The moment you set foot in the door, the phone chirped, ringing five times before the answering device finally kicked in.

"[Y/N], this is Angela. Jack said you're staying at his place. Please. You have to return my call. As soon as you can. It's important."

Click.

Calling it place was probably too generous. Jack's been living at various motels in the years past, moving every few months to facilitate his vigilante lifestyle. It was a lot less risky this way, he'd said.

And incredibly difficult to deal with, having to relocate so often.

At least the motels he'd chosen were decently furnished and not pest-ridden.

A minute later, the phone rang again. And you kept your eyes trained on the small blinking light signifying the number of voicemails that Angela Ziegler had left for you so far: Five. And she hasn't given up, yet, it seemed.

The answering device clicked again.

"[Y/N]. Please. I can't disclose any health information over the phone, so you need to call me. Right now. Oh, and turn on the news."

Click.

You had little desire to talk to Mercy at the moment. Several days have passed since Mei'd agreed to collaborate with you on your research, but the experiments have been fruitless so far. Relaying your failures to another scientist was the least you wanted to do right now. And she was bound to ask.

With reluctance, you brought up some news channel and listened to the woman sharing dismal information.

"--multitudes found dead in Venice following the international masquerade ball. Remote recording shows a prominent suspect, a ghostly figure wielding firearms--"

You tuned out the newscaster's voice when a poor-quality video footage began—one of a wraith, masked and garbed in crimson, with deadly weapons in hand. Your whole body tensed when you saw the way he de-materialized and reformed. You didn't need crystal clear picture to see that it was Gabe. And he was murdering people.

The door to your room opened, and your roommate entered—his clothes drenched in blood.

"Holy shit," You lost your composure for a second, your eyes sweeping his gore-soaked form as he set his rifle down.

"This isn't mine," He said as he removed his visor and mask. His face was impassive as he sauntered past you to the bathroom.

"What the hell happened?" You started after him, but stopped dead in your tracks when you realized he was beginning to strip. "Are-- do you need help?"

"I'm fine," He answered gruffly, creating a trail of blood soaked clothes to the bathroom. With zero regard for propriety. "I'll explain later." He cast a stony gaze over his shoulder, then closed the bathroom door.

You crouched to inspect the sanguine mess he left behind, and an unexpected wave of nausea hit you. The queasiness grew deep in your abdomen, and you had to back away from the bloodied clothes.

When a pulsating ache began in the back of your eyes, you made for the room's entrance and opened the door. The coppery smell had filled the room—and the incoming air did little to chase away your nausea.

"[Y/N]!"

You turned, suddenly ambushed by your blond-haired doctor. She walked towards you, an angry scowl on her face.

"I've called and called! I have something important to tell you-"

Just as she began to talk your ear off, you ducked behind a bush, doubled over, and retched your lunch out into the dirt.

"Oh god," You groaned, and tried to spit the terrible taste out of your mouth.

On the bright side, your nausea subsided. As you recovered, Mercy laid a gentle hand on your shoulder as a gesture meant to comfort.

"Let's get you inside," She urged, her blue eyes appearing less angry and more concerned.

"No, it stinks of blood in there." You sighed, cringing at the terrible taste lingering in your mouth. "That's what made me sick."

"Blood?" She peered into the motel room, countenance reflecting her worry. "Whose? Is someone hurt?"

"I think Jack's fine. I'm okay." You looked around for bystanders, realizing the motel grounds were eerily quiet.

Mercy turned to you, then placed both her hands on your shoulders—as if prompting you to brace yourself for what she was about to tell you. "There's been... a mix-up with your lab results."

Your heart lurched, a surge of adrenaline running elicited by Mercy's words. You felt like you were just doused with icy water. And you were reminded of what you'd seen in the microscope days ago: potent, vigorous sperm.

"You're pregnant." She said with a straight face. "And based on your actual results, the fetus is estimated to be about five to six weeks—too small to see fetal heartbeat on ultrasound, but in a couple weeks--"

"Angela," You cut her off. "Can we discuss this in your office? I don't want Jack to know."

She sighed. "Very well. And I can do a pelvic exam. In addition, I'd like to do additional tests."

More tests. It was your turn to sigh. "Okay." Suddenly reminded of what you'd seen on TV just minutes ago, the nausea manifested in your gut again. "Gabe's in Italy. Why is he in Italy?"

"That may not be a real footage," She speculated, crossing her arms over her chest. "But if he's working for Talon, then--"

"Can't believe you threw a party and didn't invite me," A deep male voice startled you and Mercy both. The owner of the voice came into view as he walked around the building's corner.

Mercy looked unimpressed by the lit cigar between his lips. And when he stopped short of you, she pointedly waved the tendrils of smoke away from your face. "Put that out!" There was a disapproving frown on her face as she took the tobacco roll out of his mouth. Unapologetically, she stomped out the ember. "This is not good for your health nor ours." Truthfully, she was most concerned about the life growing inside you.

It was hard to see the man's face beneath the shadow of his hat. But when your eyes locked with his, you couldn't hide your thrilled surprise, "Jesse McCree?!" You were suddenly encased in strong arms—his spirited embrace knocked the wind out of you.

When he pulled away, he took off his hat and eyed you up and down. "My god," He remarked in a hushed voice. "You really haven't aged a day."

"And you're... old," You replied teasingly, your excitement momentarily overwriting your worries. "I see grays in your hair, Jesse."

"What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to wait!" Jack's anger brought an end to the playful banter. He rapidly approached the entrance, wearing sweatpants and nothing else, beads of water glistening down his skin. Saying he was pissed off would be an understatement.

"Sorry, old man," The cowboy shrugged, speaking in jest. "I don't take orders from a ghost."

Jack's blue gaze turned severe, and he growled in response, "Get in before anyone sees you."