Chapter 5

If you look closely, you can spot one particular scar on 329’s abdomen, not particularly obtrusive, hidden among a wide variety of other scars. But the shrapnel that left the scar had nearly damaged his spine and left him paralyzed.

At least, a normal person would have been paralyzed by such an injury. The meditech devices of the upper classes could quickly heal this kind of puncture without even leaving a scar. As for 329, if he’d actually taken a hit on the spinal column, he certainly wouldn’t have managed to hang on to life until now. He’s fortunate that the shrapnel had gone aslant, but in the eyes of most, it would have been better to be hit in the spine.

The shrapnel had pierced 329’s reproductive system, preventing him from being marked or bearing children.

He doesn’t remember when he got this scar, but he does remember the grief-stricken faces that had surrounded him when he awoke. The doctor told 329 with heavy solemnity that he would never become an alpha’s omega, never become a mother. Some wept; others promised that they’d keep 329’s secret for him. The atmosphere in the room had been oppressive, making 329 feel rather awkward. He felt bad for celebrating the fact that his arms and legs had remained intact amid all the dismal mourning.

What’s the point? Being marked or bearing children wouldn’t change anything. Even the omega who’d married the most powerful alpha alive, and given birth to the future most powerful alpha alive, remains voiceless and faceless to the world. The Consul only brings his ‘Crown Prince’ onstage.

329 thinks it’s pretty great that he doesn’t need contraception. Abortion can’t be good for your health.

Anyway, one load of semen directly inside him isn’t going to affect him any. The alpha gave him shots, which completely removes the need to keep condoms with him. It’s a pity he can’t resell them to the black market brothels. They don’t like trouble; they steer clear of Exiles.

Time passes. Gradually, the temperature drops.

The discomfort starts in the morning for 329, headache, drowsiness. For the past few days, the factory where he works nights has gone into overtime to fulfill a shipment. He’s been staying up for days in a row, and combined with the cooling weather, he’s probably caught himself a cold. He mechanically stocks merchandise, his thoughts sluggish, as if sleepwalking. An alpha grabs his ass under the pretense of getting something, and he doesn’t even react. His coworker yells at the pervert. It’s like waking from a dream; 329 thanks his coworker, who only gives him a disdainful look and turns away. It seems he simply doesn’t like letting this sort of thing pass, rather than having any desire to help an Exile.

The minority of people treat Exiles like their stress outlets; of the rest, most either regard them as roadside garbage, or a plague. To be ignored or abused is 329’s daily bread and butter. At this point, he doesn’t bother wondering where the hatred comes from.

329 doesn’t eat lunch, instead using his noon break to take a nap. He’s starving in the afternoon, but a lot more alert. The trade-off is worthwhile; he’s seen more than one sleep-deprived worker get caught in the machines. Sometimes they survived, but for 329, losing an arm and the money for treating the aforementioned is more than enough to land him a one-way ticket to the Omega Welfare Center.

In the evening, he heads for his storage locker, and discovers it’s been pried open. The compressed biscuits and shoes inside have disappeared without a trace. When he goes to return his work shoes, the manager tells him that she’ll lend him a pair if he sucks her cock. 329 tells her never mind and walks home barefoot.

At least he still has his socks, even if there’s holes in them. And since he always walks to and from work, he knows which roads are in decent condition. He can get some food first, then stop by the landfill on the way to see if they have any wearable shoes.

And then, he realizes that he’s not going to have night shift.

It’s the alley going to the grocery store. 329, standing at one end, spots Yasha standing at the other. She’s wearing a windbreaker. She waves at him, smiling. 329 stops, and the girl jogs over to him.

“Good evening!” she says, followed by, “You must be hungry. Let’s go eat!”

She names a destination, several hours’ walk away.

“It’s pretty far…” 329 says hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a ride,” says Yasha.

He’s off his game, 329 thinks to himself. Of course she couldn’t have walked all the way here. She presses her key. The air ripples, and a motorcycle appears in the alley, stopping at Yasha’s side.

It doesn’t look at all the sort of ride for a petite young girl. It’s huge, sharp-edged, vicious, gleaming with metallic coldness, hovering just above the ground. Yasha reaches out a hand for it, and the motorcycle crouches flat, tilting forward, like a horse for its rider. Yasha climbs on and tosses a button-like object to 329. Dazed, 329 grabs it. Yasha demonstrates by clipping the other “button” to her left ear; a helmet appears over her head. 329 follows her example. The helmet that appears is light as paper, quite form-fitting. He climbs onto the motorcycle, sitting behind Yasha, but can’t find anywhere to hold onto.

“You can hold onto my waist,” Yasha advises him warmly.

Very carefully, 329 does so. There’s silk ribbons on her clothes; he can’t avoid them no matter how careful he is. The grime on 329 rubs off onto Yasha’s expensive attire. She doesn’t notice, but 329 can’t help but tense when he does.

“I may not get to fly a real plane, but at least I can ride this.” Yasha adds, “I modded it myself!”

She hasn’t turned on the ignition yet, as if waiting for something. 329 pauses, realizes, then says, “That’s really cool.”

Yasha laughs happily. With a press of her foot, the motorcycle shoots forward.

329’s arms wrap around her waist. He’s worried he’ll pull her out of her seat, but his concern is quickly proven unnecessary. Both of them remain steadily seated; this vehicle probably has some kind of safety tech. The motorcycle hovers a few meters above the ground, accelerating rapidly, like an arrow leaving the bow. And Yasha is a motorist with little restraint, treating the alley like a racetrack.

Wall after wall rushes toward them, suddenly whirling aside moments away from their faces. They scrape corners around every kind of architecture, weave through every kind of narrow passage. The alpha is showing off her driving technique. It’s enough to make most people’s hearts leap into their throats, and 329’s heart is racing too. Something wants to burst out of his throat, an exhale, a shout, a heart.

The motorcycle helmet protects his head, allowing him to open his eyes against the wind. The familiar dirty alley is dashed away behind him; everything around them resembles theater curtains being whisked away at high speed, a blur of color and lines. They turn, wheel, struggle free from the ground. Stagnant air turns to wild wind, cold as it whips past, but lifting his spirit on its wings. Going too fast, everything is left behind, like gravity, like all the plodding muddle in his head. They’re thrown aside, and 329 is suspended in the air, like he’s flying.

Even with a destination this far away, at their speeds, the journey is soon over. The motorcycle brakes, and 329 returns to earth. Yasha jumps down first. Seeing him still dazed in the backseat, she takes off her glove dashingly and offers him a hand. She exclaims the moment she touches his skin. Only now does 329 realize his exposed skin is so cold it’s numb.

“I should’ve brought you a jacket,” Yasha says, vexed.

329 is now dismounted, feet on the ground, acutely aware of the weight of his body. His senses having returned from the earlier sojourn of his thoughts. Once again, he’s hungry. He has enough wits about him now to notice where they are. A high-class restaurant, with two waitstaff standing outside the door.

“Exiles aren’t allowed,” 329 says.

“Who would care?” says Yasha dismissively, pulling him in.

The waitstaff open the door for them and bow at ninety degree angles. Maybe there really isn’t anyone who would care, so long as 329 is brought in by someone like Yasha. The floorboards are as polished as a mirror, yet not slippery to walk on. The pattern on the floor morphs slowly.

329 looks down, first at Yasha’s brogued oxfords, then at his socks. His toes stick out from the holes. He probably looks like a monkey on a princess’s leash. If Yasha wants to show him off to guests, she should at least give him a pair of shoes.

Unless she brought him here to be consumed.