Chapter 12: "Yes"

329 guessed wrong about one thing. Two weeks later, he sees Yasha again. She takes his arm, all smiles, as if nothing had happened last time. But 329 wasn’t far off the mark in a different regard. It’s doubtful her reappearance has anything to do with interest in him.

Yasha openly, publicly knocks on his door and comes in. A few minutes later, she turns on some sort of device and sends it off. She turns on the radio, cranking up the music to the loudest. And she tells 329 not to go outside tonight. She gives him an apologetic smile, but doesn’t explain any of it. The second time is the same, likewise the third. She marches in openly and sneaks out silently, always in a hurry, as if going through a waypoint from one place to another. 329’s brain may have been put through surgery, but he’s not an idiot. By this point, he can tell what she’s doing.

She’s using him as cover.

Surveillance is everywhere. Its gaze falls on everyone, even someone important like Yasha. She’s probably involved in some sort of family feud or romantic entanglement, and needs a way to explain where she’s been. Hiding the important things under cover of the unimportant.

329, after losing his entertainment value, can still be recycled like trash into something useful.

Not long after, 329 loses his morning and afternoon jobs; his bosses fire him efficiently on the same day. That evening, his night job delivers an all-day work agreement to him, congrats to him. From now on, Yasha no longer needs to excuse his absences when she stops by. At last, she can abandon all pretenses.

That’s the sort of thing the all-powerful elites can do. If they want something done, they’ll get it done, 329 has no doubt. It’s unsurprising. Perfectly reasonable, even. It’s her initial generosity that surprises 329. Yes, when Yasha used various methods to excuse his absences, he was not only shocked, but also grateful. She could’ve come and gone as she wished, with no concern for whether an insignificant person would lose his job as a result. Work was harsh, but it was 329’s everything: trading work for salary, the salary that let him live outside, and not die or get sent to the Omega Welfare Center. In a world whose ways left him few choices, this was the greatest freedom he had.

And now, he’s unemployed.

According to his wristcom, 329 still has a legal job and income. At first he went to work on time, until the circumstances grew harder and harder to endure; even a shameless Exile like him started feeling as if he were sitting on pins and needles. After Yasha abandoned all pretenses, the higher-ups wouldn’t let him do any kind of work. They just stuck him in a corner, so that 329 had to endure an entire day of doing nothing, while the coworkers further away whispered to themselves, and the nearby receptionists looked on with contempt. Compared to being ignored or directly harmed, he found that he was even less able to endure this panopticon of corrosive attention.

So 329 returns to the dorm. It’s not like this job actually has anything to do with him. If Yasha wished it, he could just not show up at all and still be fine. And if Yasha grew sick of him, no amount of effort on his part would change a thing.

The sudden abundance of free time leaves 329 at a loss. Aside from work, there doesn’t seem much he can do. From his shredded memories, there still might be one or two acquaintances still alive, but the district he’s confined to is too far from his childhood place of residence; it’s unlikely he can run into them. Many restrictions are placed on Exiles; 329 can’t even buy a newspaper. Most of the time, he remains in the dorm, exercising until he’s exhausted and his brain squeezed empty.

I don’t have anything to complain about, 329 tells himself. I have food, a place to live, enough sleep, no one’s hurting me. What’s there to complain about? Compared to his previous life, it’s a massive improvement. He should be grateful.

And yet, now and then, 329 thinks of the promotional materials for the Omega Welfare Center. Providing the best food and care for lower-class omegas. The softest beds. Absolute safety.

Rejoice. He only needs to sleep with one person.

To be honest, it’s been a long time since 329 last slept with his possessor. Yasha’s too busy to fuck an omega she’s sick of fucking. She has no time for sex, no time for sleeping, no time to eat, no time to talk…for all of those, he should add, “with him.” Maybe, elsewhere, Yasha has found a new harbor in which to set anchor, a new challenge to her liking.

Several weeks later, Yasha at last takes him out again. This time, they don’t ride the motorcycle. She takes 329’s arm and brings him on an aimless stroll. On impulse, she goes into a clothing shop: it’s the place where 329 used to work mornings. In his coworkers’ eyes, he sees surprise and judgment. Impressive, he’s banging someone powerful! Only the powerful would dare hold an Exile’s hand in broad daylight. The manager hurries over to greet her. Yasha waves him aside, but his face remains all ingratiating smiles.

It’s once again a demonstration, Yasha taking over this store, ordering it cleared for her at a word, making 329 go try on clothes, demonstrating her ownership over him under the gaze of an audience. No, that makes too big a deal out of him, she’s just demonstrating…329 doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand Yasha’s world. He just needs to listen to instructions and be a good armpiece.

They bring out all the clothing that 329 had previously been forbidden to touch. Wherever Yasha casually points, someone hurriedly goes to unpack. 329 goes in and out of the changing room, showing Yasha outfit after outfit, as if performing a one-person fashion show. Pretty soon, a higher-ranking figure in the shop hierarchy shows up, bowing a couple dozen degrees deeper than even the manager, an endless torrent of praise pouring from his lips.

“We never expected such an honor to fall upon us! We had no forewarning that you would grace us with your presence; please forgive our inadequate reception!” he says with overawed reverence. “If you consider it worthy of yourself, we will immediately bring out this month’s limited edition…”

“It’s fun to take a gander sometimes,” Yasha interrupts him laughingly. “I’ve never been to a place like this where you have to try on clothing.”

Naturally, every article of clothing on her body is a product of advanced technology, tailor-made, perfectly fit. There was no need to try on any of it.

As the high-born young lady idly chats with her counterpart, her gaze remains glued to 329. Her eyes lick over 329’s face, slip down his neck, worm into his collar, until 329’s skin feels hot. He feels a twinge of helplessness; even as he wears three layers of clothing, Yasha’s gaze makes him feel naked. All the other guests are gone from the store, but the staff still remain. Their attention, or rather “their attention upon Yasha watching him”, makes 329 uncomfortable, as if a private occasion were being intruded upon by others.

The next outfit is a replica military uniform, modeled after the parade military uniforms from before the Disaster. In a roundabout way, it also looks a bit like the uniforms of the Consul’s personal guard. Yasha stands nearby, admiring him with clasped arms, her eyes alight. “It suits you. It’s gorgeous,” she praises. “What about the ceremonial sword? Shouldn’t there be a sword?”

Someone immediately answers yes. 329 returns to the changing room to get the sword. He finds it, but doesn’t know where to fasten it.

The sword is purely decorative, and decorative means complicated knots and clasps. 329 bends down and fumbles around for a long time without success. When he hears the changing room door opening, he assumes Yasha has gotten impatient and asked someone to come in to help him.

A pair of arms wraps around 329’s waist. Startled, he lets go of the sword; by the time it hits the ground, 329 has recognized those hands. Yasha’s arms circle his waist, her chin rests against his back, her hands slide downward.

“May I?” she says, palming between 329’s legs.

Her hand presses at 329’s crotch, yet her words are as earnest as someone asking for a dance at a ball. Her embrace makes 329’s heart thump wildly. Blood first rushes into his head, then diffuses across his face. Underneath that slender hand, 329 is starting to grow hard. May I ? Yes, yes, other than nod, what can he do?

The alpha unfastens his belt, the knots and clasps coming apart effortlessly under her hands. She doesn’t take off his clothes, just pushes them aside, the trousers sliding down until they catch on his military boots. In this tight space, they couple standing up, leaning against the thin wall. She turns his face to kiss him, at first decorously, then in a moment ravenously, as if she wants to suck off his tongue.

Breath and pulse thunders in 329’s ears. When Yasha enters him, his legs are shaking. The alpha grabs his pelvis, thrusting rapidly, slamming into 329 until he can’t keep his grip on the wall. Bit by bit, he slides down. In this position, all he can see are the snow-white wall and the wooden floorboards, all he can feel are the hands on his hips and the cock in his ass. To tell the truth, all alpha cocks feel basically the same. A vague unease rises within 329. He tries to turn his head, but keeps getting interrupted by the thrusting. His breathing quickens. He frees a hand and tentatively gropes behind him.

He touches Yasha’s waist. The girl starts to giggle, as if it tickles. The panic recedes with the laughter. The tinnitus in his ears grows distant. Yasha pulls out, then flips 329 over.

The door to the changing room is already shut. There’s only them in here, and the alpha’s gaze has grown hotter, more unabashed. They’re very close, their nosetips almost touching. The pupils have swelled in those green eyes, round as a cat’s at midnight, reflecting 329’s face. Her eyes are always like that when they make love, that astonishing admiration written in every striation, as intent as if she’s handling a precious treasure, as fervent as if she’s paying reverence to the image of a god. 329 thinks, who wouldn’t lose their head under such a gaze?

Yasha yanks down the trousers caught on 329’s boots, hauling one leg onto her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I can take your weight,” she laughs, panting. She closes in, nipping at 329’s chin. 329 can’t help but caress her back. Her body is smooth and exquisite; he wants to touch it, and he wants to withdraw his hand, so that he doesn’t scrape her tender skin with his calluses. He pulls back his hand, but Yasha grabs him, pressing his palm against her chest. Her breast is soft and pert, not enough to fill his hand; her heart beats rapidly under the soft mound. 329 cups it, as if cupping a high-spirited dove.

Everything happens fast, passionate and in a hurry. 329 thought he’d come quickly, but he hasn’t by the time Yasha pulls out. This narrow space sits inside a big store. The staff wait outside, their eyes on the door, their ears perked. 329 used to work here. He knows how many people are in here, even knows some of their names. They’re listening. They’re watching. They know what happened.

“I’m sorry, I did it outside again,” says Yasha.

The alpha straightens her clothes and whispers her apology softly into his ear, kisses his lips. For that, 329 is willing to let her fuck him here a second time. Yasha’s expression is one of sincere guilt, her kiss soft and light, turning 329’s heart soft and light too. “It’s fine,” he says, bending to straighten himself up. His knees are still weak. It feels like walking on clouds.

And then Yasha opens the door, and waves the staff over to wrap up everything 329 tried on. “A gift for you. You look amazing in them.” Smiling, she turns to look at him. “And the suit from earlier—please, you must wear it tonight and show me.”

329’s feet are back on the ground.

The door’s open. His clothes are still a mess; he and the room are still covered in the smell of sex. Some of the staff look down; others look at him. He doesn’t know whether the contempt in their gazes is worse, or the envy. 329 sees the coworker who’d helped him out once. He’s watching 329, his gaze ugly, as if enduring something revolting. Behind them, a store placard gleams under the lighting. Try on site, buy after you try.

329 licks his lips. His lip has toothprints on it.

Yasha makes a show of escorting him back, but doesn’t have him put on the suit after they go inside. “Send me pictures!” she says, her happy face disappearing inside the teleporter’s ring of light.

Belatedly, 329 feels weary.

He doesn’t exercise today; once he showers, he climbs into bed. He feels exhausted, but he can’t fall asleep, probably because he hasn’t actually physically exerted himself much. 329 doesn’t want to get out of bed, and he doesn’t want to stare blankly at the ceiling. He reaches a hand into his pants, touching himself, thinking of a supple body and a milk-scented kiss. It’s much easier to drift off once he comes.

A few hours later, 329 is shaken awake by a pair of hands. He opens his eyes, and sees Yasha perched at the head of the bed, looking as if she wants to say something. Right. He forgot to send pictures, 329 thinks muzzily.

“Do you still love me?” says Yasha.

329 wakes up.

He tries to determine the alpha’s expression. He wants to know what answer she’s looking for. Unfortunately, Yasha hasn’t turned on the light. Her face is unreadable in the dimness of night.

“Don’t think about what I want to hear.” Yasha covers his mouth, her voice pitched like she’s playing cute, almost like she’s pleading. “Please tell me the truth. Whatever you answer, I’ll take care of you.”

She’s terrifying, 329 thinks. No one understands him like she does.

Then again, besides this wondrous alpha, who would want to understand him? Turning his gaze inward, 329 isn’t too sure of the answer to her question, to tell the truth. Is it gratitude? Is it desire for survival and a comfortable environment? He’s restricted to such a small area, his life and memories surgically castrated. Under these circumstances, would he have “fallen in love” with anyone willing to reach out a helping hand? 329 doesn’t know. But to a beggar, a dollar is all the wealth he has, and for it to be taken away is to lose all he has—there’s not much love in a tattered soul like his, and he’s well and truly given away everything that he can give.

“Yes.” 329 lets the word fall into Yasha’s palm. She lets go. He says it again. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes after he says it, not wanting to see her expression. But Yasha comes over and kisses him. He tastes the curve of her lips.

“That’s great,” says Yasha. “That’s wonderful!”

She sounds so happy. 329 opens his eyes, and sees her smiling face inches away. She looks overjoyed. Even in the dark of night, her beautiful, smiling face lights up the room. Some kind of…some kind of impossible hope makes a muck of 329’s heart, to the point where he feels physical pain. Something’s crashing around in his head, like the steam in a kettle, determined to escape one way or another.

He says without thinking, “Don’t give me clothes.”

Yasha is taken aback, but quickly smiles and nods. “If you don’t like them, throw them away. They’re already yours. Do with them as you’d like,” she says, unruffled. “Good night!”

With that, she kisses 329, stands, and leaves once more.