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The door shut behind them with a heavy, metallic clunk.
Eight sets of eyes turn toward it. Eight sets of shoulders sag.
"Locked," Ray Garraty announces after rattling the handle. "Guess we’re not going anywhere until they’re done ‘processing’ us."
Processing. Screening. Evaluation. Whatever the New York City community calls it, it boils down to sitting in a sterilized room under fluorescent lights until someone with a clipboard decides they're worthy. The room is windowless, every surface gleaming with disinfectant shine. Cabinets are neatly stocked with bandages, syringes, vials, things that smell faintly of latex and rubbing alcohol.
And in the corner, quietly humming, sat the ultrasound machine.
Peter McVries kicks out a chair and sat with his usual slouch, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Feels less like citizenship renewal and more like a prison intake."
"That’s because it is," Gary Barkovitch mutters, stalking to the counter like he owns it. He picks up a tongue depressor, twirls it like a drumstick, and grins. "Medical room, locked door, needles everywhere. They’re just testing how long until we snap just like last time."
Collie Parker, always his shadow, leans on the wall beside him. "Five bucks says you’re first."
"Ten says you follow me," Barkovitch shot back, and they bump shoulders like rowdy kids at recess.
Ray smirks at them before glancing at the others. Hank Olson has already parked himself on a chair, legs crossed, watching the whole thing with the calm patience of a man who’d seen too many storms blow over. Beside him, Art Baker fidgets, cracking his knuckles one by one letting the noise fill the silence.
And then there are Richard Harkness and William Stebbins, two black sheep at opposite ends of the same pen. Richard stands stiff, arms crossed, glasses slipping down his nose as he took inventory of the equipment like he’s memorizing the model numbers. Stebbins leans in a corner, arms folded tighter, half shadowed, eyes half shut as though this entire situation bored him more than death.
Ray sighs and drops into the chair next to Peter. "We could be in here for hours."
"Days," Peter corrects. He shot a pointed look at the door. "Weeks if they really hate us."
Barkovitch slams the tongue depressor on the counter with a crack. "Then we make our own fun."
"Define fun," Hank drawls without lifting his head.
Collie points. "That."
Every eye follow his finger to the ultrasound machine. Screen dark. Wand coiled. Innocent. Waiting.
For a moment, silence. Then Ray burst out laughing. "You’re not serious."
"Oh, he’s serious," Barkovitch says. His grin stretched wolf wide. "Old world said it’s normal, yeah? Some of us can get pregnant. Why waste a golden opportunity?"
Peter rolls his eyes. "This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."
"Then it’s perfect," Art says, already perking up. "We’re locked in here. Might as well see who’s carrying Destiny."
"Destiny, that's a stripper name. We are not naming the group child Destiny," Richard says flatly. He pinches the bridge of his nose like he's fighting off a migraine. "Also do you morons realize that machine is designed for medical..."
"Exactly!" Barkovitch cut in. "We’re doing medicine. Science. History!"
Collie claps his hands together. "Boys, line up. One by one, we’ll unveil the mysteries of our wombs."
Laughter broke across the room, quick and stupid and contagious. Even Ray is grinning, elbowing Peter. "You have to admit, this beats staring at the walls."
Peter didn’t smile, but his lips twitch. "Barely."
"I hate all of you," Richard mutters. "Truly. Deeply."
But his eyes flickers back to the ultrasound machine. He's the only one in the room who could operate it because he's got more than two brain cells, and they know this. The smirks, the stares, the expectant silence, it all presses on him until he groaned out loud.
"Fine," he says, throwing his hands up. "I’ll do it. But if any of you start moaning like it’s a spa treatment, I’m leaving you in here to rot."
Cheers erupt. Barkovitch fist pumped. Collie whistles. Ray claps Peter on the back like they’d won something.
Stebbins didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t even open his eyes. But if you look close enough, you could see his shoulders tense.
The machine hums to life as Richard powers it on, the black screen flickering with light.
"Alright," Richard says, voice sharp as a scalpel. "Which idiot first?"
And that's how the chaos began.
The machine hums and buzzes to life, screen glowing pale gray in the sterile light. Richard adjusts the knobs with a kind of reluctant precision, like a man resigned to babysitting eight lunatics at once. He had a very thick ass medical text book in his lap that he found in one of the drawers, it's helping him out as he goes.
"Alright," he says, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. "Who’s up first?"
"Me," Ray announces instantly, jumping up like he’d volunteered for the Hunger Games.
"Of course it’s you," Peter mutters.
Ray clambers onto the exam table, tugs up his shirt, and flinches as Richard squirts the cold gel onto his stomach.
"Jesus! Warn a guy next time." Ray yelps, his voice cracking, and Peter smirks from his chair.
"Hold my hand, sweetie," Peter says, reaching out with mock tenderness.
Ray grabs his hand dramatically, batting his eyelashes. "Don’t let go."
The others groan as Richard presses the wand down and stares at the screen. The blurry blobs resolved into something vaguely liver shaped.
"Well?" Ray asks nervously.
Richard deadpans: "Your organs are boring. No hidden miracles. Just a very average liver."
"See?" Peter says, giving Ray’s hand a squeeze. "You’re fine. Still an idiot, but fine."
Next came Peter, dragged up by Ray before he can refuse.
"This is beneath me," Peter says, climbing up with the air of a condemned man.
"Everything’s beneath you," Ray teases, helping smear the gel across Peter’s stomach with a little too much enthusiasm.
Richard scowls. "I’m not cleaning that up."
Peter scowls right back, but when the wand presses down, he couldn’t resist craning his head toward the screen.
Richard taps a button, squinting. "Insides look… insidy. Beautiful intestines McVries. Nothing special."
"Damn," Barkovitch says from the corner. "I was hoping McVries was secretly incubating the messiah. 'Cause you know Jesus wasn't actually white."
Peter raises a middle finger without even looking away from the screen.
Barkovitch shoves his way forward next. "Move. My turn."
Collie hops after him like a wingman. "I’ll hold your hand if it gets too intense."
"I’ll break your hand if you don’t shut up."
He slaps onto the table, yanks his shirt up, and glares at Richard like daring him to find something.
The wand presses down. The screen flickers. Richard tilts his head.
"Nothing."
Barkovitch sat up, affronted. "Nothing?! You call that science?"
"Nothing but indigestion," Richard clarifies.
Collie cracks up. "Told you all that cafeteria chili was gonna come back to haunt you."
Barkovitch points at him. "You’re next. And if you’re pregnant, I get to name it. I don't care that you're carrying it for the next however many months and pushing it out of your little body."
Collie jumps up with the enthusiasm of a game show contestant. "Finally, my moment."
Ray and Art claps like it's a performance. Hank sighs.
Richard slathers gel on Collie’s stomach with far less patience than before. "Stay still."
Collie wiggles dramatically. "Oh doctor, is it twins? Triplets?"
Richard didn’t even blink. "Gas."
The room erupts. Peter laughs so hard he had to cover his face. Ray nearly fell off his chair.
"Shut up!" Collie groans, but even he's smiling. "This thing’s rigged."
Barkovitch leans over Richard’s shoulder. "Collie's womb is empty, but he's also full of farts. Tragic."
Hank moves next, slow and deliberate, peeling himself out of the chair like a man walking into jury duty.
"Alright, let’s get this circus over with," he says, tugging his shirt up.
When Richard presses the wand down, Hank didn’t flinch. He barely moves.
"You nervous?" Art asks, hovering at his side.
Hank smirks. "Not unless this thing tells me I’m giving birth to a breakfast sandwich. Because unlike these morons we're smart."
Richard clicks a few buttons. "You’re clean."
Hank shrugs, calm as ever. "Guess I’ll stick to being boring."
Art immediately bounces onto the table before Hank had even sat down again.
"My turn!" He flexes his biceps like he's about to pose for a calendar.
“Stay still," Richard barks, shoving the wand against his stomach.
Art grins at the screen. "So? What’s in there? Glory? Greatness? A whole damn football team?"
Richard didn’t even look at him. "You’re empty."
Art clutches his chest dramatically. "Empty? I'm baron? You wound me."
"Not as much as I want to," Richard mutters.
The others howl.
By now the room is buzzing with laughter, the sterile edge of the medical bay softens into something almost warm. Each scan turns into an inside joke, a punchline, a shared story they’d carry out of this room whether they passed the screening or not.
And then, all eyes turn to the last holdout in the corner.
Stebbins.
He hasn't moved. He hasn't smiled. He’d just watched.
"You’re up," Ray says, grinning.
Stebbins glares at him, then at Richard, then at the humming machine.
"This is stupid," he mutters, but he climbs onto the table anyway, unbuttoning his shirt as he does.
Stebbins climbed onto the table like it's a scaffold. He didn’t lie down so much as collapse, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"This is a waste of time," he mutters.
"Oh, c’mon," Art says, bouncing on his heels like a kid at a carnival. "Everybody’s done it but you. Don’t ruin the streak."
Ray grins. "Yeah, man, don’t be the guy who bails before the punchline."
"Some of us," Stebbins says through gritted teeth, "prefer not to have cold jelly smeared on our stomachs for no reason."
"Some of us," Barkovitch shot back, "prefer to live a little." He leans toward Collie. "Bet five bucks he’s got triplets."
Collie raises his hand for a high five. "Bet ten he’s got a whole basketball team."
Stebbins closes his eyes like he could will himself somewhere else.
Richard, for his part, looks almost smug as he popped the gel cap again. "Hold still. The sooner you stop whining, the sooner this ends."
The probe presses down, cool and clinical against his skin. The screen flickers.
Static. Shadows. White shapes swimming into existence.
Richard leans closer. His smugness falters. He adjusts a knob. Squints. Adjusted again.
"...Wait."
The laughter died instantly.
"Wait what?" Hank asks.
Richard didn’t answer. His eyes lock on the screen. His hand steadied the probe, moving slow, tracing outlines. The shapes sharpened, round, small, shifting faintly like something alive beneath the surface.
Peter leans forward, voice edged with disbelief. "Are those..."
"Holy shit," Ray breathes. "He’s pregnant isn't he?"
Silence.
Eight pairs of eyes stare at the screen. The little pale shadows pulse faintly, two tiny beings floating in the dark.
"Holy shit, he's pregnant but not just with one," Richard says, voice almost reverent. "With twins."
The room explodes.
Barkovitch points a dramatic finger at Stebbins. "Whore."
Stebbins’ head snaps toward him. "What?!"
Hank leans forward, scratching his chin like this is a serious logistical puzzle. "Does this mean we get our citizenship back faster?"
Ray slaps both hands over his mouth, eyes wide, while Peter mutters, "This is officially the dumbest day of my life."
Art burst into laughter so loud it rattles the cabinet doors, he immediately high fives him. "Stebbins! My guy! Two of ‘em! You’re a legend."
Stebbins, meanwhile, just stares at the flickering blobs. His face is pale, frozen, like the air had been knocked out of him.
"I…" His voice cracks. "I don’t even… how the hell...." He shut his mouth, thinking back. Verona Beach. The parties. Nights blurred at the edges. Laughter, lights, hands. But the faces? The names? Nothing solid.
"I can’t…" He rubbs his forehead. "I can’t remember."
Everyone crowds around the screen, shoulders jostling, breaths fogging the glass.
"Look at that," Ray whispers, awe creeping past the laughter.
"They look like… like blobs," Art says.
"Goop," Barkovitch corrects solemnly. "They’re goop."
"Precious goop, those are our nieces or nephews in there or both," Collie adds, smirking. He's holding Stebbins's hand like the mom he is, rubbing his thumb across Stebbins knuckles trying to comfort him.
"Does this make him our Shauna?" Barkovitch blurts suddenly.
Seven heads turn.
"...Our what?" Hank asks.
"Shauna! Yellowjackets! Girls’ soccer team crashes in the woods, one of them’s pregnant. Whole lesbian thing. Iconic."
The silence is deafening.
Barkovitch folds his arms. "You people are hopeless."
Collie grins, leaning back. "Don’t worry. I’ll hide his DVD player."
That cracks the dam. Ray wheezes. Peter chokes on a laugh. Even Hank cracks a smile. The sterile room shook with laughter until Barkovitch shouts, "You’re all bastards," but he's grinning too.
As the noise ebbs, Peter jabs a finger toward Richard. "This has you written all over it."
Richard jerks back, scandalized. "Me?!"
"Yeah," Art says, still laughing. "You’re the only one in here who can’t get pregnant. Classic misdirection."
Ray nods, eyes sparkling. "You’re covering your tracks, man."
Richard snaps, "I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. No offense, William. But we're the eternal third wheelers, it'd ruin our brand."
Stebbins finally drags his eyes from the screen to glare at him. "Plenty taken."
But no one else is paying attention to the tension. They're all fixated on the monitor, on the faint shadows shifting in the static glow. For the first time all night, the room isn't just filled with noise, it's filled with wonder.
And then Barkovitch ruins it.
"So… baby shower or keg party?"