Page 2 of Gold Rush
I’ve been herewaytoo long, and watched the entire three seating areas slowly become more and more crowded. I didn’tneedto leave the offices so early, but with the delays it’s turned mysemi-unreasonableanxiety-fueled early arrival into an hours-long wait. I settle on the simple words, because nothing is worse than a stranger trauma-dumping their anxieties on you in a public place, my voice softer than the omega’s.
She’s beautiful. Her long black hair in a low ponytail, not a bag in sight — which makes sense, if she has a pack, they’ve probably taken care of it all for her.
She won both the geneticandthe biological lotteries.
The omega shrugs, looking over at the gate. “I like to leave early, but you know the lines here, even with express. My alphas all have different passports, it makes it a bloody nightmare to get from point A to point B. Hopefully they’ll let us on soon.”
“Well, regardless, you’ll have first dibs.” I try for a reassuring smile, but it feels unnatural. The omega looks back at me, her brows drawing in tight and I flounder for a moment. “Because your pack will board first?”
She pauses, and for half a second I think she almost looks startled, like she thought we were talking about two different things. After a delayed second, she tilts her head. “Yeah, packs board first.” Her hand drops to rest on her stomach, flat under a bulky crewneck emblazoned with some rugby team. “People always think omegas have easy lives — useless shit about how we all get lucky to find alphas to settle down with, but if you turn on the news, you’d be clued in that isfarfrom the truth.”
Embarrassment pangs through my chest, and mild confusion. She keeps including me in her statements, like we’re not perfect strangers stuck waiting at a glorified bus stop. My brain reels, trying to grasp at some kind of topic.
“I saw the reports about the blood testing breakthrough this morning.” Blurting the words, I stumble ahead. “They found traces of golden blood in a fourteen year old lupus patient. Apparently her designation hasn’t fully emerged, but they were looking for experimental treatments. I don’t like to think about how young it starts — how they don’t have a choice almost from the word go.”
My words die off, hanging in the air.
No biologist has figured outwhyomega blood is golden-hued. And I’ve never seen it before, as a beta with standard red blood. Designation detection blood tests are run yearly from puberty onwards to check that no previously-assumed betas show signs of a different designation. For alphas, it’s silver-hued blood, slightly luminescent like an oil slick.
It presents a unique set of challenges. Omegas who need blood transfusions can really only take them safely from universal alpha donors, with bonded alphas being the safestoption. Society and medicine have intertwined themselves, with most omegas predisposed to chronic conditions or illnesses.
Omegas don’t have the option of deciding their own future. The designation is increasingly rare, and parents or guardians take over the decision-making for their omega children, setting them up with designation centers that will help the omega choose alphas to bond so they’re cared for the rest of their lives.
“I heard about that.” The omega next to me jars me out of my thoughts, her voice lower. “Doctors always want to test for designations earlier and earlier, but they never seem to care as much after we’re older — unless you’re pregnant. Then there’s a vested interest, of course.” She gives me a chagrined look, her hand on her stomach shifting slightly.
Her alpha’s overprotective behavior suddenly makes a lot of sense.
I don’t know what to say, and as I settle on the obvious — acongratulations— she squints.
“I don’t know how betas stand it. These lights and smells give me a headache.” The omega shifts in her seat, groaning slightly. “Forgive me, I totally forgot to ask — what’s your name?”
“Oh it’s —”
One of the gate agents crackles over the intercom, interrupting me mid-sentence. “Thank you for your patience, at this time, we’ll be allowing priority pack boarding.”
“Oh!” The omega pops out of her seat as another man appears. He’smassive— muscles stacked on muscles, stocky with a wide smile on his face. Undeniably alpha, but he looks like a giant teddy bear. “We’re in luck.” The omega glances at me, smiling wide. “Maybe I’ll see you on the plane with your pack?”
I open my mouth, startled all over again, but her alpha adjusts the bag slung over his shoulder, talking first. “Ol and Quint are coming. You ready to head home?” He slides an armaround the omega’s shoulder and she leans into him, her smile gentle.
“Mhm.” The omega waves at me as they head around the throng of people who’ve been waitinghours. “It was nice meeting you!” She joins up with two other alphas at the gate, one of them — a blond — handing over their boarding passes before they’re all ushered to board.
I sit back in my seat, biting my tongue as my brain reels.
She thoughtIwas an omega like her. Suddenly the entire conversation makes a hell of a lot more sense, but I can’t fathom why she even made the assumption in the first place. I’ve been sitting alone for hours, shoved at the back of the seating arrangements, with no sign of a doting alpha or bond mark.
Maybe omegas don’t have it all. Being born and almost immediately told you’re biologically weaker is bullshit. Not to mention the expectation to find an alpha and marry them, just because society doesn’t want to recognize someone can be chronically ill and still an active member of the world. But fuck, if I don’t want the other perks, the world adjusting totheir needs.
The fluorescents above me crackle, making me nauseous, flickering as the gate agents welcome the single alphas to board. One golden-sheened bond away from being the world’s priority.
My head aches as I slump in the uncomfortable seat, waiting for final boarding like the rest of the betas sitting in economy.
I throwup thesecondI unlock my hotel room, barely making it to the toilet before the soda and crackers from my flight reappear.
It was anightmare. Someone in front of me had a toddler that was old enough to know better than to scream and thrash for four hours straight, leaving a nap impossible. And the guy next to me smelled like cleaning products and chemicals — I’m not sure who he thought he was going to attract in the back fucking row of economy with his faux perfume, but it only made the mounting nausea worse.
A migraine tagged along with me when I left the airport, an unwelcome passenger as I drop my single carry-on onto the little luggage bench inside the room, digging out my phone from my pocket as it rings.
I don’t know why I look at the caller ID expecting my mom — she never calls, she’s too busy going to “charity” events with Dad and chatting to other betas who pray and hope they’ll have an alpha or omega kid they can pair off, because “God put betas on this earth to help alphas find their single, perfect omega. Packs are ruining the god-honored sanctity of bonding.”
