angrily and extinguishes the cig by flicking a tiny snowball at it with a snap of their fingers.

"And second of all, none of your fucking business! And THIRD, it's a damn figure of speech everyone uses! And for good measure, aren't YOU an atheist?"

"No, bien sûr que non ! " Petite Mort disdainfully drops her ruined cigarette on the floor and pulls her black funeral veil back down. "I'm a Catholic who's going to Hell. But we are getting sidetracked. Before I give you his identity, I need to know why? So you can do what?"

Snowflake stares. With the immense height disparity between the two of them, La Petite Mort is practically staring right at Snowflake's swollen baby bump.

"Oh?" Petite Mort asks sarcastically as she cups her hand behind one ear. "Is that the sound of you mentally crossing out all the things you would like to say you are going to do, but cannot in fact do to a man already in custody without becoming a criminal yourself?"

"You're such a fucking genius, Petite Mort, why don't you white-splain to me what I should do?" Snowflake folds their arms defensively, a reflex that makes them wince on account of putting pressure on their uncomfortably swollen tits. When they feel a bit of warm liquid making a conspicuous wet spot ont their costume, they give a growl of frustration and awkwardly put their arms back down.

"C'est facile! Find a weak-willed man who doesn't mind babysitting another man's illegitimate child. Surely there is no shortage of boys at your college who would love to be able to pin a special label on their sexuality for doing the same things to you as the average 'cis-het oppressor' fantasizes about, whenever you make a public appearance in that costume?"

"In this costume...?!" Snowflake's hot temper comes to the boiling point again. "YOU designed this damn costume! YOU insisted that I wear it!"

"Yes," La Petite Mort says in a droll tone, "and imagine how many men would have been denied the joy of masturbating to you if I hadn't."

Snowflake raises a hand and points a finger in the much shorter woman's face. The white-haired hero just holds it there for a long moment, as if hoping the perfect come-back will present itself. But instead they just pinch the bridge of their nose and sink back into the chair, carefully supporting their protruding pregnant belly as they do. "You said this asshole was responsible for five other pregnancies besides me 'this year'. Does that mean there's fucking more from previous years?"

"Yes." Mort says flatly.

Burying their face in their hands, Snowflake groans again. "Do I even dare ask?"

"If your fear is that this sum of six represents a consistent yearly trend for the past decade or more," Mort chuckles softly, "I shall slightly allay your fears by saying, no, it's not quite so many as you might fear. The past year was a very unusual one for this vile man. But your baby will indeed have more than five half-siblings, I'm afraid. And for reasons that go beyond the sheer number, I think you should let this sleeping dog lie. Trust me when I say the truth will cause you nothing but aggravation, a commodity you are not in any short supply of."

"Why did you even bring it up in the first place if you were just going to jerk me around like this, Mort? Are you sadistically torturing me for your amusement with this bullshit?" Snowflake demands.

La Petite Mort laughs dryly again. "I wouldn't say 'No' if I was attached to a lie detector. But more importantly, I am a woman of science. Concealing the truth or calling things by other than what they are goes against everything I stand for in my life. Now - is there anything you are going to say or do to this man that wouldn't be better said and done to a dummy in the training room?"

Snowflake lowers their head. When they speak, the tone is more glum than outraged: "Even if he's a monster, I think my baby deserves to know who their biological parents are. Both of them. Maybe there can be some kind of relationship, even if it's through jail cell bars. I owe it to them," Snowflake rests a hand on their belly, "to at least ask the guy."

Mort seems genuinely surprised, and clears her throat. "Ah... I see. That is... I suppose that is quite a decent reason, actually." She nods. "Very well. I'll send you the prisoner number. You can catch him tomorrow afternoon outside the gates when they're letting him out."

"Letting him out?!" The calmness that had crept into Snowflake's voice melts faster than a snowflake in Death Valley. "They're LETTING HIM OUT? What the FUCK?"

La Petite Mort finishes scribbling and tears off a strip of paper, holding it up to Snowflake in two fingers. "I told you it would be aggravating. And that is only the hors-d'œuvre in the three course meal of aggravation you just ordered." She reaches up and stuffs the slip of paper between Snowflake's swollen tits. "Bon Appétit."