Chapter 10: a woman's intuition
He dreamed in fractals. A child’s laugh, sharp and bright as a splinter of ice, echoed down a corridor that kept elongating. Small hands, impossibly warm, pressed against the cold skin of his cheek. He jolted awake, sheets tangled around his legs, the phantom warmth still burning on his face. The obsidian walls of his chamber offered no comfort, only his own hollow reflection.
Sleep was a lost cause. He rose, pacing the smooth floor, the events on the castle’s observation deck replaying for the thousandth time. It wasn’t the strategic alliance he dissected, or the careful lies he’d woven. It was the moment the simulation failed, the violent lurch that threw them together into that nest of grasping digital vines. Her breath hot against his neck, a curse on her lips that turned into a gasp. His own uncalculated, purely physical reaction to the pressure of her body against his in the chaotic dark.
It was a tactical error, a moment of unforgivable vulnerability. He had extricated them both with cold efficiency afterward. He had buried the memory under layers of calculated next moves. So why did it surface now, tinged with this strange, persistent ache? He dismissed it as fatigue, as the psychological toll of his chosen isolation. The vision of the child was just that—a vision. A symbol of a legacy he had long since abandoned any hope of creating.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled of fried eggs and fresh coffee. Lace shuffled in, her hair a messy bun, wearing an old pair of sweatpants. She moved with a deliberate slowness, like her limbs were filled with sand. “Morning,” she mumbled, her voice gravelly.
“Buenos días, mi corazón,” her mother said, forcing a bright tone. “Hungry? I have eggs, platanos…”
Lace stared at the spread, her stomach rolling. A specific, sharp need cut through the nausea. She bypassed the plates, going straight to the fridge. She pulled out the leftover corn tortillas and the jar of pickled jalapeños. Then she rummaged in the pantry, emerging with a bag of butterscotch chips.
Her brother Marco, pouring coffee, froze. “Whoa. Lace, no.”
She didn’t listen. She slapped a tortilla on a plate, layered on four slices of jalapeño, and poured a small pile of butterscotch chips on top. She rolled it tightly, took a massive bite, and chewed with a focused intensity.
The crunch of the chips, the sharp vinegar punch of the pepper, the cloying sweetness of the butterscotch—it was a bizarre alchemy that somehow, against all reason, settled her roiling gut. She let out a small, unconscious sigh of relief.
Marco looked like he might be sick. “That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen Hunk’s food goo.”
“Shut up,” Lace said, her mouth full. “It’s good.”
Elena and Abuela Rosa, cleaning by the sink, exchanged a single, loaded glance. The silence that followed was louder than any argument. The evidence was no longer a whispered suspicion in a messy kitchen after a party. It was here, in the harsh morning light, undeniable and bizarre.
Lace finished the roll, wiped her mouth, and avoided everyone’s eyes. “I’m going back to bed. Still really tired.”
She fled before anyone could speak. The stairs creaked under her weight, a familiar sound that now felt accusatory.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine gurgled. Marco finally broke the silence. “Okay, what was that? Is she sick? Like, alien-space-flu sick?”
Elena leaned against the counter, her knuckles white. “I don’t know.”
Abuela Rosa dried her hands on a towel with a slow, final motion. She looked at her daughter, not her grandson. Her voice was low, stripped of all its usual playful mystery. “You see? The body knows what it cannot say. It speaks in cravings. Beans and vinegar to ground life. Now sugar, for energy, for growth. It is shouting, Elena.”
“She’s been through a trauma,” Elena whispered, but the defense was weak, crumbling.
“This is not a trauma. This is a consequence.” Abuela placed a weathered hand on Elena’s arm. “A woman knows. I know. And soon, she will have to know, too.”
Upstairs, Lace locked her bedroom door. She stood in the middle of the room, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She placed both hands on her stomach. The denial she’d been cradling, the convenient explanation of stress and cosmic fatigue, evaporated.
It wasn’t just the cravings. It was the deep, bone-aching exhaustion that sleep didn’t touch. It was the way her sense of smell had become a sharp, unbearable weapon. It was the lateness of something else, something she’d been too distracted to track.
“No,” she breathed into the quiet of her room. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. It was the result of a glitch, a moment of blurred lines in a simulated warzone. He was the enemy. A traitor. Every cell in her body recoiled at the connection, at the biological truth taking root inside her.
A cold, tactical clarity cut through the panic. This was a problem. A massive, potentially catastrophic problem. She couldn’t stay here. Her family’s worried eyes, Abuela’s knowing looks—they were a luxury she couldn’t afford. This secret was a live grenade, and her childhood home was no place for it to detonate.
She walked to her window, looking out at the peaceful, sun-drenched street. Her fingers tapped a rapid, anxious beat on the sill. The Castle of Lions, for all its cold memories and haunted halls, was the only place with the technology, the privacy, and the brutal, unemotional context she needed. She had to go back. She had to find out for sure, and then she had to decide what to do with a future that had violently, irrevocably changed course.
She had to find out for sure, and then she had to decide what to do with a future that had violently, irrevocably changed course.
The return to the Castle of Lions was a muted affair. She’d cited necessary training and systems checks, a lie that tasted like ash. The familiar hallways felt different now, not just haunted by his betrayal, but by the secret she carried within her. She avoided the others, spending hours in the Blue Lion’s cockpit, the particle barrier shimmering between her and the quiet void. The Lion hummed, a low, comforting vibration that seemed to resonate in her very bones.
A week later, she agreed to a team simulation. It was a mistake, but she needed to prove—to herself more than anyone—that she was still in control. The scenario was a complex urban rescue, layers of crumbling infrastructure and swarming drone targets. Lace moved the Blue Lion with a fierce, preternatural grace. She anticipated attack vectors before they appeared, her maneuvers sharp and decisive, weaving through digital steel skeletons with impossible precision.
“Whoa, Lace, save some for the rest of us,” Hunk’s voice crackled over the comms, equal parts impressed and concerned.
She didn’t answer. Every dodge, every blast from her lion’s muzzle, was a denial. She was a Paladin, not this other, terrifying thing. She pushed harder, scaling a falling tower to snipe a command node, a move that defied standard tactical algorithms.
A collective pause hung on the comms. “How did you even see that?” Pidge asked, her curiosity overriding protocol.
A sudden, hot wave of dizziness washed over her then, blurring the edges of the holographic display. The crisp digital world swam, colors bleeding together. Her mouth flooded with a metallic saliva. The triumphant energy that had fueled her evaporated, leaving a cold, trembling void.
“Lace? Your vitals are spiking,” Allura’s voice cut in, calm but edged with alarm.
“I’m fine,” she gritted out, but the words slurred. The console lights streaked into blinding lines. A high-pitched whine filled her ears, drowning out all other sound.
She tried to inhale, but the oxygen seemed thin. The world tipped sideways, the Lion’s controls slipping from her grasp. A soundless dark rushed up to meet her, and the last thing she heard was Keith’s sharp, “Lace!”
Consciousness returned in fragments. The cool, antiseptic scent of the castle’s med bay. The blurred outlines of worried faces hovering above her—Shiro’s stern concern, Hunk’s wide eyes. Her mother’s hand, surprisingly cold, clutching hers. She’d been transported planetside, to a proper Garrison hospital.
She was in a private room, the lights too bright. Her whole family was there, a quiet, anxious cluster by the window. So were the Paladins, a stark contrast in their casual wear against the sterile white. No one spoke much. The air was thick with unasked questions.
Hours dripped by, marked by the soft beep of a heart monitor. A nurse took blood. An orderly did a scan. The wait was a physical pressure on her chest. Abuela Rosa sat in a corner chair, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady and knowing. It was the only calm point in the room.
Finally, the door swished open. A doctor in a white coat entered, a datapad in hand. The room collectively held its breath. He offered a small, professional smile.
“Paladin Lace is stable,” he began, his voice deliberately even. “All scans look within normal parameters. Neurological response is good.”
A relieved sigh moved through the group. Elena squeezed Lace’s hand. “So it was just exhaustion? All that fighting…”
The doctor nodded, adjusting his glasses as he looked at the datapad. “Fatigue was certainly a major contributing factor. She pushed her system too hard.” He paused, the click of the datapad on the counter startlingly loud. “It’s a common cause for fainting in her condition.”
“Her condition?” Shiro asked, stepping forward, his voice a leader’s voice, demanding clarity.
The doctor looked up, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Lace. He seemed slightly surprised by the assembled audience. “Yes. The pregnancy is progressing normally. We’ll want to monitor her activity levels, of course.”
The words hung in the air, stark and absolute.
The relieved smiles froze, then shattered. Elena’s hand went limp. Marco’s jaw dropped. Hunk made a small, choked sound. Pidge pushed her glasses up, her brain visibly recalibrating. Keith’s expression went blank, a mask over sheer shock. Shiro’s shoulders tightened, his gaze snapping to Lace with dawning, horrific comprehension.
Silence, complete and deafening, swallowed the room.