“Bravo, Miss January,” the doctor beamed at her, “You must seize the day if you want to be a doctor. It’s an Alpha field and you will have to fight to succeed.” He looked over his other students. “It goes the same for you four,” he told the Beta students. “Primary gender isn’t enough. Being biologically male will only get you so far.”
“Doctor Moorehead,” a squat male student spoke up, “why don’t you teach Alphas anymore?”
The doctor gave a mischievous smile. “My daughter wants to be a neurosurgeon. If I don’t pave the way for her, who will?”
Even though the exchange was a pleasant one—fodder for a fucking Heartmark holiday movie script—I couldn’t help the blossoming irritation at the fact my therapy session was turning into a goddamn motivational lecture.
“Will the students observing today affect how long the procedure takes?” I gritted out the words through clenched teeth, failing to sound nonchalant. On top of that, my glands scented the air with a fresh fucking wave of annoyance.
“Ah, no, no, Mister Masters. Let’s get down to business.” He handed his notes to one of his actual nurse assistants and moved over to the patient table. “Please lay on your stomach. Did you tie the gown in back?” He peered at me, then nodded. “Yes, perfect.”
I got into position, incredibly aware that eight people were about to witness my naked ass, but I closed my eyes and fought back the embarrassment which really, reallywanted to morph into wild anger. As the doctor prepped, he kept teaching. The sound of his voice pushed into the serene haven I was trying to create in my mind. The snapping of his sterile gloves didn’t help either.
“Okay, students. Mister Masters has experienced rut cycles for about fourteen years now. As of this date, he is an unmarked, unmated Alpha. Surprisingly, though he’s currently one of our oldest unbound Alphas, healso is still fairly in control of his faculties. Can someone please describe the stages of Alpha ferality?” I felt something cold swipe down my right butt cheek. The alcohol wipe probably.
“Stage one is characterized by mild headaches and mood swings with an increased longevity of rut.” I couldn’t see, but I was pretty sure it was the freckled kid rattling off words again. “Stage two is typically a heightened version of stage one. This can mean migraines, even hemiplegic ones, and mood swings with higher highs and lower lows. It’s sometimes compared to bipolar disorder in Betas.”
“Yes, wonderful.” Doctor Moorehead cut him off. “Three cc’s lidocaine and bicarb, Terry.” I heard some shuffling, then felt the prick of the needle as he numbed my ass. “Can someone else advance us into stages three and four.”
A new voice answered, though it cracked with nerves. “Stage three usually means an Alpha begins to lose control of all their systems, not just mood. Neuro studies have shown activity spikes in the amygdala while activity drastically decreases in the frontal lobe. This creates a perfect storm of emotional dysregulation and lack of impulse control.” The voice paused.
“Continue, Mister Laurie. Terry, scalpel.” Doctor Moorehead pushed the blade to my cleansed, numb skin. I could feel the tug as he sliced, but the discomfort was minimal. “Mister Laurie, do you know the next stage?” The doctor asked after a few moments of silence.
“Stage four is point of no return really.” It wasn’t Mister Laurie, or the freckled know-it-all's voice. It was the Omega, speaking with more confidence this time. “It’s just like with any terminal illness. Without treatment, the symptoms spiral out of control. It’s why we have federal facilities to hold feral Alphas and Omegas. These people lose themselves. They become something baser, more primal. Statistically, after stage four, there’s a five percent recovery rate.”
“Which is why these treatment facilities are so important. Magda, are the pellets prepped?”
“Yes, Doctor Moorehead.”
More shuffling. The students crowded close enough now that I could see a few of them at the edges of my peripheral vision.
“That’s so cool,” one of the students breathed out.
“Yes, this new combo trocar cannula device really makes it a simple process.”
A bit of insertion pressure, some more tugging as the skin tape was applied. The numbing was already wearing off by the time the soft gauze was pressed over the new wound. Shortly after, Doctor Moorehead stood up and announced to the students that the easy part was sorted.
I really didn’t want to walk into the stripping chamber again. But I got up awkwardly, avoiding eye contact as I pulled the back of the gown into place to cover my ass... like everyone in the room hadn’t already seen it. Without being instructed, I moved over to the futuristic looking tank. It was empty at the moment, but that would change soon.
“Mister Masters, please remove the gown and step into the chamber. Nurse Terry will help you secure your regulator and mask.” Doctor Moorehead was already at the machine controls, inputting my personalized fluid parameters.
It took every ounce of resolve I could muster to untie the medical gown and hand it to the nurse. My fucking face burned with heat as I marched into the tank, not daring to look at the likely staring med students. It wasn’t my first time in the tank, but it was the first time with this big of a damn audience. I’d not been this fucking bent over a crowd since Oblivion Haze’s first real gig.
Nurse Terry secured the eye mask, tightening it at the back of my head painfully, then she checked the breathing apparatus was functioning. She depressed the middle button three times to satisfy the safety check, nodding when a consistent flood of oxygen streamed out. Before giving it to me, she put a disposable sanitary cover into place over the mouthpiece. I parted my lips so she could insert the regulator.
“Now remember, you just need breathe regularly. Try not to panic, you won’t drown. If you feel like you’re not getting enough oxygen, which can happen if someone is nervous with a high consumption rate, just press the center button for a nice, reassuring oxygen blast.” Shepatted my shoulder then exited, closing the leak proof entrance behind her and locking it into place.
Now that the door was closed, Doctor Moorehead leaned down to speak through a mic. “Mister Masters, you may find the stripping agents more intense this session. I was a bit concerned by your functional MRI last week. I want to make sure we keep your baseline steady. We also upped your blocking pellets by twenty-five percent today.”
All I could do was give him a thumbs up. The regulator was attached to the wall behind me, linking with the oxygen supply. I didn’t want to nod my head and possibly dislodge it and couldn’t very well talk. I watched him press the round, fat button to start filling the chamber. Even though I knew the solution would start rising, I still found myself fighting the survival urge to get the fuck out of the death trap.
The doctor straightened up again. He didn’t turn off the microphone as he began talking the kids through what was happening.
“The tank will take approximately four minutes to fill thanks to a mirror tank beneath us which sports a kind of back-and-forth plunger system. Once the carrier solution surrounds Mister Masters, we’ll engage his personalized medicinal mix. The purpose is to cleanse any adulterating scents he’s picked up since last session, calm his maximus and minora glands, and provide him with what amounts to a skin barrier preventing overactive secretion.”
“Sort of like antiperspirant?” A kid small glasses perched on a large nose queried.
“That’s stupid, Jared.” The freckled kid barked out, fighting a laugh.
