It's not a baby.
Nerila's a doctor, for Fortune's forsaken sake, not some sentimental fool getting teary-eyed at the idea of teeny-tiny toes and fingers. The bundle of rapidly-dividing cells inside her bears as much resemblance to an infant as a circuitry diagram does to the finished machine. It's a plan, a blueprint, a diagram for what will be built out of the iron stripped from her blood and the calcium sucked from her bones.
No more.
No less.
Not even that, soon, when Pilot finally stops asking for one more day, Nerila, just one more.
When she finally gives up and realizes she's wasting her time.
Not a baby, not a chance, either, no matter what Pilot or that interfering bitch of a friend she has say.
Not something that belongs in her life.
Either way.
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