CHAPTER 76: FUTURE SHOCK
The cafeteria at West Valley High had become our unofficial command center.
Between classes, during lunch, sometimes even before first period, the Revolution Table served as meeting space, strategy room, and social hub. Other students had learned to give us space—partly from respect, partly from self-preservation.
Today, I'd planned to make an announcement.
I stood on my chair, because apparently that was who I was now—the kind of person who made dramatic pronouncements from elevated surfaces. The table fell silent. Surrounding students pretended not to watch while obviously watching.
"After considerable deliberation," I began, channeling my best official voice, "I've decided on UCLA. Close to home, excellent program, reasonable proximity to continue dojo responsibilities—"
"I'm pregnant."
Tory's voice cut through my speech like a blade.
The cafeteria went dead silent. Not Revolution Table silent—entire room silent. Three hundred students frozen mid-bite, mid-conversation, mid-existence.
Miguel's tray hit the floor. Spaghetti went everywhere.
"Wait," he managed. "What? Who?"
Tory rolled her eyes with characteristic aggression. "Not one of you idiots, relax. Ex from before. The situation is what it is." She crossed her arms, defensive and defiant simultaneously. "But I'm keeping it."
I climbed down from my chair. UCLA suddenly seemed very small.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. The implications cascaded through my mind—eighteen years old, pregnant, coming from a background of struggle and survival. Everything she'd fought for, everything we'd built, suddenly complicated by biology.
Sam moved first.
"What do you need?"
No judgment. No questions about choices or timing or circumstances. Just immediate, automatic support.
Tory's aggressive posture faltered. "What?"
"What do you need?" Sam repeated. "Medical appointments? Help with work schedule? Baby supplies?" She was already pulling out her phone, presumably to start a list. "We can figure this out."
"I..." Tory blinked rapidly. Not crying—she didn't cry—but close. "I didn't expect..."
"Revolution takes care of its own." I moved to stand beside Sam. "You're ours. That means your kid is ours."
Miguel had recovered enough to speak. "I can help with money. The merchandise profits—"
"I'm not charity," Tory snapped, reflexive defense.
"Not charity. Investment." Hawk leaned forward. "Also, I'm totally teaching this kid karate. Baby classes. Tiny punches."
"I'll calculate child support laws," Demetri added, fingers already flying across his phone. "California has strong protections for single mothers. Plus, if the father's identifiable, we can pursue—"
"Don't want anything from him." Tory's voice hardened. "Done with him. This is mine."
"Ours," I corrected. "This is ours."
The surrounding cafeteria had resumed some motion, but hushed. This was news. This would spread. By fifth period, the whole school would know.
"I didn't come here for a support group," Tory said, but there was less edge to it now. "Just... figured you should know. Affects planning."
"Affects everything," Robby agreed. He'd transferred at the beginning of the year, still finding his place, but revolutionary bonds ran deep. "But we adjust."
"Revolution adjusted to corporate warfare," Aisha pointed out. "A baby's just... smaller scale warfare."
"Way less sleeping involved with babies too," Demetri observed. "Comparable stress levels."
Tory's laugh surprised everyone, including herself. A real laugh, rough and unexpected. "You're all idiots."
"Your idiots," Robby corrected.
"Yeah." Her voice went soft, which was terrifying coming from Tory. "I guess you are."
---
The conversation shifted after that, as conversations do.
"I can't leave for Harvard now," Miguel admitted. "Community college. Stay local. Help with..." He gestured vaguely at Tory's midsection.
"You don't have to—"
"I know. I want to." He looked at the rest of us. "We changed the Valley. How do we just... leave?"
"We don't," Sam said, her hand finding mine under the table. "Local colleges. Stay together. Continue what we started."
"The revolution becomes the responsibility," I summarized.
"That sounds exhausting," Hawk complained.
"That sounds grown-up," Aisha corrected.
My UCLA acceptance felt different now. Still valid, still possible, but weighted with new considerations. Could I really leave? Should I? The valley we'd fought to protect was still fragile. The community we'd built needed maintenance.
"My kid's gonna have legendary aunts and uncles," Tory said, breaking the contemplative silence. "Revolutionary babysitters."
"We're eighteen," Miguel pointed out.
"Old enough to overthrow corporations, old enough to change diapers." Tory smirked. "Comparable skill sets. Dealing with shit."
More laughter. The tension that had gripped the table began to ease. Not gone—this was still massive, still life-changing—but manageable.
"We need to tell our parents," Sam realized.
"Your parents will be thrilled you're dating someone responsible instead of—" I gestured at the situation.
"They're going to want to adopt Tory's baby."
"Worse things could happen."
---
I found Miguel in the bathroom during the lunch period's final minutes.
He was staring at the mirror with the expression of someone watching their future reshape in real-time.
"We're eighteen," he said when I entered. "Tory's having a baby. The world's insane."
"Was it ever sane?"
"Point." He turned to face me. "How are you so calm?"
"I'm not calm. I'm practiced at pretending." I leaned against the sink beside him. "Inside, I'm completely freaking out."
"That's weirdly comforting."
"We fought corporate executives and won. We literally overthrew a billionaire's empire. We can handle a baby."
"Can we though?"
The question hung between us. Honest. Vulnerable.
"No," I admitted. "Probably not. But we'll try anyway. That's what we do."
"Try and probably fail?"
"Try and eventually figure it out. Same thing that got us here." I clapped his shoulder. "Besides, you're not alone. None of us are. That's the whole point of the revolution, right? Together?"
"Together." He echoed it like a prayer. "Yeah. Together."
The bell rang. Lunch ended. We returned to the chaos of the cafeteria, where our friends were already making plans—color-coded calendars for Tory support, local college comparisons, potential baby names (Demetri's suggestion of "Revolution Junior" was unanimously vetoed).
I watched them—my people, my family, my revolution—and felt something complicated. Pride. Fear. Love.
We were eighteen. We'd changed the world. And now we had to figure out how to live in the world we'd created.
[Quest Updated: Build Sustainable Future. Priority: HIGH. Reward: Unknown.]
Unknown rewards. Story of my life.
---
The afternoon classes passed in a blur of planning and adjustment.
Sam and I compared local college programs during study hall. UCLA and USC both had strong options. Community college could work for prerequisites. The goal shifted from "where do we go?" to "how do we stay?"
Tory received more support offers than she knew how to handle. By sixth period, we had a shared document with rotating schedules for doctor appointments, work coverage, and what Demetri called "emotional support deployments."
"You're organizing my pregnancy like a military campaign," Tory observed.
"We organize everything like a military campaign," I replied. "It's our only skill."
"I can think of other skills."
"None that translate to parenting."
"Baby sparring?"
"CPS frowns on that."
The final bell released us into the parking lot, where the late summer heat was already oppressive. We gathered by the Revolution Table's traditional spot—a collection of cars that had somehow become another command center.
"Same time tomorrow?" Miguel asked.
"Dojo training tonight," I reminded. "Private warehouse. No tourists."
"Right. Then tomorrow, college planning. Then Tory's first prenatal appointment—"
"I don't need everyone at—"
"We're coming," Sam cut her off. "Deal with it."
Tory's expression cycled through irritation, reluctance, and something that might have been gratitude. "Fine. But if anyone makes a scene—"
"When do we ever make scenes?"
"Literally constantly."
The principal's voice crackled over the outdoor speakers: "Reminder to all students—college application deadlines are approaching. Please see your counselors for guidance."
Everyone at the Revolution Table laughed. Deadlines seemed quaint now. Abstract. We'd faced real deadlines—Silver's ultimatums, corporate attacks, media firestorms. Application forms were nothing.
[Life Phase: Transition. Childhood → Adulthood. Warning: No manual available.]
No manual. No map. Just a group of revolutionary teenagers trying to figure out how to be revolutionary adults.
We'd managed worse odds.
"Same time tomorrow," I confirmed. "And Tory?"
"What?"
"Your kid's lucky. Just so you know."
She didn't respond. But her eyes were suspiciously bright as she climbed into her car.
The parking lot emptied. The school fell quiet. And somewhere in the distance
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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