My… omegas…
Or at least.
Omega.
Omega, and something else.
Sin was rattling like a feral beast in a cage, chained power roiling for freedom, crimson vengeance trying to drag the whole bond into its orbit.
I blinked, and my sanity flickered out.
I was back beneath the bright lights in the room where I’d died over and over. Where I’d watched them die over and over.
Alpha after alpha.
Animals to slaughter.
I had been one of them, but not anymore. Not since he’d chosen me. Dragged me out as a curiosity.
So instead of dying with them, I watched. I spoke so little, and gave him what I could see with this cursed grey-scale sight. He ran his tests on me too, at times, but he never killed me.
He was as lonely as he was cruel, and I sat day after day, listening to his ramblings, having a picture painted, slowly, of the true cruelty of the world we lived in.
His knowledge ran deep, from the most well known parts of the alpha-omega world, to the darkest secrets, the ones long buried and hidden by the power of the Institute.
In this dark cage in Anarchy, my sanity waned; the centre of my bond was besieged by an omega who was not an omega, and I remembered, at last, what the threat of the red eyes truly was.
50
Sigma
A lost designation marked by crimson eyes, Sigmas were destroyed by the institute for their aversion to princess bonds—or any manufactured bonds.
Sigmas were the rarest designation. They were more independent than alphas, often never bonding, and sharing similarities with omegas, such as heats and nesting. Many were wise women or men, or community protectors, with acute instincts when it came to right and wrong.
While Sigmas don’t always choose a pack, when they do they are fiercely protective. This presents with an unparalleled aura—one that takes time to control, and that comes out when confronted with extreme injustice.
This reaction is especially powerful when concerning their own pack, resulting in some societies in history banning them from bonding at all.
They are the most dangerous of all the designations for this reason.
SIN
One and a half years ago
I ran into a dead end.
The boiler room was small, and cramped, with not enough space for a brawl. Let alone one against a dozen alphas.
I’d been dropped in Anarchy a day or two ago, and somehow managed to survive by hiding. It had been enough time to work out the politics.
I knew a fresh dweller pack was supposed to claim me, that I’d been a gift for them. An offering to alphas I knew nothing of.
That I owed nothing to.
Before Anarchy, there had been white rooms and blurred memories.
They’d gathered up omegas for tests. Some were gold packs when they arrived—omegas who’d denied the injection. Others had been prevented from receiving them for the sake of tests.