Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 261: The Newborn

August 26, 2025 — MOA Complex, Medical Wing

The rain outside fell in slow, steady rhythms, tapping against the reinforced windows of the medical wing. It was just past midnight, and the corridors were quiet. Not silent—Overwatch never truly slept—but quieter than usual. The hum of overhead lights, the occasional rolling of a cart, the click of rubber soles against the floor.

Inside Room 4B, Thomas Estaris sat beside Rebecca, his right hand clenched tightly around hers. Her knuckles had gone pale. Her breathing came in short, deliberate bursts.

"You're doing great," he whispered.

She didn't answer with words, just squeezed his hand harder.

Dr. Ramos stood at the foot of the bed, calm and focused. "We're almost there, Rebecca. One more push. Just one."

A nurse to the side counted down softly.

Thomas had seen war. He'd seen people gutted, burned, reanimated. He'd seen impossible monsters and inhuman things. But nothing had ever made his heart pound like this. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Rebecca cried out—low, strained—and her whole body tensed. Thomas leaned in closer, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.

"You're strong," he murmured. "Stronger than anything out there."

She looked up at him, eyes blazing despite the pain. "You better not faint."

He gave a dry chuckle. "Not a chance."

Then, it happened.

A cry.

A sharp, shrill wail that sliced through the quiet of the room like a flare in the dark.

The doctor raised the newborn carefully into the light. "A girl," she said gently. "Strong lungs."

Rebecca's face crumpled with a sob, half-laughter, half-exhaustion. Thomas stood frozen for a second before the weight of it sank in.

He was a father.

The nurse wrapped the child in a heated cloth and placed her in Rebecca's arms. The wailing slowed, then stopped, as the infant turned slightly toward the warmth of her mother.

Thomas sat back down beside her, eyes wide with disbelief. "She's…"

"Beautiful," Rebecca finished, her voice a whisper. "She looks like you."

"No," Thomas said, staring down. "She looks like hope."

They sat there for a long moment, cocooned in silence. Just the three of them. A new beginning in a world that had nearly ended.

August 27, 2025 — MOA Complex, Observation Deck

The rain had passed by morning. The skies were pale blue, streaked with orange, the kind of sunrise that made you forget everything wrong with the world—for a little while.

Thomas leaned against the railing, a coffee mug in hand. It wasn't tactical coffee, or powdered rations—it was real, brewed from beans they'd traded for with Visayas enclave scouts last month. It was bitter, but grounding.

Behind him, footsteps approached. Phillip.

"I heard the news," he said, holding up a hand in mock salute. "Congratulations, old man."

Thomas exhaled, shaking his head. "You're one year younger than me."

"Still counts."

They stood in companionable silence.

"She okay?" Phillip asked.

"Yeah," Thomas said softly. "Tired. But she's good. They're both good."

"What did you name her?"

Thomas hesitated, then said it quietly. "Amara."

Phillip raised a brow. "Why that?"

"It was Rebecca's idea. It means 'grace,' or 'immortal,' depending on the language."

Phillip nodded. "Fitting."

Thomas sipped his coffee again. "I never thought I'd make it this far. Not just surviving, but… being here. Seeing her eyes open. Hearing her cry. It doesn't feel real."

Phillip gave a rare smile. "That's how you know it matters."

Same Day — MOA Complex, Nursery Wing

Rebecca watched as the nurse lifted Amara gently from her arms, placing her in the observation crib for a final scan. She was perfect. Tiny hands, soft dark curls, and an expression far too serious for a newborn.

"You know," the nurse said as she adjusted the scanner, "most babies cry at least ten minutes. Yours stopped after three. Just stared at me like I owed her rent."

Rebecca laughed softly. "She gets that from her father."

"She has your nose," the nurse added with a smile.

Rebecca leaned back against the pillow, exhaustion still hanging heavy on her body, but her heart felt lighter than it had in months. Amara was healthy. That's all that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, Rebecca allowed herself to believe in a future that wasn't grim, bloody, or counted in casualty reports.

Later — MOA Complex, Commander's Quarters

Thomas stood over the small crib they had assembled in their room.

He gently brushed Amara's swaddled shoulder with one finger. She didn't wake—just stirred slightly and then fell still again, lips parting in a half-yawn.

Rebecca watched from the couch, sipping warm broth.

"You look scared," she teased.

"I'm terrified," Thomas admitted.

"Good," she smiled. "Means you'll be a great father."

He turned to her, sincerity written all over his face. "I want her to grow up never knowing what the Bloom was. Never seeing a gun unless it's in a museum. Never running from sirens."

Rebecca nodded. "So make it happen."

Thomas looked down at his daughter again.

"I will."

Later That Night — MOA Complex, Rooftop

Thomas and Rebecca stood together on the roof, Amara bundled gently in her arms. The stars were unusually clear tonight—just a scattering across the sky, but visible. Precious.

From below, the MOA Complex buzzed faintly with life. Streetlights flickered, traders made final rounds, and children were tucked into bed by quiet lullabies instead of gunfire.

"I never thought we'd have this," Rebecca whispered. "A quiet night. A future."

"We still have a long way to go," Thomas said. "But she makes it worth walking."

Rebecca looked down at their daughter and smiled.

"Welcome to the world, Amara," she said softly. "We're going to build you a better one."

And in that moment, as the city slept beneath them and the ghosts of war faded into memory, Thomas realized something strange.

For the first time in a long, long while—

He believed it was possible.

He reached over and wrapped an arm around Rebecca's shoulders, pulling her close as Amara slept peacefully between them.

Above them, the stars blinked quietly—

Not in warning, but in welcome.

And the night, at last, was kind.