Cara's been here three years. Still young and pretty enough, she'll probably get claimed soon. Some Alpha will come through on one of Harmony's carefully orchestrated "meet and greet" events, and she'll go home with them. Whether she wants to or not.
Trying not to think about that, I start counting telephone poles, trying to memorize the shape of mountains in the distance and the way the peaks cut sharp against the blue sky. I try to capture something,anything, to hold onto when we're back inside those walls.
The fairgrounds materialize ahead of us nearly thirty minutes later, sprawling across acres of land. There’s so much to see that it’s almost overwhelming, parking lots full of trucks and trailers, vendor stalls with bright striped awnings, and food that actually smells like food instead of the nutritionally balanced paste Harmony serves three times a day. And people. So many people, moving freely, laughing, and living without wardens monitoring their every breath.
Living like they have choices.
The buses pull to a stop away from the main entrance as Alpha Graves stands, smoothing her blazer with both hands. "Groups of five. Stay together. Your handler has a radio. If anyone needs anything, you ask them first. Understood?"
A chorus of "yes, ma'am" rises from the Omegas.
We file off the bus in our assigned groups. I end up with Cara, two quiet Omegas I don't know well, and our group leader and warden, Alpha Marcus. He's one of the neutered Alphas Harmony employs specifically for Omega supervision. No scent, no threat, just blank professionalism and a radio clipped to his belt.
The fairgrounds swallow us whole the moment we step past the entrance gates.
Colors assault my eyes. Sounds batter my ears. The smell of fried food and livestock and earth and sweat creates a cocktail so intense, my vision swims, my body screaming for a bit of peace. I press closer to Cara without meaning to, overwhelmed by the sheer muchness of everything. My senses haven't processed this much stimulation in years.
"This way." Alpha Marcus gestures toward the grandstands. "We have reserved seating."
Of course we do. They can't risk us mingling with the general population and having some Alpha decide to claim one of us without the proper paperwork and payment to Harmony House.
We navigate through the crowd in a practiced formation, people glancing at us, before turning away as if they weren’t caught staring. They can tell what we are. The way we move in our tight cluster, the way our wardens flank us, the slight wrongness of unmated Omegas without full scents. We might as well wear signs.Property of the State. Handle with Care.
Most people avert their eyes. Guilt, maybe, or discomfort with the system they benefit from but prefer not to examine too closely. A few stare openly, assessing and evaluating us the same way they'd evaluate livestock at auction.
Ironic for where we are.
Alpha Marcus points to a row, the couple of us filing in and taking our seats without saying a word, though the vast expansion of horses, the staging area, and the red dirt stretching out in an oval is breathtaking.
"They're beautiful," Cara whispers beside me, her voice soft with wonder.
She's right. The horses move with a kind of freedom I've only imagined, powerful muscles rippling beneath their glossy coats as they shift and turn. They toss their heads and dance sideways, barely contained energy straining against their training. When the riders mount up, settling into their saddles with practiced ease, the horses don't lose that wild edge.
I want that. The choice to cooperate instead of the forced compliance that fills my days.
The first race starts with a bell that rings clear across the fairgrounds. Hooves thunder against packed earth, sending up clouds of red dust as the crowd roars, the excitement settling into my bones. Even as overstimulating as it is, this is something real. This must be what it’s like to feel alive, to feelfree.This is everything Harmony House isn't.
Race follows race. Alpha Marcus keeps checking his watch and his radio, his expression never changing from that blank professionalism. The other Omegas chatter excitedly about the horses, the colors of the jockeys' silks, and the way they lean forward over the horses' necks. I soak it in silently, storing every detail. Who knows when I'll see the outside world again? It could be months or years. It could be never, if no one ever claims me.
Thirty-one is old for an Omega on the market. Most get claimed young, in their early twenties when they're still fresh and moldable. I've watched younger Omegas come and go, chosen by Alphas who want youth and inexperience.Harmonykeeps me around because I'm useful to them. The perfect example of their program's success. But useful isn't the same as wanted.
Halfway through the afternoon, I can’t sit still anymore. I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the need to use the bathroom. But we've been here for hours, and the need grows urgent enough that I can't focus on the next race.
"Alpha Marcus?" My voice comes out quieter than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "I need to use the restroom."
He checks his watch, his mouth tightening with obvious irritation. "Can it wait? The next race starts in ten minutes."
"I don't think so."
He sighs, the sound heavy with the inconvenience of it all. "Fine. Come on." He twists around, signaling to one of the other wardens to watch over our group before he yanks me to my feet and gestures for me to follow him.
I keep my head bowed and my hands clasped in front of me, knowing that any sort of eye contact with those around us could get me in trouble. I just keep my gaze firmly planted on the back of Alpha Marcus’ shoes, stopping when he does and moving when he continues. By the time we get to the bathroom, I don’t wait for pleasantries and dash inside for relief.
The bathroom is blessedly empty when I push through the door. I take care of business quickly, then pause at the sink. The mirror shows me a stranger. An Omega in a simple green dress, approved by Harmony's wardrobe department. Hair pulled back in a neat braid. Face scrubbed clean of makeup. I look like exactly what they've made me. Palatable. Harmless. Acceptable.
Thirty-one years old and I look like a doll on a shelf. Perfect and lifeless.
I turn on the water and let it run cold over my wrists. The shock helps ground me, pulling me back into my body. Four more hours until we load back onto the buses. Four hours to pretend this taste of freedom is enough. Four hours before I go back to waiting for an Alpha who may never come, trapped in a system that says I'm too incompetent to exist on my own.
