I know how it starts. Pretty words, fake promises and false smiles, and before I know it, I’ll be wrapped up and handed over to an alpha pack with a pretty bow around my neck.
It might not be the harsh constraints of the Omega Compound, but it’s still a type of servitude.
The Center isn’t an option.
Then I remember the nasally words of the concierge.
There’s a place for people like you.
A camp. Under the bridge.
It wouldn’t hurt just to check it out. I wouldn’t have to stay.
Decision made, I grab my duffle and make my way through the streets to the edge of town, following the path of the river as I get closer.
A soft glow illuminates the darkness as I unsteadily pick my way through the unfamiliar ground, and a hum of voices help direct me as I stumble down an embankment.
Blinking, I take in the dozens of shapes scattered in front of me. Some are real tents, a little battered but standing proudly. Dotted in between are lines of thin rope, holding blankets, bedsheets, various materials scrounged together to create makeshift sleeping areas.
Flickers of firelight appear in between, shadows of people moving between them with the indistinct buzz of conversation and the occasional raised voice.
It’s like a really weird, patchwork nest.
Swallowing, I edge a little closer, until I reach the first line of tents.
Picking my way in between, I keep my head down as I walk through, scanning for a potential spot to lay my head down.
The people are mixed. Older, younger, there’s no one distinct type, but the one thing they all have in common are their faces.
Weathered, haggard, tired.
They all look broken.
I stumble back as a woman sways into me, her face all too familiar in its slackness.
“’Got a light?” she mumbles, and I shake my head as I back away, my stomach churning.
She moves to follow me, but an arm drops down between us.
“Back off, Sandra,” a low voice orders. “She ain’t got what you want.”
The woman stares at us, before she spins, lilting to the side as she wanders away.
“Damn space addicts,” the woman mutters. “You okay, hun?”
She’s older, beta, with braided gray hair wrapped up in a bun and a wiry frame.
“Thanks,” I say, and she nods.
“Plenty of them around, so be careful. First time?”
When I nod, she cocks her head to the side.
“Best get you sorted out, then. I got a spare blanket you can have.”
She clicks her fingers as she moves away. “Come on, gal. No use loitering there.”
Hastily stepping over the pegs nailed into the ground, I follow the woman to a small but tidy area. Several sheets hang over the lines above us, and I catch a glimpse of a sleeping bag and what looks like an oil lamp before she tugs a sheet over it.
