Immediately forgot which one @nexischillin wanted Hipswitch mpreg or Mahatma mpreg or Albus mpreg
“Baby Blues and Broken Science”
There were a lot of things Mahatma prided himself on understanding.
Biology. Chemistry. Quantum potion transmutation.
Which is why, when he looked at the test results — and saw the glaring, undeniable reality — his brain simply… blue-screened.
“No,” Mahatma whispered, clutching the lab printout like it personally betrayed him. “This is not possible.”
Hipswitch, sitting backwards on a chair with a mug of coffee, squinted at him. “What’s not possible?”
Mahatma, pale and shaking, lifted the paper and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
Utter, deafening silence.
Albus, who’d been leaning against the wall half-dozing, straightened with a loud scoff. “Bullshit.”
Mahatma, hands trembling, threw the paper at him. “EXPLAIN THAT, YOU WALKING BIOHAZARD.”
Albus caught the paper, frowned at the very clear pregnancy marker, and… promptly dropped it like it was on fire.
“That—that isn’t—” Albus sputtered, red from the neck up. “We only—”
“You only what?” Hipswitch asked, way too entertained for someone witnessing a medical emergency.
“We only—” Albus growled, glaring daggers at Hipswitch. “—got drunk one time on that mission in Perivex. The planet with the weird pollen!”
“THE WEIRD POLLEN,” Mahatma shrieked, grabbing his hair. “THE ONE THAT TEMPORARILY AFFECTS GENETIC EXPRESSION AND SECONDARY GENDER TRAITS?”
“I AM A RESPECTABLE SCIENTIST,” Mahatma wailed.
“You are full of my kid, apparently,” Albus said, then immediately looked like he regretted existing.
Hipswitch fell off the chair, howling.
Kamor, standing in the doorway like he walked into a scene from hell, just blinked slowly and turned back around.
“Not my problem,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
Meanwhile, Mahatma was pacing, muttering equations, violently white in the face.
“I need… I need an incubator. I need prenatal nutrition formulas. I need—”
“You need to sit your hormonal ass down,” Albus snapped, grabbing Mahatma around the waist — extremely gently, like Mahatma might shatter — and manhandling him onto the couch.
“I hate you,” Mahatma hissed, burying his face in his hands.
“You let me hit it raw, Doc,” Albus said without thinking.
“OH MY GOD,” Hipswitch screamed from the floor, kicking his legs helplessly.
Albus just slumped next to Mahatma, looking half-murderous, half-terrified.
“You know,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “we’re gonna figure this out. You’re not doing it alone.”
Mahatma peeked between his fingers, lip trembling — whether with rage or emotion was anyone’s guess.
“I swear,” Albus said, scowling. “You, me, the little hellspawn… we’ll be fine.”
Mahatma shrieked and threw a pillow at Albus.
