(BAD END pt. 1) You really should have insisted that gangbanger wear a condom; you miss your period

The next six weeks pass in a blur of excitement and adventure as you go about alerting the League of Propriety to the threat of the Full House gang. Plaudits and praise flow your way profusely as you give them the intel you gathered and play a key role in cooperating with famous heroes such as Raven Woman, Pauladin and Dr. Oculus in bringing them down. You're the talk of the town... but only for a few days. With so many villains and criminals in this city and so many heroines running around putting them out of business, glory is fleeting, and your 15 minutes of fame are up all too quickly.

But though the press and glamour are temporary, in the excitement, you neglect the possibility of much more permanent consequences. It's when you're taking a well-deserved week of rest and planning your next move to seek out higher-profile criminals for your next crusade of justice that a sudden 'illness' overtakes you. It starts with you getting nauseous several mornings in a row and spending long stretches hunched over your toilet and feeling miserable. Then you start getting dizzy and lightheaded during your high-intensity training and exercise sessions. You've been so caught up in your dreams of surpassing your mother's legacy and earning yourself a place in the 'Big 7' that it's only after the fourth day in a row of sickness, as you sit looking at your gorgeous, well-toned body in your bathroom mirror, that you notice your nipples are feeling painfully tender and you finally connect the dots, realizing that you've missed your period for the second month in a row.

Your heart is beating just as quickly as it was during any of the exciting, high-stakes battles you'd had with your first slate of supervillains when you return from the **** store and find yourself peeing on a stick and crossing your fingers. The two pink lines you're confronted with when you take a look at the pregnancy test hits you harder than when one of the Full House Gang members clipped you with the fist of his mechanized power armor. Rather than breaking down into tears, your response is an eyeroll and a groan of frustration as you think back, angrily making a note that you had tried your best to hop up off of the young black gang member's lap when you noticed he was about to cum, only for him to pull you back down with his grip around your trim, sexy midriff... which is going to get a lot less trim if you don't do something about it.

Still, at first you take things pretty well, calming yourself down after the initial shock and doing a few internet searches. You have, after all, already been in this situation once before, five years ago when you were nineteen, after a VERY ill-advised spur-of-the-moment hookup from the 'casual encounters' section of an online message board. You don't share your mother's Catholic faith, being more or less agnostic about matters of God and Jesus, so you had sidestepped that potential derailment of your educational and superheroing ambitions with a trip to the local "women's clinic".

Therefore, when you manage to find the local women's clinic and do a walk-in, you are utterly blindsided by the sympathetic-looking lady at the front desk informing you that they can't help you, and that you'll have to leave. The secret note she passes you (which turns out to be a pre-printed form letter) explains that things are different after you have officially registered as a superheroine. Although your secret identity is still secret, your face is not, and a semi-secret federal law upheld by the supreme court forbids procuring an abortion of a "superhuman" pregnancy, except in case of life-threatening complications. Supposedly this is because of the massive risks to the safety of both the patients and the doctors involved, as well as because of a covered-up conspiracy involving a rogue government official, who had turned out to be an anti-superhuman extremist, using a massive machine and a captive telepathic hero to target an unknown number of superhumans with hypnotic suggestions to abort.

This all seems horribly unfair to you. You plead with the League of Propriety to scrub your image from that database forbidding family planning clinics from helping you, but they are unsympathetic, telling you that you should have read the multiple-hundred-page volume of bylaws and regulations more carefully. Even though it's a total nightmare for you, the non-costumed-power functionaries that you deal with at the League are remarkably blase about the whole situation, even making light of it a few times, saying that you're far from the first reckless novice superheroine to get herself in this particular kind of peril. On the contrary, it seems you aren't the first, second, or even the third one this year. No wonder that there are always openings on the League of Propriety's roster.

You find their reassurances that the League of Propriety has a world-class daycare program less than satisfactory. Apparently, the only way they can remove your face from the 'do-not-serve' registry is for you to resign... not just as Nightingale, but from the League and superheroing permanently (and not just in Acropolis City; every other superhero team in America and most of those abroad are under League of Propriety jurisdiction), sternly reminding you that they take an extremely dim view of unauthorized vigilantism.

Every way you turn, the situation gets worse and worse. During your occasional visits with your mother, Molly, your efforts to hide your swelling abdomen and pass it off as 'bad eating habits after moving to a new city' grow increasingly unbelievable, and by the way she looks at you, you are sure that she knows. Julia is endlessly helpful and supportive, but that just makes things worse: after confiding in her and getting her advice, you realize that Julia would be criminally liable if it came out that you'd gone to a clinic in Mexico or something and paid under the table and can't bear the thought of putting your best friend in such danger. Instead, you double down on your training program, hoping that physical exertion takes care of the problem... and desperately stick with that strategy week after week after week even after it becomes increasingly clear it isn't working.

Indecision and obstacles mount, and weeks turn into months. When you start showing beyond a degree that could be chalked up to needing to add a few more sit-ups to your gym routine, the League puts you on leave before some paparazzi snaps a photo of your baby bump. Not a day goes by that you don't cringe and groan when you think back on how you foolishly hopped up on that stupid punk's dick and bounced your ass up and down in his lap just because some villain bitch told you to... and because the excitement had gotten you horny. While you'd been visiting the League HQ for the first time and imagining your place in it, millions of sperm had been swimming upstream inside you and pouncing on your defenseless ovum, eager to take advantage of your youthful carelessness... and fertility.

Time flies in a blur, and before you know it you're well beyond the point of being able to do anything: regardless of your opinions on the matter, you're going to be a mother.... at the same age as your own mom, in fact. Of course, she'd had a loving boyfriend with an excellent career who had happily done the honorable thing and married her.

You, on the other hand, find yourself needing to make an extremely awkward visit to the police station after having waited far too long, having no way of knowing if the daddy of the child you can feel practicing his or her 'karate kicks' inside of you every night is even still alive.