#i wonder how long she’s gunna be in there🤔

[just-a-tiny-goldfish]

I cant wait to see the options in book three for the reactions sidestep can have to Mortums betrayal

[sporadicthingcollection]

Did Irno have breatafeeding troubles with other kids? 🤔 Like with Win maybe better or same but with twins she might over produce as she had twins instead of one? 🤔

Oh, she'd definitely overproduce. Her body loves to spite her. Luckily, that's something that there will always be a demand for.

---

Bane is flipping an egg when Bambi slinks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and clutching his teddy bantha. Bane wonders if he should still be sleeping with a stuffy at his age, but there's probably no harm in it. Nothing wrong with soft, warm, fuzzy things.

"Mornin', boy," he says.

Bambi lets out a loud, tooka-like yawn. "G'mrrnll," he mumbles, setting the stuffy on the table.

Bane can't help but snicker. He got the worst of both worlds -- your compulsion to be up early, but Bane's slow start. It takes him a half an hour to be fully awake.

"I'm almost done here, if yer hungry," Bane says.

Bambi yawns again. "I'm just gunna have cereal."

Bane quirks a brow at his son. It's not like him to turn down hot food. "Feelin' alright?"

"Didn't sleep good," he murmurs. He pulls a box from the cupboard and takes a bowl from the drying rack. "What do you do when you just can't sleep?"

'Wake your mother up for a quick screw' is his first thought, but he keeps it to himself. "Get up. Stretch. Walk around. Check on de girls." He returns his attention to his egg, giving the yolk a poke. Almost done. "Den go back to bed an' cuddle yer momma."

He hears the clatter of pouring cereal. "Must be nice havin' someone to share a bed with."

The clattering continues, and Bane turns. Half of the box must be in that bowl, and it's not the healthy kind of cereal -- there's no way something called Sugar Crunchers is anywhere in the same star system as healthy.

"Dat's why ya can't sleep," Bane says. "All ya eat is sugar!"

Bambi wrinkles his rostrum. "Nuh-uh," he says. "I eat pasta, too!"

Bane had no idea if the boy is being a wiseass or if he's actually that dense. "You're gonna get fat, kid."

Bambi snorts. "You're one to talk, ol' man. Y'ain't exactly a twig right now."

Is he wrong? No, but Bane has got a good reason for the paunch he's sporting. Hormonal surge during a mate's pregnancy makes male Duros store fat so Mom can go hunt after the baby is born... Or that's how it was eons ago. Not much hunting happening on orbital cities, but biology is always slow to catch up.

He levels a finger at the boy. "Don't get fresh. I'm still faster'n you."

Bambi blinks, then mimes pulling a blaster. It's a game they've played since Bambi was knee-high to a blurrg. First one to say 'bang' wins. Both amusing and good training.

But Bane is wearing his gunbelt. He pulls his LL-30 and has it levelled before Bambi's even extended his trigger finger.

Bambi yelps and jumps so high that he falls out of his chair, landing on the ground with a thump. "Yer makin' breakfast at six in the mornin'! Why d'ya even have that on?!" he squeaks.

"In case I need to remind ya who yer daddy is." He twirls the blaster and slips it back into its holster. "Now shush before ya wake de girls up."

The boy mutters something about shoving cotton up Bane's blaster barrels as he clambers to his feet. He heads for the refrigerator as Bane turns to slide his egg onto the plate.

He does feel a bit bad for that stunt. But Bambi knows he'd never hurt him on purpose. And a little spooking every once in a while never hurt anyone.

"Any plans today?" he asks.

"Nuh-uh." The fridge opens and closes. "Mez wants me to help with her math homework, but that won't take long."

If Bambi was any other teenage boy, he'd know he was lying. But he's got a mind for math like Bane's never seen. The kid can calculate fuel costs, compound interest, and figure out how much to tip the waitress entirely in his head. He wonders if he and you made the wrong decision in pulling him out of school and not pushing him to be an accountant or something.

But then he remembers how miserable the poor boy was just in primary. Constantly forgetting assignments. Constantly being reprimanded for not listening. Constantly getting low marks in everything and being picked on for being Bimbo Bambi.

Faking a stomach ache. Begging him to let him stay home. Sobbing into his shoulder. Trembling like a pitiful little leaf. Day after day after day.

He thinks he made the right decision.

"Yer sister payin' ya fer yer services?" he asks.

"I never work for free." Liquid pours into the bowl. "Ten creds an hour."

Bane whistles. "Nice gig."

"It was thirty, but Momma made me give her the 'friends and family discount," he says, "but her friends are comin' over, too. They're payin' triple."

Bane grins to himself. Attaboy.

He switches the stove off and turns to join Bambi at the breakfast table, only to notice the empty glass bottle on the table and the cereal bowl full of liquid. Bambi is shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth like a starving man.

"Winrel," he says slowly. The use of his given name makes the boy pause, and he glances up at him. "Why'd ya put dat in yer cereal?"

"...'cause it's polkweed milk?" he says.

Bane turns the bottle around so that the label faces the boy. It used to be polkweed milk, but a piece of tape covers the label with writing in bold, black letters.

100% ALL-NATURAL ZELTRON BREAST MILK, it reads. PUMPED ON PRIMEDAY. SELL BY THE 5TH. DO NOT DRINK ME.

The blue drains out of Bambi's face. The spoon clatters to the ground as he vaults out of his seat.

He nearly crashes into the Little Lady as she pads through the doorway. She blinks at him, then at Bane.

"Is he okay?" she asks. "And are you okay?"

"Yep," he croaks. He glances down at his egg and his stomach churns a bit. He doesn't want to eat anymore. "Made ya breakfast."

Her little face lights up. "Thanks!"

She sits down to eat while Bane disposes of the cereal. Drain the liquid then the rest in the trash.

You poke your head through the doorway, your hair still in curlers.

"Cad, why's our son losing his mind in the 'fresher?" you ask flatly. He jabs his thumb at the bottle on the table, and you slump. "Bimbo Bambi?" you ask.

He nods. "Bimbo Bambi."

"I'll go calm him down," you say with a sigh. "Scramble me an egg?" He nods, and you depart.

It's a mean thing to call him and he'd never say it to his face, but damn if it doesn't sum that boy right up sometimes.

---

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