UwU

It takes a lot, to render you speechless. Years upon years of dealing with the wildest people in human history does that to someone. Yet, there is an audible second of silence before you finally speak up again: “I’m sorry?”

“Must I repeat myself?” Cu Alter replies with a displeased huff through his nose akin to a sigh. “I cannot help you deal with this year’s pointless valentine. I am pregnant.”

You blink. You stare at him, move your gaze to the floor, then back at him. Then, slowly, you bring both of your hands under your chin. “Alter,” you articulate slowly, “you are not pregnant. You do not have a womb.”

His womb is, in fact, laying across the room on a big pile of guts and organs you are determined not to observe too closely. You do appreciate that they’re all neatly stored in the same corner, though. You do not like stepping over intestines, no matter the context.

“Yet I am with child.” Cu Alter continues, with a perfectly flat voice. “I cannot endanger the baby.”

“That’s not a baby, that’s Artoria, and she already endangers herself on a daily basis.”

Artoria, Caster, she who chants, weasel of a woman blessed with the spine of a ferret, twists inside Cu Alter’s chest to stare at you through his exposed ribs. “I’m baby.”

“You heard her.” Cu Alter nods. “She is baby.”

“Also fuck you, my explosives are perfectly safe and controlled.”

“They very much are not.” Cu Alter nods again. The imperceptible inflection of his voice makes you think that the dubious safety and control of these explosives is very much a selling point to him.