Page 76 of Generation Omega: Claimed
KAZIMIR
I’m not quite ready for myMr. Humanitysash in the upcoming alpha pageant, not with how I’ve handled my new responsibility so far. I was supposed to be coming to an understanding with my damaged rogue alpha, getting control, helping him work through his issues like I’m a fucking social worker. It’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I fully intended totryall that bullshit. What was I thinking?
If I were to evaluate my performance thus far… well, I’d be fired for sure and more than likely criminally indicted. But here we are. He’s still alive, and that has to count for something, though it’s a remarkably low bar, even for me. One thing is undeniable. I shouldn’t use the omegaverse’s general disdain for my pet project as an excuse to do it poorly. At least, that sounds reasonable, but what do I know about reasonable things?
I sigh—I’ve been doing that a lot since adopting my very own defective alpha. I sigh. I moan. I groan. I’m basically an exasperated mother to six children who all managed to become teenagers in the same week. Even an ego-driven assassin like me knows that I have never confronted a challenge like that. My job is much simpler and less taxing than parenting teenagers, or so I’ve read.
A manual! That’s what I need, something likeWhat to Expect in the First Few Days After Biting a Rogue, Pompous Professor. Unfortunately, I’m the only living alpha to have embraced this odious task, so guidance is unlikely. All the legacy does is snipe at me, reminding me that the professor could be permanently removed from my to-do list if I just deny him oxygen. And yet, I’m quite fastidious about that detail, no matter where Thatcher is located… whether in the trunk (twice), the trailer of a semi (three times), or where he’s currently located in a body bag in the back of the ambulance I’m driving.
I like keeping him in bags. I know how nice and dark they are, not that he’s aware since he’s been sleeping in all these locations. I’ve actually done my fair share of escaping in body bags, coffins, and the occasional trunk. It’s comforting to be ready for your grand finale. You don’t have to worry about your bleached bones ending up in unpleasant places. It’s a gift really, this opportunity I’m giving Thatcher to sample a variety of burial ensembles.
Of course, that’s bullshit, but I’m struggling to confront the truth about how unprepared I am for myrogueresponsibility—exactly like I’m unprepared for raising teenagers or ever paying taxes. I’ve been good at everything I’ve ever attempted. Evenalpha-hoodcame naturally in a way I didn’t expect. But this test is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and I didn’t comprehend the reality of this burden when I made my decision.
I relied on what I knew to be true—our pack’s chances are better with Thatcher than without. What I didn’t account for is just how uncomfortable it is to have no notion what to do, tonotbe guided by instincts because I had to ignore them to bite him in the first place.
I check the clock and grumble, knowing I have time to do something right before we’re due at our destination. So, I pull into a drive-thru and order food for my pet and me, beforedriving to the nearest park. After claiming a spot at a distance from any other vehicles, I move around to the back and open the door, climbing into the medically functional part of the ambulance. I unzip the professor’s container and set the food beside me on the bench.
I want to excel at everything I do—that’s what I remind myself. I certainly don’t want to fail at anything. I can choose to do a substandard job if I want, but not because I lack the ability to triumph. Ugh, I guess it is all about ego with me.
“Wake up, Thatcher.”
He bolts upright, looks confused, glances at the body bag he’s seated in, and then slumps dejectedly. “How long?”
“A few days, more or less. I might have given you fluids through an IV, just to keep you going, and doused your wounds with alcohol to prevent infection. I did feed you a few times and then made you forget them. Our exchanges weren’t something to build a productive relationship on, so erasing seemed like a good idea.” I’m a terrible pet owner—I shouldn’t even have a succulent. How depressing.
Thatcher’s brown eyes darken, and his unhygienic mop of hair has seen better days—not his fault. I need to let him clean himself up before we arrive. His condition reflects poorly on both of us. “Sage—do you know anything?”
“She’s fine.” Should I tell him the rest? Would it help?Meh, I’m going with no, at least for now. No sense stressing him out even more.
He squints, probably wishing rogue status came with lie detector abilities, but my vibe conveys that this topic is closed. Hunching more dramatically, he declares, “You can just kill me, Kazimir. It’s okay… it would be preferable.”
“I know, but I’m not there yet.” I hand him one of the bags of food.
Thatcher takes it, peers inside, scowls at my food offering like it’s apocalypse-only food, not his usual refined cuisine. “Thank you,” he murmurs dubiously.
I unwrap my hamburger and munch on a fry. “Here’s the thing—I can admit this because you literally can’t share it with anyone, unless I let you.”
He bites into his burger like it’s his first time slumming with fast food. I know for a fact that isn’t true, but he doesn’t.
Alright, here goes. “I have no idea how to help you, how to help us. Every time I consider it, nothing comes to mind. I can’t beat you into submission because that’s at the core of the baggage you’re carrying. I know I need to convince you that you aren’t your fucked-up father or, at least, that you don’t have to be.”
I take another fry and chomp it with an open mouth, just to annoy him. I thoroughly enjoy his predictably snooty eye-roll. “The trouble is that your default when under stress is to become what your father built you to be.” I gesture emphatically with a greasy fry. “It’s not all on him, but that dude needs killing—just saying. So, what we need is to work with your stress response until it’s not out of your control.” I glance at him, cringing. “What do you think?”
Thatcher’s eyes widen, and the mop on his head skews strangely. “You’re askingme?”
What the fuck?! “You’re the damn patient here—you have some responsibility too. I’m not trained for this. I kill people and, apparently, bite people, but nurturing and loving Ethan is a whole lot easier than repairing your damaged past. You think Beta Dominion operatives attend therapy?! Come on now.”
I can’t miss how angry the bites on his neck are and how the ripples of his anguish form a current always flowing through him, beginning at those bites and traveling his body in a never-ending circuit. Again, I marvel at how much crueler this legacy is than I’ve ever been.
“Sorry, yes, I am responsible too. Your…” He struggles to say the words, but I don’t mock him—I can’t.
It’s not compassion that’s afflicting me; it’s responsibility. I can’t do anything that doesn’t serve the mission, and the mission right now is Dr. Thatcher James Wellingtonthe Third. Damn my work ethic straight to hell.
Finally, he manages to speak again. “Your generosity in doing this, attempting this… I can’t fully wrap my mind around it, but I think you’re onto something. When I’m in control, I’m not exactly the man I want to be, but I’m not a world apart from that person either. When I’m backed into a corner—before all of this began—that’s when my rage owned me, along with the alluring freedom of losing myself in violence.” He winces when he swallows a small bite of his burger.
Muttering inwardly and then outwardly, I admit, “I can’t stop your torture. I asked the legacy and then tried anyway, but it didn’t do a thing.”
“The Mark of the Rogue Alpha is legendary, the worst punishment that could be inflicted while not killing the alpha. The true horror of the reprimand isn’t its severity—though it’s beyond anything I’ve known—but in its consistency. Even when I’m not conscious, the pain continues unabated. It’s all I know now, an endless reminder of my failings.”
