The biodome’s artificial sky glowed a soft peach, casting long, playful shadows across the moss-covered walkways, where verdant greenery intertwined with vibrant hues.
A sleek chrome bee, a marvel of engineering, darted past, its tiny servos whirring with the precision of a well-oiled machine, only to vanish into a cluster of genetically engineered lavender swaying gently in the simulated breeze.
Inside the opulent hotel meeting room, Albert Rose stood by a grand floor-to-ceiling window, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the bustling promenade below, where clusters of reporters gathered like fruit flies drawn to nectar.
Their anticipation buzzed in the air, their beta pheromones barely detectable, but their eagerness palpable, a tension created by the looming fallout of recent events.
“Cut the breeze; they are getting agitated.” Albert ordered, the person who was doing their shift today did not account for this circus and had let fresh air in.”
Kieran adjusted his cuff beside him, the smoke-gray strands of his hair catching the light like quicksilver.
“The press smells blood.” he murmured, his voice dripping with a flat, heavy tone.
“Henry’s little stunt guaranteed front-page hysteria.”
Albert was very disappointed, he didn’t turn; his knuckles whitened against the window’s reinforced glass, the only sign of the fury simmering beneath his impeccably tailored suit.
His poor daughter.
“Thwaites, will regret breathing the same air as her,” he spat, his words clipped and precise, each syllable carefully controlled to mask the volcanic rage boiling within.
Outside, a drone buzzed by, its humming wings projecting holographic vines that twisted and curled around antique lampposts, adding an almost surreal beauty to the tense atmosphere.
The elevator chimed softly, its polished metallic doors sliding open to reveal Henry Thwaites, a tall man in a tailored navy suit that clung to his athletic frame.
A crisp white shirt peeked from beneath a perfectly knotted burgundy tie, contrasting sharply with his carefully styled dark hair.
He stepped out, flanked by a beta journalist whose sharp eyes glittered beneath the fluorescent lights, a recording pendant dangling from his neck like a vulture waiting for a kill.
“Lord Rose,” Henry began, forcing a smile that didn’t even reach his eyes.
He sized the man up, he looked too young to be Cait’s father.
Omegan’s were like that those, they almost had this alien like perfection to him.
The man was handsome, not in the rugged way that others were; like whoever the fuck was Cait’s ex-daddy was.
He was more of a pretty boy and it pissed him off.
Everything down to the posture of the men in this room screamed a presumed superiority.
He calmed himself.
He was here to cash out.
Albert turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over Henry like a surgeon assessing a malignant tumour, every detail about him noted and calculated.
He looked at the man, with chin-length tussled brown hair, brown eyes, unshaven and unbathed for days, apparently.
He wore an old-fashioned suit that did not even fit him correctly.
Albert’s eyes narrowed.
Did he look like this because he was cheap, or because of poverty?
From what his men briefed him upon, the man wasn’t exactly a spendthrift.
Neighbours had come out shortly after Henry had been ‘ushered’ out, to give testimony about him.
He looked healthy; however, his daughter was so underweight.
There was no reason for that.
They sent plenty down to process and feed the people, there should be excess.
‘What happened to all the resources they sent in?
They did regular census sweeps through the Traverse.
Every household was accounted for.
“Mr. Thwaites.” Albert’s tone was harsh.
“Mister?” Albert said, looking at the reporter.
“Mr. Dupree, The Traverse Universe. Features.” The journalist introduced himself.
“A fine publication. I’m assured.” Kieran’s lip curled almost imperceptibly into a sneer.
“We’re here to set the record straight for Cait,” Kieran stated, his voice a granite wall ignoring Henry entirely.
“Not your publicity tour.” The reporter’s stylus hovered over his tablet, poised like a predator ready to capture every syllable, eager for the scoop of a lifetime.
Henry flushed, shifting his weight awkwardly.
“She’s my concern too,”
“Your concern,” Albert interrupted, his voice dangerously soft, like a whisper of a storm on the horizon, “ended when you left her when she was deathly ill.” The air crackled with tension.
A chrome squirrel paused on the windowsill, its sensors blinking red, seemingly drawn into the heated exchange.
Kieran stepped forward, positioning himself like a sentinel, staring Henry down.
“We’re here to discuss Cait’s discovery, her illness, and her future. Not your redemption arc.” The reporter’s stylus flew across his tablet, capturing the moment with feverish intensity.
Outside, the biodome’s climate mimicked Provence at dusk, an almost surreal tableau of engineered beauty.
Holographic fireflies flitted through the meticulously crafted olive trees lining the promenade, their soft light glinting off the polished chrome of automated trams that glided silently past patisseries selling lab-grown strawberry macarons.
The scent of warm earth mingled with synthetic rosemary, thick and rich in the air, overshadowed only by the faint ozone of the dome’s atmospheric processors.
Henry flinched as Albert closed the distance between them, his polished Oxfords making no sound on the moss-embedded quartz floor.
“You have exploited her vulnerability, threatened to smear her reputation with lies,” Albert stated, each word surgical, precise, like a scalpel cutting away the cancerous lies.
“You for money..” Albert’ voice almost rumbled into a growl.
” And you for clicks.
For relevance.
Neither of you is to breathe her name again.”
Kieran’s gaze flicked to the reporter, a glimmer of disdain in his eyes.
“Record this: Henry Thwaites is barred from all ABO facilities. Permanently.”
Henry’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
The reporter paled, his stylus trembling in his grip.
A drone buzzed overhead, projecting a shimmering advertisement for a fashion line across the twisting ceiling vines, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere.
Albert turned back to the window, his reflection a cold mask against the twilight, an impenetrable facade hiding the storm within.
“Leave, refund the man for his story, forget it…” he commanded, his voice icy and devoid of emotion, still not looking at Henry and the journalist.
“Before I reconsider letting you walk out.”
The reporter cleared his throat, stepping forward, her demeanor steady despite the tension.
“Lord Rose, with respect,freedom of expression is a bedrock principle. Threats aren’t appreciated.”
Henry’s lips curled into a smirk, recovering his composure like a predator playing at being innocuous.
“Exactly. Do you, Megs, think you can suppress Betas forever? I have the right to tell my story about the minx called the Silver Rose.”
“Minx!” Albert slammed both palms onto the quartz table beside him; the impact reverberated like a gunshot, and chrome squirrels scattered in startled chaos.
“You cry oppression,” he hissed, leaning closer, his voice low enough to be a secret, “while slinging slurs with that foul tongue. Tell me, beta,who powers your home? Who grows your food, harvests it, purifies the air you breathe?”
The reporter lifted his chin defiantly, a spark of determination igniting his gaze.
“Your kind monopolizes the growing spaces. We’ve spent decades turning those supplies into materials to reclaim the wastelands, yet Betas still suffocate in biodomes. Why?” His tone dripped with insinuation, a thin veil of conspiracy woven into every carefully chosen word.
Albert’s knuckles whitened further, the tension palpable.
He couldn’t voice the truth: that five centuries ago, during the catastrophic clathrate methane releases, an ancient virus had been unleashed from deep within the thawing permafrost,a highly infectious pathogen that rewrote their DNA masquerading as a harmless fever.
The ensuing deaths weren’t due to the blamed carbon monoxide poisoning from the built-up concentrations in the air.
They resulted from a deadly low pheromone saturation affecting those who lived in scattered suburbs, farms, single-family homes, and even some apartments.
Those unfortunate souls luckily noticed that the illness never spread in areas where humans congregated en masse,like homeless shelters, hospitals, and emergency centers, where survival depended upon community.
It had all started with an alien race’s lost vain wish to survive through them, an insidious whisper of the past haunting the present.
“Lord Rose,” Henry began, his words laced with forced cheerfulness, though the smile he wore failed to reach his steely gray eyes.
Albert turned slowly, his presence a study in controlled intensity.
He wore a well-fitted charcoal blazer over a simple black turtleneck, exuding an air of understated power.
His gaze swept over Henry with the precision of a surgeon assessing a malignant growth, and the subtle tightening of Kieran’s jaw, clad in a rugged leather jacket, suggested tension simmered just below the surface.
Kieran’s lip curled almost imperceptibly.
“We’re here for Caitriona Rose,” Kieran asserted, his voice steady, cutting through the air like a knife.
He purposefully ignored Henry, the disdain in his demeanor palpable.
“Not your publicity tour.”
The journalist’s stylus danced delicately above his tablet, poised to capture every syllable that slipped through the air.
Henry flushed, the color rising to his cheeks as he shifted his weight, the fabric of his trousers rustling softly in the silence.
“She’s my concern too,” he attempted to interject, but Albert interrupted, his voice dangerously soft, almost menacing.
“Your concern,” Albert replied, his tone cool and clipped, “ended with her so sick that she was found unconscious in an elevator after working sixteen-hour days for two months.” The words hung heavy in the charged atmosphere, and for a moment, time itself seemed to pause.
A squirrel perched on the windowsill.
Kieran stepped forward, a subtle shift that effectively blocked Henry’s retreat toward the elevator, his stance radiating a fierce protective energy.
“We’re here to discuss Cait’s discovery, her past, her illness, and her future. This isn’t about your redemption arc or your fifteen minutes of fame. This is about talking about the hard-working woman who lived among you and worked harder than you,” he declared, his voice steady.
The reporter’s stylus flew across his tablet, capturing the electric tension in the air, each stroke a testament to the rising conflict.
Henry flinched as Albert closed the distance between them, his polished Oxfords making barely a whisper against the moss-embedded quartz floor.
It was his first time seeing this man in person; he could see Cait’s genetics in the man.
Except for the health aspect, Cait was sallow and pale, and Lord Rose was tan and a beacon of health, who was hurtling towards him angrily.
“You exploited her vulnerability,” Albert stated, his voice sharp and precise, each word feeling like a scalpel cutting through the veneer of civility.
“For clicks. For relevance. Don’t you dare breathe her name again.”
Kieran’s gaze darted back to the reporter, a steely glint in his eyes.
“Record this: Henry Thwaites is barred from all ABO facilities. Permanently.” Henry’s mouth opened in shock, but no sound emerged, the air thick with tension.
The reporter paled, his stylus trembling in his hand.
A drone buzzed overhead, projecting a shimmering advertisement for a high-end fashion line across the sprawling ceiling vines, momentarily distracting from the confrontation below.
Albert turned his back, focusing intently on the swirling colors outside the window, his reflection a cold, unyielding mask against the encroaching twilight.
“Leave,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion as he refused to meet Henry’s gaze.
“Before I reconsider letting you walk out of here unharmed.”
The reporter cleared his throat softly, stepping cautiously forward.
“Lord Rose, with all due respect, freedom of expression is a bedrock principle of our society. Threats aren’t appreciated,” he asserted, his voice steadier than he felt.
Henry smirked, the fire of confidence rekindling within him as he regained his composure.
“Exactly. Do you, Megs, really believe you can suppress Betas forever? I have every right to tell my story about the minx called the Silver Rose.”
Albert slammed both palms onto the quartz table beside him; the impact echoed like a gunshot.
Chrome squirrels scattered.
“You cry oppression,” he hissed, “while slinging slurs with that foul tongue. Tell me, beta. Who powers your home? Who grows your food, harvests it, purifies the air you breathe?”
The reporter lifted his chin.
“Your kind monopolizes the growing spaces. We’ve spent decades turning those supplies into materials to reclaim territory, yet Betas still suffocate in biodomes. Why?” His tone dripped with insinuation,a conspiracy woven into every word.
Albert’s knuckles whitened.
He couldn’t voice the truth: that several centuries ago, during the clathrate methane releases, an ancient virus was released from deep within the thawing permafrost.
It started out with a fever; then the deaths.
They weren’t from carbon monoxide poisoning from the built-up concentrations in the air, but low pheromone saturation in spread-out suburbs, farms, single-family houses, and some apartments.
They noticed it was never where the humans congregated en masse by sheer necessity, homeless shelters, hospitals, and emergency shelters, finally.
The first generation of Betas gave birth to Alphas and Omegas; they actually emerged in the makeshift tunnels they built underground.
As some families realized their children were different, they cast them out of the shelter when they reached adulthood.
The alphas’ and omegas’ rutting behaviors were too intense for early infected humans to understand or tolerate.
The primal need to mate, to collect the best biological matter to create the progeny, the new genes demanded.
Those humans survived alone, realizing their new nature after they didn’t die.
They went on to uncover the realities of the strange genetic virus that transformed them into a new hybrid human species.
Everything above ground had changed, too.
Animals and plant life had reacted, mutated, and adapted, and so had they.
They had powers.
They also learned through experimentation that the above-ground was not a place Betas could live.
The wind would blow their pheromones away before they could reabsorb each other’s pheromones.
It was worse than an ant’s death march; in seventy-two to ninety-six hours, they died.
It was awful.
Imagine showing your parents the new world and leaving your beta siblings orphans?
It was a source of profound resentment that churned into the current paradigm.
They could not tell the Betas they were stuck below or in domes with an alpha protector.
Owen and several other Alphas were on standby.
And they left the story to avoid mass panic.
So the air was poisonous, and they were freaks, genetic freaks.
Kieran stepped between them, his voice icy silk.
“Your ‘story’ is defamation. Publish one syllable about Cait Rose, and we’ll bury you in litigation until your grandchildren beg for mercy.” He didn’t blink.
Outside, holographic fireflies dissolved into the artificial dusk.
Henry opened his mouth, but the reporter grabbed his arm, his eyes wide.
He’d seen the shift in Albert,the predatory stillness of a man who’d commanded fleets.
“We’re done here,” Kieran finished, gesturing to the elevator.
Its doors slid open, a silent threat.
The chrome squirrel on the windowsill whirred, its lenses capturing Henry’s retreat as he stumbled backward, his bravado crumbling.
Henry spat on the mossy floor.
“Sixty thousand credits just for showing up,” h Timee sneered, jabbing a finger at Albert.
“And Traverse offered me a ‘billion’ and a biomehome for the ‘real’ footage, her nude and lewd body on screen. Six years in prison? Worth it to watch you squirm, Your Royal ‘Omie’ Highness.”
The reporter paled, edging toward the exit.
“I won’t release the explicit material,” she stammered, “but a tasteful shot of her in that sexy outfit? That’s news and the story he told me.”
Albert slammed his fist onto the quartz table.
A crack spiderwebbed across its surface.
“Try it,” he breathed.
“I’ll peel the skin from your bones.”
The reporter fled, his shoes clicking on quartz.
Kieran caught his wrist in the elevator.
“Ethics,” he hissed, leaning close.
“Or do you get off on destroying lives?” he yanked free, lip curled.
“Whatever, Megboy. Can’t get a Beta Whore to breed ya?” His voice dripped venom.
“Why don’t you just go fuck yourself instead, ‘Prince’?”
Kieran froze, fists clenched.
Every instinct screamed to break his nose,but the streaming pendant blinked red on his collar.
Helpless.
He watched him vanish into the chrome-plated car, the doors sealing with a soft hiss.
Silence swallowed the atrium.
Albert stared at the crack in the table, his reflection fractured.
“We leak Thwaites’ financials, test scores, infidelities, every embarrassing thing in return,” he said, voice raw.
“Every debt, every bribe. Let the Betas tear him apart.”
Kieran nodded, smoothing his suit.
Outside, the dome’s sky deepened to bruised purple.
Holographic vines trembled as a tram rumbled past.
Somewhere in the medical wing, Cait slept,unaware of the vipers circling her name.
Kieran’s knuckles whitened.
He’d find the reporter’s editor.
Tonight.
And remind them what happened to those who hunted Roses.
The chrome squirrel whirred, its lenses blinking red.
Outside the biodome hotel’s shimmering entrance, Henry Thwaites stumbled onto the promenade.
Engineered lavender choked the air, thick and cloying under the dome’s false twilight.
Holographic fireflies flickered erratically above chrome benches where beta couples whispered, oblivious.
He fumbled for his comm, fingers slick with sweat.
Behind him, the hotel’s doors hissed open.
Albert Rose emerged, a silver-bladed shadow against the atrium’s golden light.
His footsteps were silent on the moss-embedded quartz.
“Thwaites.” The name was a death sentence.
Henry spun, backing into a cluster of engineered olive trees.
Their synthetic leaves brushed his neck like cold fingers.
Albert closed the distance, ice-gray eyes pinning him.
“Release that footage,” he breathed, voice low, venomous, “and I will mount your head on a pike outside her hospital window. Believe me,no one will dare to punish me.”
Henry laughed, shrill and desperate.
“Big words for a pampered Omie King!” He gestured wildly toward the tube station entrance across the promenade,a utilitarian archway leading underground, guarded by beta security drones.
“You’d have to crawl down into the ‘tube’ to do it, Your Highness. Bet the recycled air chokes your pretty lungs.” Albert’s jaw tightened.
A muscle pulsed beneath his cheekbone.
Henry spat on the moss, turned, and bolted toward the tube stairs.
”’
He didn’t make it far.
A shadow loomed from behind a holographic patisserie kiosk,Benjamin Agneau, Cait’s counterfeit father, his gaunt frame draped in frayed beta work clothes, eyes hollow and filled with venom.
Brant, his bulky enforcer, hovered beside him, meaty hands already poised in tight fists.
“Henry,” Ben rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper laced with disdain.
“Where’s my research? The camera’s at your old place.”
Henry skidded to a halt, his chest heaving with exertion and indignation.
“That’s your research?” he sneered, an edge of disgust slicing through his words.
“You mean those creepy-ass surveillance files? Watching your own daughter fuck? You’re sick, old man.”
Ben’s expression contorted with rage and desperation, twisting like a knife in the dark.
“She’s not my blood. And her whore mother’s dead. So what?”
Brant inched closer, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like thunder in the hollow atmosphere.
“Saw your performance in the older files, Henry. Pathetic. Tell me,” His lip curled in derision.
“Did you ever even make that little Megslut come? Or did she fake it ’cause you couldn’t find her clit with both hands?”
Without warning, Henry lunged forward.
A wild swing connected with Brant’s jaw,more shock than actual pain.
Brant laughed, a low and throaty sound that sent chills down Henry’s spine, before driving his fist deep into Henry’s gut.
Air exploded from Henry’s lungs in a desperate gasp as he crumpled, collapsing onto the synthetic moss beneath him, echoes of desperate cries intermingling with the muted chaos around them.
A scattering of beta onlookers dispersed, their eyes wide with fear.
Two more men emerged from the shadows like wolves, Ben’s hired muscle, their faces obscured, hard and merciless.
They seized Henry by his arms, lifting him effortlessly as his feet dragged.
“No! Let go!” Henry pleaded, but Brant silenced him with a brutal elbow to the ribs, a sharp crack that echoed in his ears.
“Quiet, maggot.” Relentlessly, they pulled him toward a service alley, the thrumming hum of drone patrols receding into the lavender-hued dusk.
Ben shoved open a rust-streaked door marked ‘Maintenance’, revealing dank air that swirled thick with mildew and ozone, swallowing them whole.
Concrete steps descended into near darkness, a flickering glow of emergency strips struggling to pierce the gloom.
Henry gagged on the pungent stench,urine, stale sweat, and something metallic that clawed at the back of his throat.
“You fucked up,” Ben hissed, shoving Henry forward mercilessly.
A swift kick from Brant sent Henry crashing onto the grimy steps, the rough concrete scraping his palms raw as he tried to steady himself.
“Now the whole dome knows she’s alive. But maybe…” Ben’s smile was a vicious slash cutting through the dim light.
“…we can still make use of you.”
The service elevator at the bottom resembled a rusting cage, rattling ominously, its peeling paint revealing raw metal beneath.
Brant slammed the controls with impatience.
As the doors creaked shut, Henry scrambled back, panic rising in his chest.
“What do you want? Credits? I’ve got,” A swift backhand from Ben cut him off, blood spilling hot and metallic from a cut on Henry’s lip.
“We want ‘them dead’,” Ben spat, venom lacing every word.
“Albert Rose. You’re going to assassinate that fucker.” The air thickened as Brant produced a stained rag from his pocket, its stench reeking of harsh chemicals that made Henry’s stomach churn.
Henry’s eyes widened in realization.
“No, no, please,!” He thrashed against Brant’s iron grip, kicking wildly in a futile attempt to escape.
With a swift motion, Brant slammed him against the cold cage wall, pinning his arms with brutal strength.
The rag clamped over Henry’s nose and mouth, a sickly sweet aroma flooding his senses.
Chloroform.
His scream twisted into a muffled, desperate gurgle as darkness swallowed him whole.
The elevator shuddered downward, sinking into the city’s depths.
Ben watched as Henry’s limp form crumpled.
“Perfect,” he murmured, satisfaction dripping from his voice.
”’
The underground chamber was a wretched pit, heavy with the stench of stale synth-coffee and the desperation of its inhabitants.
Flickering holoscreens cast ghostly blue light over a dozen beta faces,hollow-cheeked hackers, bitter ex-engineers, and Brant’s thuggish enforcers.
Henry slumped in a chair, bound and disoriented, his head lolling like a broken marionette.
Ben paced before them, a predator in his element.
“Thiamethoxam grenades?” Brant suggested, tapping a crude schematic that looked hastily drawn.
“Drop one in Albert’s penthouse vents. Watch the Omie bastard choke.” Laughter and murmurs of agreement rippled through the group.
Ben shook his head sharply, his expression darkening.
“Too blunt. Too loud. We’re not ready for war,not yet.”
He gestured to a flickering screen displaying gAlberth footage: female fake-generated omegas writhing in feigned ecstasy, tagged ‘Omega Whores in heat’.
“Propaganda first,” Ben spat, his voice laced with venom.
“Our deepfakes outshine ABO’s charity streams ten-to-one. We flood the feeds. We’ll make every Beta believe Omegas are nothing but deviants,greedy, unstable.” A gaunt woman with glimmering neural implants nodded in agreement, her eyes glinting with fervor.
“The cloning narrative is sticking. ‘Why so many identical Omegas?’ We plant seeds of doubt. Erase their ‘provider’ halo.”
Brant flashed a cold grin, cracking his knuckles with a sinister crackle.
“Dirty the image. Then…” He slammed a fist into his palm, the echo reverberating off the walls.
“…take back production. Betas will build the biodomes. Betas will maintain the recyclers. Without them.” He spat near the unconscious form of Henry, the contempt visible in the dark smirk on his lips.
“Their precious Alphas will starve in their gilded cages.”
Ben halted, his eyes smoldering with intensity.
“Exactly. We remind them: the hive makes the honey.” He kicked Henry’s chair, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit room.
The traitor jerked awake, a whimper escaping his lips as confusion flooded his eyes.
Henry’s gaze widened in sheer terror.
“No,” Before he could finish, Brant’s hand connected harshly with his face, a stark cross of red blooming on his split lip.
“We will teach you every word, every gesture. Or you can simply die here. I’ll put your head on a fucking pike outside that fancy hotel and make you a martyr. You decide: death or debasing yourself.” The threat hung heavy in the air, a dark promise of the fate that awaited him.