Page 14 of Generation Omega: Revealed
C. You’ve made a bazillion dollars since I took over as your agent, so I don’t know what you’re whining about.
D. You better be smiling pretty for all those omegees and not scowling like a grump. Be charming, buttface.
The line is around the building and back again, but I still take a second to type my bitter response.
A. A good agent-sister would have come with me to protect my virtue.
B. If my career is going so well, what am I doing here?
C. I don’t have a C, but you had one so I have to have one.
D. I don’t have a D either, so there.
E. I have an E because you didn’t. But E is also, seriously, what am I doing here? Omegees freak me out. This place is a wafting vat of steaming potpourri on steroids, and I won’t eat food named after knotting, which, in case you didn’t read the fine print, is about things having to do with your junk.
Bernie’s response arrives so quickly, she had to be mind-melding with her phone.
A. Grow up and flirt with the omegees.
B. You are now part of three diehard fandoms and can support yourself forever with just conventions, just in case everyone realizes your muscles are totally fake and your acting skills are nonexistent.
C. You’re welcome.
D. Not my junk—you’re junk and I don’t want to hear anything about your junk.
E. If you’re ignoring omegees, we can get sued. Marcella’s there to keep you in line.
F. Use your imagination about what F stands for, but follow it up with “head” or “twit” and you’ve got the right idea.
* * *
I mumble a few uncomplimentary things about my dear little sister as I shove my phone into my pocket and grin maniacally at the next squeaky, screaming teen who can barely function in my presence. That makes 3,568,898 photos, only another 78,907,908,789 to go before I escape this omega hellscape.
As contractually required, I smile in all the pictures. I method act my responses to questions about how excited I was to star in the most anticipated omegaverse film of the decade—lucky me. I sign everything I’m asked to sign, including a few cleavages. I’m incredibly grateful knots aren’t real or someone would be dragging their alpha to me and forcing me to sign the damn thing.
I get it, even in moments like this, how appreciative—and not whiny—I should be about my good fortune. Others would trade with me in a heartbeat. But the truth remains,thisisn’t who I am and, with every vapid smile I give, I feel like I’m betraying myself.
I should have said no and not just to this film. I should have taken a break and assessed my life. For ten years, I haven’t been able to leave my house without a mob following me and this has only made it worse, though these omegees are adorable. If I have to be stalked by fans, the omegee vibe is at least harmless and, with their painted faces, they aren’t exactly operating in stealth mode.
The more of them I encounter, the more I soften to their sweetness and the hope that exudes from them like they’re a bunch of walking bubble machines. Finally, I’m not having to force my good mood. They just want to believe in a fairy tale and, as far as fairy tales go, this one is pretty benign.
Connection. Love. Biological needs that are always met. Unbounded desire without shame or guilt. Family that will never leave you. Pack.
I get it, so much that hours pass without me whining, texting my evil sister, or counting all my flawed life choices. I’m actually laughing with them, even gushing a bit about some of the spicier moments in the film that will release early next year. They haven’t even seen the movie and yet they’ve welcomed me into this band of endearing dreamers—misfits really, the best kind. Because fitting into a dysfunctional society isn’t exactly a badge of honor.
Dammit. I had one job today, unofficial of course. Maintain my bad attitude in the face of the omegaverse. I’m a total failure, completely infected with their delightful optimism.
I’m about to text my sister and say somethingnice, but before I do, a scent reaches me, potent and absolutely distinct from all the fragrances swirling through the hall. This is not potpourri on steroids… it’s something else entirely. My mouth waters and I’m struck by an inexplicably intense sense of significance.
I draw a deep breath in through my nose and the scent is carried with it, my yearning to taste it so overpowering that I find myself licking my lips. My eyes drift closed so that my focus isn’t disturbed by other sights, scents, and sounds. For long seconds that feel disconnected from reality, I savor a taste that’s like nothing that’s ever touched my lips. It’s more than a taste… more than a feeling or a memory. It’s a connection, whatever that means. My tongue wanders over my lips again, finding the taste still there and growing stronger.
“Gideon,” Marcella stage-whispers. “Focus.”
When my eyes open, everything is hazy, blurry even, all of it seeming like too much. Even the next people in line won’t completely register in my mind, though I manage to smile for the photos and sign t-shirts and a few unauthorized biographies written about me. Marcella speaks to me but her voice is muted—everything is muted until one voice breaks through this oppressive daze. A sweetly female voice captures the entirety of my attention as she speaks one of my most famous lines, impersonating me.
“The law can’t be caged, Warden. And, in these parts,Iam the law.”
Then she laughs with a lightness that makes me almost buoyant. More than that, I feel the ripples of her laughter impacting my body, as though her joy is a stone skipping across the surface of a calm lake and I’m the deep, eternal water.
