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Week 1: She's at home, sipping tea, journaling her "pregnancy progress" like the dedicated scientist she is. The eggs hatch quietly into those wasp-larva bastards—translucent at first, with wriggling tails and barbed mandibles like hypodermic needles. They don't swarm; they strategize, injecting the fetus with paralytic venom through pinpoint stings, numbing its nerves so it can't "kick" too hard yet. She feels the first subtle twitches—soft, butterfly-like flutters in her lower belly—and smiles all warm and fuzzy, placing a hand on her swell. "Aww, hello in there, little one... you're getting so active today," she coos softly, massaging in slow circles, imagining her baby somersaulting playfully. But inside? Pure fucking hell: The fetus is frozen in terror, tiny heart hammering as the larvae burrow into its skin, carving shallow tunnels under the surface, sipping blood like vampires. Flesh peels in microscopic layers, veins weeping crimson into the amniotic fluid, turning it a faint pink she never notices in her checkups. The larvae molt, growing hooks that latch onto organs, slowly compressing the fetal lungs in a vise-grip asphyxiation tease—gasping silently, cells dying one by one—while mommy hums a lullaby, rubbing her belly with tender affection, whispering, "Mommy loves you so much... keep growing strong."