She glances up, then back down. “Just… confirming.”
My stomach clenches again, not with nausea this time but with dread.
“Confirming what?” I press.
The medic’s voice stays professional, but her eyes soften by a fraction. “You’re pregnant.”
The words don’t land all at once. They arrive in pieces, like debris after an explosion, each fragment taking a second to register.
Pregnant.
My mouth goes dry.
“That’s—” I begin, then stop, because my brain is suddenly a blank white wall.
The medic continues gently, as if she’s delivering weather. “Early stage. Based on biomarkers, likely five to six weeks. It’s within normal parameters. We’ll run a confirmatory panel, but the scan is clear.”
I stare at her, and the room feels too small, too bright, too quiet.
“No,” I say, and it comes out as a whisper, not denial so much as disbelief. “That’s… no.”
The medic tilts her head slightly. “Do you need a moment?”
I swallow hard. My hands are cold, fingers tingling. Somewhere distant, I can hear the tribunal building hum, that constant mechanical breath, and it feels like the whole institution is leaning in to watch me break.
“I don’t have time for a moment,” I say, and my voice is too flat, too controlled, because control is my only remaining weapon.
The medic nods, shifting into procedural mode. “Under tribunal wellness policy, this is confidential medical information. You have the right to designate emergency contacts or request notification?—”
“No,” I cut in.
She pauses. “No contacts?”
“No contacts,” I repeat, and the words taste like steel.
She studies me for a beat. “Is there anyone who should know?”
“Not right now,” I say, and my stomach twists again, though now it’s less nausea and more the sharp, surreal awareness that my body has been quietly doing something enormous while my mind has been busy chasing saboteurs through data vaults.
The medic exhales softly. “Okay. You’ll need to sign confidentiality directives. Standard procedure.”
She hands me a projection pad. The directive floats above it in crisp text: non-disclosure within tribunal personnel, medical privacy compliance, voluntary contact notification declination.
I sign with a stylus that feels too light in my hand.
“Prenatal supplementation?” she asks, voice careful.
“I’ll handle it,” I reply, though I have no idea what “handle it” even means in a life that currently consists of corridor overlays and political knives.
She nods, not pushing. “If you experience worsening dizziness or pain, you return immediately.”
“I will,” I say, because saying I won’t would make her look at me like I’m stupid, and I am not stupid. I’m just—occupied.
The officer waiting outside the room straightens when I step out, his gaze flicking over me with renewed scrutiny. “Cleared?”
“Cleared,” the medic says. “She’s fit to return to duty.”
Fit.
