Chapter Text
The room smelled of disinfectant. Faintly, like they had tried to scrub it away as well as the sins of his predecessor.
He had one year. Three cycles. Maybe four if he was lucky. This was the best chance he was going to get and he reached for it like a starving man reaches for the gallows. Time was not to be wasted, but time also stood still - so. It was a conundrum. Dust particles had never traveled this slow in the afternoon light.
The room had no ceiling fixtures, no mirrors, no pictures. Nothing that could be used as an easy escape. They didn’t want that. Called spilling righteous, fertile blood a sin when it should be lining the womb. Swell it with child.
He would have admired the dedication to propaganda if it wasn’t used against him. People like him. Omegas; the walking wombs. The carriers. He began to sympathize with the UPS of the Before. Not that he remembered much, it had been a slow turnover during his childhood. At a snail’s pace there were milkmen again instead of Post Mates, Mathas instead of nannies. Commanders instead of local politicians.
And somehow the Earth kept spinning.
Was the Earth still a globe or did they change that, too? He would ask, but alas, he could lose a finger for it if the question was somehow wrong. And he liked his fingers. Needed them, you might say. He used them to pry open the wardrobe door (couldn’t have done that without fingers, could he?) and felt around for a loose board. You never know, his predecessor might have left him something before deciding to choke it out into oblivion. The ceiling was stained in the shape of a lamp that had been removed since.
No loose boards. Well.
Opening his bag, he folded his clothes over the hanging rod - no hangers, too risky. His shoe covers went below and he surveyed the small space. The clothing looked dipped in blood in the poor lighting. The color was purposeful - his kind was to be spotted from miles away. To be watched. To be ignored. To be herded. To be unrecognizable as individuals but unmistakably breeding stock. This country’s most valuable asset.
In a world where only one in ten omegas gave birth to live infants, and only a quarter of them being healthy, he was a product of great value and rarity.
He tried to not let it go to his head.
He met commander Moriyama his first day in the house and was left less than impressed by his intimidation tactics. Why had he even spoken to him? The commander’s omega spouse should be the only one having anything to do with him. But it was becoming clear that Jean, the husband, was avoiding him like a gas leak.
That was fine. Actually kind of perfect. Hm.
Slowly, over the next few days, he met the other servants of the house. Two Marthas greeted him. One, stoically, the other, sadly. Danielle and Nathalie. Danielle seemed to operate with a single minded focus and let nothing distract her. A flurry of movements in the kitchen and organising the general household items. Nathalie was kind, but she had a fog over her eyes as if the world had failed her one too many times.
He took the grocery tokens, he took the basket. He rolled up his shoulder covering’s neck all the way up to cover his mouth and nose. It was as red as his coat. Over his hair cap he donned the wings - a three quarter cone of pristine white to hinder sinful eyes from straying. To hinder alphas from lusting. To hinder him from running - like blinders on a race horse.
The back door closed softly behind him and he followed the path around the house to the driveway and front gate. Along the garage stood the town car, but no driver. He hadn’t met the driver yet, but he knew the household had to have one. Saw movement in the garage loft after sundown.
The gate was rusty and creaked an unpleasant goodbye.
“Good morning!” a jovial voice called out. His walking partner stood outside waiting for him. Waiting for him to mess up. Waiting to snitch. She waved enthusiastically. Cheerful. The manipulation was so obvious he almost laughed.
He cast his eyes down to the pavement. “Blessed be the fruit.”
“Yes, yes, may the lord open,” she said and linked their arms and sort of dragged him the first few steps in the direction of merchant street. “My name is Oftrevor, I live a block down from you. Gotta say, you got a Victorian, that’s so lucky. Like, I don’t mind a brownstone, it just lacks some soul and history to it, you know?” She kept talking in an even flow, saying anything and everything that came to mind. That was a dangerous game. They were each other’s spies, after all - any and all compromising information would be reported to Aunt Odette. Sometimes even before you said anything at all.
“–Commander Moriyama’s last breeder wasn’t very chat–”
“Breeder?” he interrupted. Surely, he had heard wrong.
Oftrevor couldn’t really look at him with their wings on, but he got the impression he was being scrutinized. She hunched closer and lowered her voice somewhat. “You know your place, right?”
He rolled his eyes, grateful for the wings. “Of course. Just the term. It’s very… brusque.”
Oftrevor tipped her head back. She was a foot taller than him. “Ohhh. You’re a country boy.”
He stiffened. He wasn’t, but might as well let her believe she had a good read on him. “My last placement was rural, yes. What of it?”
Oftrevor swung her basket to and fro as they walked arm in arm. “They give us to farmers now? I thought we were a commodity.”
“It was a big farm,” he said.
“Still,” she said, sounding wry. “Well, if it is as He ordains.”
His walking partner chatted some more but even she knew to stay quiet when they came to the first checkpoint. He was grateful for that, as he would have been punished for gossiping as well as her. It never mattered if he replied or not. He was there and he didn’t stop it.
They showed their daily passes to the guardian, keeping their eyes on the ground, wings or no. Sometimes it seemed like they knew, even when they couldn’t see, that you didn’t submit. Five steps into the metal detector, another guardian on the other side to check their slips and they were allowed to pass into the third ring. Most merchants were located well into the first ring for maximum security. No rebels coming in to steal omegas en-masse while they tried to find the least bruised apples in a pile.
Besides, he was fairly certain they weren’t that high on the list of priorities for the rebels, so the true reason for overwhelming security was likely the same as them holding their tongues.
Two blocks down and they came upon the second check point. Oftrevor’s steps hitched and came out of rhythm with his own. Nothing but a small misstep, but he caught it. It happened when the checkpoint came into view. Something was off. He couldn’t place it, but Oftrevor - the devotee - had reacted.
Steeling himself, they walked up to the first guardian and presented their slips.
The guardian was blond, average height and build. No special rank, as far as he could tell from a distance, but now his eyes were on the ground again.
“New partner, Oftrevor?” the guardian asked. “Praise be.”
“We share his bounty,” Oftrevor murmured.
“The last one was a drag, good thing Commander Moriyama upgraded.”
He wasn’t used to this. Guardians weren’t supposed to speak with them. It was illegal to have any relations with breeding stock.
But Oftrevor seemed to be used to this. “Yes, Ofriko will certainly bring blessings to his household.”
“Not a moment too soon,” the guardian muttered. “Under His eye.”
He walked into the metal detector first, Oftrevor following. The second guardian, female, didn’t speak with them, thankfully, only checked their slips and gestured for them to go ahead.
Most guardians were betas, like Marthas. Disposable people, essentially. Unlike Marthas, they had a fair shot at moving up the ranks, whereas Marthas were stuck in their position until they no longer served a purpose.
Oftrevor was weirdly quiet the next stretch of pavement. The silence was tense, taut. Their steps was in unison again, but Oftrevor had slowed to match him, unlike before when he had made wider strides to catch up with her.
“We’ve been sent good weather,” he tried. Lukewarm conversation was not his forté.
“Which I receive with joy,” she replied automatically.
He took a shot in the dark. “Hopefully it preoccupies him enough to keep his hands to himself.”
Oftrevor skidded to a halt. That was dangerous. Talking could be disguised from cameras, but stopping could easily be caught. He pulled at her arm and wrestled her forward.
“What- I-” she started. “Did you-”
“You should report it.”
Her hand dug into his arm. Through her teeth, she said “Did you see it?”
“No.” Any person or camera could tell he wouldn’t have seen anything. “But his kind leaves something to be desired.” He shrugged. “Keep walking.”
“Are you going to report it?” she asked and did pick up the pace.
“Report what? A hunch?” He tried to say no I won’t because I know you would be blamed for it.
“Right.” He hoped she meant thank you.
The last check point was a breeze and they stepped into merchant street with little fanfare. Ortrevor whispered commentary about the quality of goods from the different shops they passed when no one was close enough to listen in, but the sidewalk soon became packed.
Eyes of Marthas, guardians and econowives followed them, he felt it like a physical thing on his body. Red. Eye catching, unmistakeable; they could reproduce. The glares were both envious and hateful. He kept his eyes ahead.
The supermarket came into view soon enough. Oftrevor whispered with vigor about no longer needing to attend six different shops for goods like it was the most exciting news of the year. Apparently the supermarket - or grocer mart as she insisted it was called - had been erected a couple months ago in early winter.
He placed a discreet finger on her arm and gained her attention. “I don’t know how this works,” he told her.
“Shopping?” she asked and he belatedly nodded. “Oh right. Country boy. Okay so-” and she went into a deep and elaborate explanation of how tokens worked and hierarchy to get the best goods and when he was blessed with child how that would impact the transactions.
His head was swimming. Get a hold of yourself. She hadn’t even lowered her voice, but he presumed shopping routine was green-lit topic of conversation. They entered through the automated glass doors.
Everything was grey. He quite liked the simple aesthetic, if it wasn’t for the “nothing matters” kind of air about it. From the entrance the only colours were the specks of red as he recognized his own kind. Pairs of red splattered across the space and stood out like the remnants of a nosebleed. Through a walkway he saw a glimpse of bustling colours of fruit and felt acutely how long it’s been since he’d had an orange.
Oftrevor bullied him into showing her his tokens. “Okay, so, you got the basics like meat, beans, veg and flour. Praise be His mercy, they will hopefully make flour able for delivery like milk soon, it’s heavy to carry. But He gives no struggle without reward.”
He thought that was the biggest pile of bullshit he had ever heard, but bit his tongue like the beaten horse he was supposed to be.
“What meat did your Marthas want you to get? Also the vegetables, but you have very few tokens for that.”
Casting a quick glance around, he said, “They didn’t specify.”
“What? Okay, what meat does your commander like? Some prefer the leaner kind, while others want beef every day.”
“I didn’t ask,” he said, feeling steel slither into his voice.
Oftrevor put a hand on his shoulder to turn him and for the first time they were face to face and he saw she had eyes brown like wet soil and light eyebrows. She looked like she was supposed to be tan.
“You need to know these things.” Her mouth moved under her coverings like a secret. Her next words were so low he strained to hear her, but sound carried easier from wings to wings. “It’s all easier if you know what you need to know.”
And wasn’t that a courageous thing to say in the middle of a crowded room full of people waiting to turn you in to gain favour.
Wrenching himself away in the most minimal manner, he turned his head to the meat refrigerator. He didn’t need to be trapped by brave omegas, he had other priorities. Like staying alive with all limbs intact for the next year.
Regarding the meat in front of him, he took stock of himself. Got his breathing under control. He realized someone talked to him and his head snapped up before he thought better of it and lowered his gaze again.
“The pork chops came in this morning,” the attendant was telling him.
“The steak, please,” he murmured. Oftrevor nudged his side. “For Commander Moriyama.”
The attendant looked up at him in mild surprise. “High Commander Moriyama?”
Shit. He didn’t know. He should have known, obviously, he was living in the same damn house, but Danielle and Nathalie and the Aunts had all called him Commander. What he did know was that there were one or two High Commanders per district, on average, but most were located closer to DC. He would have been told if Riko was a High Commander. Right?
Oftrevor sensed his hesitation. “No. Commander Moriyama of Ravendale.”
“Ah,” the attendant said. “Apologies, I’m new. Which cut?”
Paper-packed meat in the basket, they wandered through the aisles and he clumsily collected an array of canned goods like beans and peas. They would just have to reprimand him when he got back to the house, he wasn’t a mind reader. Oftrevor reminded him to save a few vegetable tokens for fresh goods and when they rounded the corner into the fruit aisle he found himself agreeing.
Piles and piles of fruit and vegetables were before him and he gnawed the inside of his cheek to stay calm. It had been so long since he had seen exotic fruits. The farm didn’t grow them as it was a waste of resources, and the last time he had tasted one had been when he was a teenager. The world had closed so many borders the last fifteen years as food was scarce and children were too. He hadn’t been anywhere close to the tropics and found this abundance of mangoes, lemons and grapefruit almost staggering.
“Oh,” he let out, without meaning to.
To her credit, Oftrevor tried to not sound smug. “I know. We share His bounty, alright.”
“How is this here?” he asked.
“Trade has picked up in the last few months after the-” and she lowered her voice, “the populace for goods tarif.”
He matched her volume. “What does Gilead have that the tropics want?”
She snorted at his question. “What do you think?”
Populace. Population. There was no way they were sending children out of Gilead and they made any border crossing almost impossible. His gut dropped as it hit him. “They trade… us.” He didn’t recognize his voice.
“Obviously not us, but breeders, yeah.”
He couldn’t- He had to- what was this? Why didn’t he already know this? He knew why - the farm had no outside contact, but this seemed like very essential information he should have gotten to know when the tariff was agreed to. His stomach lurched and felt bile in his throat. If they were trading out omegas, then he might not have a year after all. Fuck.
Taking a slow, invisible breath, he steeled himself again and resorted to ask more on the topic on the walk back.
He didn’t touch the mangoes.
Luckily, flour was sold in ring three, so they didn’t have to lug it around for more than a few blocks. In the meantime, Oftrevor wanted to show him “the sights” of the city centre. The sights being, apparently, a walk along a nice looking river bank that happened upon a hanging plot. He couldn’t tell if this was a manipulation tactic or just normal city life for her.
The bodies ran blood down the wall of the river bank. Flour sacks with red-painted symbols adorned their heads. Rapists, contraband, rebels, gender traitors. He surveyed the eight of them with indifference and felt Oftrevors eyes on him, waiting for a reaction.
“Good to be rid of them. Praise be.”
Oftrevor moved to regard them as well. Chillily, she said “Praise be.”
They sat on the riverbank and dared the water to touch the soles of their shoes. No one else was close by. In fact, the area seemed void of people. He leaned her way to indicate conversation.
“Which breeders do they send out?”
Oftrevor stopped trying to make a kazoo out of a blade of grass. “Usually they trade the ones who haven’t been fruitful for a few years. The ones who reached the end of their term.”
He hummed to confirm he was paying attention.
“When were you last blessed?” she inquired, picking at the weeds.
The thing is, he wasn’t expecting the question. He should have, considering the conversation. And there was no use lying if all information he gave would be fact-checked with the Aunts anyway. But it gnawed at him. Felt like a more red A stamped across him than the usual red.
Turning his head away, he said “Never.”
Oftrevor hit his arm lightly and he mock-winced. “Stop,” she said. “Are you serious? You’re a presumed?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Oh my word- don’t they get any news in the country? A presumed is an omega who haven’t been fruitful yet, but comes so highly recommended they are given to the higher ranks who might just have the lucky shot.”
This conversation was taking a rather disgusting turn and he made a face in the privacy of his wings.
“I suppose that’s me, then.”
She let out a breath. “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure to carry on your shoulders. Who recommended you?”
More pressure than the end of his life if he couldn’t get pregnant? He doubted it. “I don’t know. Up until now I didn’t know I was recommended, either.”
“Wow,” she said again, astounded. “You must be quite the priced pig, huh? Prime breeding stock - they usually keep you guys in the capitol.” Her voice had taken on a sharp edge. She was jealous. Hilarious, to him.
“Guess I wasn’t good enough for that. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, as soon as you bless the Moriyamas with a baby, before you know it you’re in the hot seat for some High Commander in DC. Praise be.”
“And lose you as a walking partner? Tragic.”
Oftrevor laughed and that was the end of it.
He said his goodbyes to Oftrevor at the front gate. The flour wasn’t heavy to him, but he made a show of pretending it was as he waddled with the bag in his arms and groceries weighing down his elbow. The steps to the back entrance creaked under the additional weight as he fumbled to open the door. Nathalie opened it for him and ushered him in.
The Mathas barely glanced at him as they unloaded the groceries, but they seemed to have a whole conversation through nods and glances that he didn’t know the language to. Nevertheless, he wasn’t reprimanded, so he didn’t stay.
His room was located in the loft, three stories up. It was also the only bedroom on the floor. He had an en-suite bathroom which was a mild surprise upon his arrival. It lacked a mirror and he was glad for it. Appearancewise, he had been stripped of any altercations he had done and if there had been a mirror in the bathroom, he would have taken it down himself. He didn’t need to look at his father’s hair and eyes to know he had them.
While the colour remained the same, the shape of the eye was different as an omega. Wider, if only barely. It made him seem younger and fragile, but the biology behind it was to make his night vision better than alphas. It was also used for propaganda against his whole secondary gender, as if eyes alone would transfix alphas into having their way with them.
It used to be more primal. In the Olden Days, way before the Before, scents were the primary way to communicate feelings among people. There were less secrets like that, so whoever was in power slowly made scents less and less meaningful. Now you only really smell another omega when they are in heat, alphas in rut.
Heats. It had been a while for him. His heats on the farm were… atypical, to say the least. After his first one they had taken to sedating him for the next ones. It wasn’t a kindness to him, but a shield for themselves. He had been crazed, frantic, and violent. This was normal to him after his suppressors ran out, but apparently it was so rare to his kind that they hadn’t known what to do with him.
At least he didn’t have to be present to remember “the ceremony”, which was a very pretty name for a grief he didn’t know how to fit into his body. He usually woke up on his back, legs closed, robes down and if he was only looking at his body from the outside he would have thought he just woke up from a nap. But he lived in his body, so he felt the aches, the bruises on his hips, the stretch in his lower back. The fever-drenched, red clothes. And the seed. It trickled down to his ass from where it was deposited, the walls throbbing and raw from a force he hadn’t witnessed.
All things considered it could have been a lot worse. He could have had the memories as well as the evidence. That doesn’t mean he didn’t feel wrung out and used like a dirty dish cloth. If this was sex then he was glad to have gone so long without it.
The Aunts and the commander probably knew his cycle better than he did, but he suspected early spring to be the time of his next heat. That was weeks away, maybe a month. Dread creeped up on him as he settled on his bed for a nap.
He had been at the house for a couple weeks when he walked down for breakfast in the kitchen. He was earlier than usual as sleep didn’t find him that night, and he stopped abruptly when he saw some unfamiliar man sitting in the breakfast nook.
Guardian’s uniform. Blond. Probably short. Stocky build. A set of keys laid next to his plate. The driver. It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn’t met yet, but if he usually took his breakfast this early in the day then that made sense.
The man lifted his gaze to him. He said nothing.
He knew he was supposed to lower his eyes and be invisible unless spoken to, but he also knew he would live with this man for a year and would have to talk to him at some point. Might as well rip off the bandaid.
“Blessed day.”
The man didn’t reply. He kept looking at him though. Lifting an eyebrow as if to say And?
Shrugging, he went through the cabinets he wasn’t allowed to be in - most of them were locked from him anyway - until he found a bag of apples from a previous shopping trip. Grabbing two, he went to slice them, but remembered belatedly that knives were bad for him. And the drawer was locked. Huffing, he went to the nook and sat down. He grabbed the driver’s discarded butter knife and began working the pit out of the apple, piece for piece.
“They let you use knives at your previous posting?”
He took a bite while weighing his response. “Yes. And also the pitch fork.”
His voice was groggy and had a deep rasp, from sleep and disuse, probably. “Then they were stupid.”
“They didn’t have much choice, in the end.” The Marthas had dwindled as the commander had lost hold of power. The only reason they got to keep an omega for as long as they did was because the omega in question couldn’t be placed just anywhere. With his heats being how they were.
“What’s your name?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the apple bites. He felt strangely naked without his wings, but at least he had his cap on.
“Andrew.” He didn’t ask what his name was. Andrew didn’t need to. They were all called Ofriko while they were here.
He ate in the silence that followed. More questions were in his throat but he swallowed them down. This wouldn’t be the last time they spoke. Besides, Andrew could very well be an Eye. The distrust hung like a well-worn coat on himself.
A sound from the upstairs floorboards reached them. Andrew picked up his plate and knife and placed them in the sink. He stopped by the back door and regarded the omega. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a pack of cigarettes and tapped them on his forehead in a mockery of a salute and strode outside.
He had contraband. What kind of test was this? By all laws, he should report it, and maybe that was the reason Andrew had shown it to him in the first place. To see if he was a snitch. To see if he could be trusted. To see if he abided by the law. Or maybe it was to see if Andrew could trust him to keep a secret. Or maybe he was an Eye and the test was to see if Andrew would hear a report about him from other sources.
To tell or not to tell, that was the question.
By the time Danielle walked into the kitchen he had the phrase snitches get stitches running through his head and decided against it. As mentioned earlier, he needed his fingers.
One day he woke up with a headache. All things considered, it wasn’t even worth mentioning. They wouldn’t let him take pills to poison his body, and never moonshine which for a time had been his painkiller of choice. He trudged on. Sometime along the third week he had taken to exploring every inch of an item in his room - slowly, as if to savour it. Entertainment was few and far between and this was the most he could get with easy access.
This day was a Sunday, which meant church. The Moriyamas would leave in their town car with Andrew, and he would be picked up by the Birthmobile along with the other fruitful omegas in captivity. Then it was bowed heads, a lot of mumbled gratifications and back on the Birthmobile they went.
“I’m looking forward to the service today,” Nathalie said. She seemed a little brighter on Sundays. “With the rebel activity in Florida, they might speak of Noah’s Ark.”
To drown the rest of us? he hoped.
“We need unity now, more than ever. His grace only goes so far.”
Does God look at us through a magnifying glass and lean slightly to the side so the sun can scorch us?
“Why the Ark? The Old Testament isn’t scripture.”
“Sometimes they paraphrase outdated text if it’s relevant enough.”
“Outlawed. It’s not righteous to hope for it, Nathalie.”
What sin would I have to commit to be struck down By His Hand?
“Ofriko,” Danielle said. That’s not my name, motherfucker. “After church, would you help me in the garden? I can never remember where the mint is best placed.”
I would rather swim in lava, actually. “Of course. The fresh air would be nice.” The pressure in his head didn’t let up and he closed his eyes against it. The sink was dripping. The room smelled so strongly of yeast he was sure it was making the pressure build.
A figure appeared in the kitchen entrance. Tired grey eyes and a body held stiff and tightly coiled. Mr Moriyama, the husband. Jean. “The commander is not to have stew for supper today. Figure something else out.” The french accent was startling in its thickness. Jean would probably have lived in Gilead for at least ten-fifteen years, considering the border regulations. But the husband didn’t speak with anyone, barely went to spousal events, so when would his accent have been watered down?
I just thought it was a fancy family name. Dick.
They got ready to leave. The Moriyamas exited through the front and himself through the back. Ridiculous protocol as they all ended up in the driveway either way. The Marthas got to church somehow, but he didn’t know how. Maybe they walked to a closer chapel? The wings he donned hid him from view, but he felt eyes tracking his movement. The town car was idling by the mouth of the gate, tipping slightly as it became occupied. The Birthmobile was waiting for him by the sidewalk, but walking ahead of Commander Moriyama felt like asking for trouble.
Andrew pulled out onto the street, and he walked down and stepped onto the red van. It began driving immediately, impatiently. Ofjohn from three blocks over tried very hard to not look at him. Ofalice stared through him, oblivious to the world, disassociating. Only Oftrevor nodded slightly his way. There were twelve of them in this van and no more room. He sat down and fought the urge to peak around the curtains blocking the view. Instead, his eyes found the Moriyama town car ahead of them, gliding smoothly and soundlessly through the suburbs.
It was only when the van took a right turn way too early that he realized something was amiss. They weren’t even close to church. The van was changing course westward. Bright red lights flashed ahead of them and skidded to the left as the van finished its turn. It picked up speed. Around him he saw shoulders tense, heads snapping forward. No one spoke. They knew better than that. Speak out of turn and lose your tongue. Wings faced forward as if welded in place. If your eyes stray, you pluck it out. Hands clasped tightly in his lap, nails digging into skin.
It didn’t ground him. It spurred his rapid thoughts.
The Birthmobile was in a race with itself. In snippets he saw the intersections onto their road were closed off, lights flashing, giving them free reign. Get a hold of yourself. Were they under attack? Had the rebels somehow made it into the fourth ring? Wait, no, they breezed past checkpoints. This was the first ring. The buildings opened up to a flat park area. The Birthmobile slowed as it came upon a wide half circle of cobblestones.
“-cary?” The Aunt was saying, bringing him back to the world of sound.
“As soon as possible was my directive.”
“This kind of stress on their bodies leads to miscarriages. You will abide by the speed limits on the way back.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“When you drive my sweeties, you do.”
Ah. A dick measuring contest.
“Off you go, sweeties,” Aunt Odette said, waving at them. “Two lines.”
He felt his legs shake as he stood and followed Oftrevor’s stiff shoulders. Out in the open he spotted more Bithmobiles from the area. Did they collect everyone from the district here? At a park? Their lines were headed by Aunt Odette staggering forward on her bad knee. The back was flanked by four guardians. He thought of the shatterproof window in his room. They didn’t fear runners. An escaped breeder wouldn’t get far. If he were to glance behind him, he would see the guardians eyeing the treeline to the park, the road behind them, the open space ahead of them. Not the red lines carving their way through mouldy, old grass.
Neat rows of red pillows littered the ground before a plateau - a stage. There were so many pillows, he hadn’t known there were that many of them. Wordlessly they arranged themselves to split off to their places. Unfamiliar reds surrounded him. He saw a few visibly pregnant ones stroking their heavy bellies.
He saw fewer male omegas like himself. It was rare for his specific kind to be fertile so he wasn’t all that surprised. What did surprise him was that his pulse was still racing from the drive here. This was an assembly. His first one in the city. He doubted it was some sort of “class outside” kind of church day, which usually meant–
“Blessed be the fruit,” an Aunt addressed them all. He didn’t recognize her. Her face was pulled taut in a bun and a tighter smile. His gut churned.
“May the Lord open,” they replied, clear cut like diamonds.
“Wings and knees,” she instructed. They knelt on their pretty little cushions. Wings were placed delicately in front of them. Heads bowed, hands clasped.
“This is a blessed day indeed, my sweeties,” she went on. “For today we have another victory under our belts- yes. Yes. We have gathered you here to witness His mercy on you as our country have apprehended the sickest sinner to walk amongst us. I cannot believe- The Devil works in wicked ways, I am sorry to tell you, my sweeties.” She took a breath, voice choked. “This morning this man-” she waved forward a couple guardians holding a man dressed in the beige. A prisoner. He was conscious, shackled and gagged, the guardians dragging him forward by the arms and hair.
“This- this monster was finally caught on the edge of the city, fleeing his crimes. He was a guardian to a respected household. He was in charge of protecting one of you.”
Small gasps.
“And he used that privilege to take advantage of her. To soil her!”
Heads snapped up. They couldn’t help it- they had to know the face of the defiler. Had to see his fear. The man was struggling against the restraints, not yet resigned to his fate.
The Aunt was raging, tears streaming down her face. She looked at the crowd, begging them. “She was pregnant,” she wailed. The pregnant ones among them shielded their wombs and whispered shocks reached his ears. The Aunt fell to her knees, hands raised out to them wanting salvation. “The baby died!”
Static hummed among them. They were all one body, bees in a hive. His limbs were not his own. The guardians shoved the man from the stage towards them, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thunk. A sea of red rose to their feet. Carelessly, they shoved cushions away as they circled the defiler. The rapist. But they were the predators now. They were pulled so taut the string could snap at any moment.
The Aunt’s pleading reached them as if from another room. “Only God can have mercy on his soul. My sweeties - show him none of it.”
Snap.
A guttural scream escaped him. It mingled with his sister’s. His hands cloyed at the backs of red, shoving himself forward. There were no turns to be had - this was primal fury. Some picked up the rocks placed at their feet and hurled them at the rapist. Others took to their fists and feet, kicking, pulling, screaming. He had no plan nor weapon, only the need to get to the front, to get vengeance for his sister in red. For the unborn child.
For Abram.
Someone made way for him and the rapist was hauled to his knees from the mouldy grass and held in place by two reds. Their faces was contorted, twisted, rageful - just like himself. The rapist had a broken arm, and he caught the tail-end of a sucker punch breaking the nose.
Not good enough.
Abram made his way to the centre, eyes on his prey. The voices, the screaming, muffled around him. He knew hundreds of ways to kill someone, but none of them reached him at that moment. He felt his teeth itch. There was wilderness in his blood. As he closed in on the man, the rapist looked to him and finally, finally there was terror in his eyes. Terror his kind felt every day.
He took a hold of the rapist’s hair, feeling the sweat coating his hand, and yanked it to the left. Sisters in red yelled in approval. He placed his other hand on the man’s right shoulder, pressing down. Throat bared. The rapist coughed, catching on. Frightened.
Abram brought his head down to the rapist’s pulse, teeth bared. He bit down on sickly flesh. Copper filled his mouth, warm and thick. Abram retreated, felt his fangs elongate. He slammed his teeth back into the wound - he will not let up, he will take what is needed, he will avenge. Flesh and meat came away from the sinner’s throat, right at the artery. Abram hauled himself up and spat the meat away like rotten fruit.
The rapist’s wail was turning garbled. Better.
His hands were claws now as he shoved them into the wound, taking hold of the sides. With all his strength he pulled them apart. Someone was laughing. The flesh gave way to him. Someone put a rock inside the wound. A red leg stepped sideways on the rapist’s calf, snapping it broken. Abram was taking a slow step back.
Sisters swam into his vacated space, having their fill of the corpse. Abram knew dead eyes when he saw them. Someone was still laughing.
Oh. He was the one laughing. In a symphony of anguish he was hysterical.
Blood roared in his ears like a storm. His vision was still trained on the man being mauled, never leaving his face. Keeping watch in case he came back from the dead somehow. But out of the corner of his eye Abram glimpsed an Aunt pointing at him with a breeder next to her.
Snitch.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to pack it back in. He managed to stop laughing, but the wretched smile stayed firmly in place. The wilderness was still in his blood - not sated.
An Aunt came to drag him out of the red sea and he let her. The violence had no outlet now. He needed to be brought back down into his body. Aunt Odette stood before him, brows pinched. It took a moment, but when her face fell blank, he realized it too. Smelled it. The laughter bubbled up again and Abram began to claw at his chest.
Aunt Odette was speaking, but he couldn’t hear her. She spoke to a guardian who shook his head. Another Aunt came up on his left and he flinched back hard. She was scrutinizing his face and talking over Odette, irritated. She yelled over her shoulder.
Oftrevor arrived. Her rage had morphed into fear at the sight of him. Aunt Odette leaned around to speak to her, glancing back at Abram. He felt a presence at his back and flinched away again. The guardian at his back took in his face as Abram turned and blanched at the sight of him. Abram laughed harder.
The headache was pounding down at him now. There was a pinching sensation in his stomach. Not unfamiliar, just the last nail in the coffin for him. He was going into heat, indeed.
Oftrevor stepped into his line of sight and took a hold of his blood-soaked arms. The guardians ushered them into a jog and Abram tried to keep up - he really did - because the clock was ticking, but his legs were shaking. Oftrevor hooked one of his arms over her shoulders and carried most of his weight as they ran, flanked by black clad figures. More black clad figures joined them in a tight circle. Flashing lights waited for them by the cobblestones. A guardian’s van.
In his periphery he saw one guardian being held down by three others as they passed. An alpha. Abram’s legs gave out completely and Oftrevor stumbled down with him. Grass stuck to his face. The alpha fought harder against his team. Oftrevor hauled him up and into the van and the last thing he saw before the door closed were her brown eyes filled with worry.
The van lurched forward. He felt the click of locks engaging as he pressed himself into the back door. No one was in the back with him. They weren’t sedating him. He clawed at the cool metal. He made fists and banged at them, frantic. The room shifted sharply to the left and he was launched to the side. The taste of copper was still in his mouth.
The back doors opened before he knew they’d stopped. Two guardians waited for him. They looked sick. His laughter saw no end. Slowly he crawled to the opening and slid out. He was back at the house and the front gate was open. As Abram walked into view he saw the Moriyamas in the driveway - Jean was watching him with horror and Riko was turned as if he had been in the middle of reprimanding his husband. Riko stilled as Abram entered the driveway.
Andrew was also there and already looking at him from the side of the town car. His gaze was forcefully blank, but Abram saw his nails dig into the side of his thigh. An alpha then. Abram’s laugh took a sick turn.
Riko was saying something, but Abram couldn’t hear him. His head felt like it was going to explode. Sweat coated the inside of his red robes. The pain in his stomach felt like an insatiable void.
The Marthas were running down the path to him, but his knees gave out before they made it all the way. Abram braced himself on the ground to soften his fall. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He might have been talking, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. As Nathalie took his right arm and Danielle the other he must have blacked out.
Stairs. A memory. Screaming. Flickering LED lights on a white ceiling. The worn wood of the victorian. Beeping noises. Creaking of an old, posted bed. A stocky built middle-aged man with a receding hairline.
The room was not his. It smelled faintly of Riko and no one else. Abram rolled off the bed to the floor and crawled into a corner. He was alone. Voices were downstairs and heading up. No, no, no. He needed a nest. He needed a weapon. Abram stood to take in the room, looking for anything sharp. The pounding got worse and he doubled back onto a chaise - it moaned against the floorboards. The voices stopped. He grabbed a lamp off the side table. The doorknob began to turn and he threw the gold-plated lamp at the door. Wood splintered. Riko still entered and Abram couldn’t breathe - he was wheezing.
Riko was saying something with a smug expression but Abram couldn’t register it. Instead he stepped a foot onto the bed and bared his teeth at the intruder, alpha or no. He was to be in peace. The other foot followed and he was standing on top of Riko’s pillows and the commander didn’t look so smug anymore. He rounded the bed to where Abram had just been standing.
Foolishly he followed the movement and didn’t see or smell Jean coming up behind him on the other side of the bed. Abram’s hair was yanked back until his back was on the bed. He clawed at the hands, growling. When he felt hands on his legs, he kicked. He tried to twist out of their grip, but it was iron. Jean didn’t look at him, only took the abuse he was giving.
Riko, however. He seemed absolutely gleeful. He grabbed a hold of both of Abram’s legs and instilled himself between them. Too bad he forgot to get his cock out ahead of time. As he had to let go of Abram’s left leg to undress, Abram kicked from Riko’s body and Jean stumbled back from the force of it. Sensing escape, Abram rolled onto all fours and crawled to the edge of the bed.
His leg was grabbed and he was dragged back onto his stomach. He tried to get up, but he was weak from fever and Jean held his forehead down into the mattress. Riko mounted him with his knees on Abram’s calves, trapping him down. Abram screamed. His head was shoved deeper into the mattress to muffle it. His robes were unceremoniously flipped over his back and the underwear was shoved to the side.
Riko shoved his little dick in and sighed as he bottomed out. Abram stilled. Shock, probably. Jean let him breathe. Big mistake. Abram screeched and trashed under their weight, using his momentum to rock them off. But Riko grabbed his hips and dragged him back onto his dick again. And again. And again.
Harsh light woke him. His headache wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. He squinted at the light. Stretching out an arm he found it aching and bruised. But his other shoulder was dislocated. He tried to sit up and his body spasmed. Something tore through him and he leaned over the side of his bed to vomit onto the floor.
That was new.
He felt the telltale deposit in his underwear. They hadn’t even taken it off, in the end. The amount of seed was… He threw up stomach acid. He remembered most of the beginning and only pieces of the rest. Jean hadn’t been allowed to leave, as it was his place to be in the room to help Abram conceive or some shit. He had screamed until his voice gave out and lifted his intact arm to feel the rawness.
Here’s the thing. Heats are supposed to make you docile. Wanting. Needy. It was supposed to make you submissive and craving - easy prey. Obviously his heats were the exception to the rule. His only salvation was that there were well-documented cases like his - omegas who became violent and crazed. Abhorred. He would have been missing limbs if he didn’t need them for exercise during pregnancy. Apparently, popping his shoulder out of its socket was a lesser evil.
He still wore his bloody, sweat soaked robes. He took stock of himself, lifting his legs one at a time, but it soon made him dizzy. The pain in his stomach was gone. On his face he felt crusted remnants of the blood from assembly as it had tracked down his chin.
He didn’t know how long he laid there. Eventually the sun moved high enough above the window so he wasn’t blinded anymore. Small mercies. In a world as twisted as this one, that was all he had.
Footfalls in the hallway alerted him before his door was opened. White-clad medical personnel entered his room with a stretcher. An odd sense of deja-vu roamed in the back of his mind. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time he left this house on a stretcher.
“We heard you had quite the tumble, Ofriko. Lay still and we will take care of you.”
His reply was lost in the bottom of his throat.
In the foyer he was carried past the Marthas and Jean. Danielle looked like she hadn’t slept and Nathalie was watching him with a far-off look. Jean followed his stretcher out into the driveway with an unreadable expression. Abram didn’t want to look at him and let his head loll to the side in case bile crept up on him again.
From this angle Andrew looked horizontal where he was standing by the car, like he was floating on water. Abram lifted his gaze to Andrew’s face and found another unreadable expression. He thought he saw a flicker of anger. Must have kept him from sleeping, too. Abram didn’t know what possessed him, but as the medical team fiddled with the stretcher he held Andrew’s gaze. Something small moved between them, but before he could grasp what-
Andrew turned on his heel and marched back onto the property.