(BAD END pt. 2) You visit the police station eight months after that fateful night, looking for answers

It's your birthday today. 25 should be one of the birthdays when you still get to enjoy it carefree without worrying that your best years are behind you. As a heroine, you got a relatively late start, but you'd always thought that you were just being sensible, preparing as much as you could before jumping in. Ideally, you should have a long, illustrious crime-fighting career ahead of you yet.... after all, La Petite Mort is well into her forties now, and Raven Woman is a fair bit older than that. Superhumans tend to age more gradually than normal humans, remaining vigorous for many decades before the years suddenly catch up with them... your mother was 15 years older than you are now before she decided to hang up her tights, and even then she'd had friends and allies urging her to reconsider.

But right now, you hate your birthday not because of the number involved, but because it makes you that much more painfully aware that it is going to be someone else's first birthday a year and a month from now... and a 'long, illustrious crime-fighting career' is starting to feel less likely, no matter how Julia and some of the veteran heroines like Raven Woman try to encourage you. You still have no idea what you're going to do. But after another long period of putting it off, you know that you've got to get some closure to this and come to a decision.

Since riding a motorcycle would be incredibly hazardous in your condition, you've come in a black SUV, which La Petite Mort graciously provided her frankenstein-like lab assistant for as a chauffeur - he can't very well spread rumors, and although pretty much everyone you met in the League knows that you've gotten yourself knocked up, you'd rather not spread the 'how' around.

As you shuffle up to the doors leading to the office of the lieutenant who agreed to meet with you, you get a glimpse of your appearance. Unfortunately, since superheroes don't carry around identification and coming as your civilian identity is strongly discouraged, the only way they're allowed to give you any information is if you come wearing your costume... the same dark grey 'top 15% of a bodysuit cut off halfway down the bustline', bikini bottom, and skin-tight thigh-high leggings you had been wearing that fateful night, when your first patrol ended up with you sitting in the lap of some no-name gang banger riding his long black cock down to the base.

Of course, as you look at yourself now, your appearance isn't quite the same. Thanks to all of your dithering, by now you're as big as a house. Your costume always left pretty much all of the skin between an inch under your nipples and your bikini bottoms exposed, which means that your condition couldn't possibly be more on display. Your abdomen is a far cry from the trim, toned condition you'd been so proud of. The diligent maintenance of your exercise regime (until that became impossible a month or so ago) has minimized the amount of excess weight you've gained, but that just makes the beach-ball sized dome of your belly stick out that much more. Your breasts were never on the small side, but now, the tight material of your costume top feels painfully tight against them even after you've made alterations to loosen it several times.

A bead of glistening moisture catches your eye. Damn it... you're leaking again. You take a tissue from a your belt and dab gingerly at the undersides of your swollen breasts. Thanks to your mildly superhuman physique, you can walk at a brisk pace without any discomfort and could probably still pull off a somersault or a cartwheel if you really needed to, but you still move at a slow, awkward waddle, supporting your jutting belly with one hand, to avoid bouncing free of your top.

Even though the distance you need to cover isn't that long, doing the 'walk of shame' like this is still completely mortifying, as a number of the cops and other employees see you barging your way through the narrow halls. Unfortunately, thanks to your superpower, you're able to hear everything everyone who spots you has to say. You aren't sure whether it makes it worse or better that they're all quite casual about it, being amused or dismissive rather than shocked.

'Oh damn, there goes another one, looking like she's about to pop. No wonder D.T. Murphy was in such a hurry to push his retirement papers through and get out of dodge. Lucky s.o.b. Wish I knew how that old dog got these costumed girls to spread their legs so easy.'

'Hmph. Looks like Stallion is still at it. I can't believe the capes haven't put a stop to this yet. Maybe they're just happy to have less competition.'

'Uh oh, looks like baby mama drama again. Better let the cleanup crew know they need to get ready for some property damage if she gets hormonal and pitches a fit like the last one.'

'Hey Linda, do you see that? Pffft. I mean, what do these girls expect is going to happen when they go out dressed like that? Whaaat, don't look at me like that, it's true.'

All you can do is grit your teeth and keep looking straight ahead. Finally you reach your destination. Lieutenant Jefferson is a handsome, clean cut asian man who looks to be around your age. He smiles politely and doesn't look surprised. "Please, Miss Nightingale, take a seat. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. So, um, how do I put this delicately..."

God damn it. It has to be a male you're having this discussion with? On the other hand, women can get even more judgmental and might drag things out more, so maybe this is for the best. With a sigh, you slump down into the padded seat, resting one hand on your bulging midsection. "I don't think there is any delicate way to put it, and I don't wanna waste your time, lieutenant. I didn't come here because I needed a shoulder to cry on." you say, willing yourself to not get choked up even though you feel your throat tightening involuntarily. "I made some big mistakes my first night patrolling as a C-rank hero and ended up getting intimate with a perp. He didn't wear a condom, and now I'm..." you trail off and swallow, blinking a few times.

The L.T. leans forward as if to speak up but you make a point of finishing. "...and now I'm about to have his baby. I haven't decided what to do yet but I need to find the fucker, if I can."

"Whew. Um, okay," the lieutenant says with an awkward smile. You can detect poorly-hidden relief in his voice, probably because he and his department aren't directly on the hook for your predicament. Not surprising, since the corrupt cops in this city are notorious for seducing and coercing villainesses and heroines alike. "Well, since you're here, I'm guessing this guy ended the night in handcuffs?" You nod.

Williamson pulls his computer keyboard over and types something. "And what would his name have been?"

The silence of the next few seconds is deafening. "I don't... I don't know his last name." you say, swallowing hard again. "I think his friend called him 'Kevin'. He was an inch or two shorter than me so, about five eight. Black guy, had very short hair with a fade, big stupid-looking ears. One earring, no tattoos that I could see."

Typing a few lines, the detective nods. "Okay. And this would have been, I'm just estimating here... some time in mid August? At the disturbance at the 'Lemon Beat Drops' club?"

That is exactly correct. You never mentioned the club. Your face starts to grow redder and redder. Suddenly, you remember Julia telling you that the scumbags had been bragging about what they got you to do while in the lockup. Apparently, even eight months later, this lieutenant still remembered. "Yesss..." you sigh deeply, putting your hand over your eyes and shaking your head. "You do know this guy, then. What happened, is he still in jail?"

"Er, just a hunch Miss Nightingale, that's all. The individual in question did do some time, but since there were no deaths and severe injuries that could be pinned on him, he plea bargained himself a light sentence, and got released six weeks ago for good behavior. As you know, the usual rules about privacy can be suspended if a registered hero vouches that it is of urgent importance... which, yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and say applies here. One thing I should ask though, since we're well within the statue of limitations. Clearly, there was intercourse." he says the word plainly and without hesitation or lowering his voice. "Was it consensual? According to the incident report, you didn't stay around to report to our officers on scene. I'll gladly run him in if you want to press charges for ****."

"No, it wasn-" you pause, flinching. "I mean... technically, he thought it was. I was threatened, but the guy and his friend weren't aware of it. Can I decide that one later? I just want to confront him about it first... Does he have a history of that? What kinds of crimes is he guilty of, anyway?"

"Oh, just the usual," Williamson says casually. "Vandalism, illegal gun, illegal knife, and 10 separate charges of possession with intent to distribute over the past 4 years. Not much of a record compared to a lot of the guys we bring in, which isn't surprising since he's only 18. By only a matter of days on the night in question, in fact. Under other circumstances, I'd be inclined to say you were cutting it pretty close there. That is, I don't know how old you are, Miss, but you'd have to have been 20 or under for the 'Romeo and Juliet' law to apply..."

He sees you tightening your grip on the armchair and getting irate. "Ahhhh... well, nevermind that, he WAS 18 so it's irrelevant." A printer starts buzzing nearby, and the cop tears off a page, handing it to you. "Kevin Chambers. Here's the contact info for his parole officer and last known address." He pauses as you read it. "Just so we're clear... this individual has already been sentenced and served his time. In light of a previous incident, I should remind you that you can't use **** against him if he's not committing any crimes at the time. I'd like to do more for you, but the secret identity laws reeeeeally complicate things." His tone shifts downwards as the cop does his best to sound sincere. "If you're hoping to get some kind of court judgement against him, it's going to be difficult. You need to have a really good lawyer. I'm no expert in secret identity family law but I think getting an alimony payment involves clearing a lot of legal hurdles, and considering who we're talking about here..."

"I'm not looking for a fucking alimony payment!" You shout a little too loudly. "And when the hell did I ask your opinion? I didn't even want to have to come down here! By the way..." you raise your voice to a deafening, reverberating cacophony that penetrates through every wall in the building. "TELL YOUR ASSHOLE CO-WORKERS THAT I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING THEY'VE BEEN SAYING ABOUT ME!"

The cop is covering his ears, leaning back in his seat. Infuriatingly, he isn't visibly frightened, guilty, or at all contrite... more like bemused. He actually begins cracking a smile before catching himself. "I'll pass that along, Miss Nightingale. And I'm sorry you didn't like my question but I'm trying to help you. And my department. If it's not about that, then what are you hoping is going to happen? Are you planning to ask him to marry you or something?"

"Pfffff!" You huff in disbelief and throw your hands up, surprised.

"Okay, so, what I don't want to see happen is for you to go there because you're understandably angry and want him to make it right somehow. But that's probably not going to happen, because he's a piece of shit." Hearing this genteel, professional lieutenant use salty language for the first time snaps you to attention and cuts off your retort. "And when he's a piece of shit about this terrible situation, which he will be, you're going to break his spine in three places, and our department is going to get told to arrest you. Which I wouldn't want to try regardless of, you know." he gestures down at your gravid midsection. "Please, Miss, don't make us have to arrest an angry, violent, superhumanly strong pregnant woman. Again."

"Auuuggghhhh," you put your hands on your temples and lean forward, which is difficult without jabbing your swollen midsection with your knees, forcing you to spread your legs wider apart. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," you say in a low, wearily frustrated tone. "You have no idea what this is like. Lieutenant fucking Dick. What the hell do you care? You're not in this situation, you're the one who puts girls in this situation. Men and their god damn dicks. And your man laws telling me I have to waddle around carrying the kid of some random street thug, whose god damn dick I only sat on because I was trying to protect you useless pigs!"

"Well, uh, we appreciate the help of course," Williamson says, infuriatingly unshaken by your words, "but when you say 'pigs' do you mean members of the department? Because according to the incident report there, two of the seven officers on the scene were female."

"THANKS for the help, asshole. Keep the condescension!" You would like to storm out of the room within moments, but much to your annoyance, you stumble as you try to jump to your feet, just like every time you get up from sitting these days, thanks to this bowling ball of a stomach throwing off your balance. Eventually you manage to storm out. Sure enough, your super-amplified screaming shattered a glass door in the hallway, and a few janitors are already starting to clean it up when you barge past. You don't care what anyone says. You tell yourself you won't do anything violent or stupid. You just need some closure before you can decide how to salvage your life and career.