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I reach for the door, but a body barrels through before I can brace or even blink.
Rocked by a mountain of military alpha, I go down, legs kicking out like a drunk baby donkey’s.
Boosh.
I eat a second helping of sidewalk, head spinning ’til I see stars and stripes, and in a moment of pile-driven, post-electroshock stupidity, I slip up.
A microburst of toxic pheromones squeezes free. Then a ragged, awful retch warns that this guy’s about to spray me in half-digested mess hall bacon.
Not again.
I spider-scramble out of his blast zone.
The alpha gags, eyes watering and bloodshot.
I force deep breaths, pulling my escaped scent back to pheromone zero. He only caught a whiff, but that’s more than enough to screw months of work pretending I’m not a threat.
Shit. Damage control.
“Take off your shirt.” I claw to my feet.
“Fucking freak.” The guy hocks bile and starts to strip, ripping off body armor and holsters, whimpering and muttering. “Rotten eggs—” Cough. “Ugh. Fuckin’… Eggs and rotten horse meat.”
I freeze, almost more concerned for him than me.
But only almost. “Why do you know what horse meat smells like?”
The guy ignores me, ripping off shirt, cargo pants, and then what a wild Friday morning, because his tighty-whities go flying like I just did. He one-eighties into the building for an emergency shower with zero thought of apologizing—just a sausage salute and a flash of fuzzy ass.
I’d feel worse for pheromone-assaulting the guy, but now my tailbone is made of many small, powdery pieces of tailbone.
Plus, I’ve read the training materials that tell the SAS agents how to handle this kind of run-in with “Gamma 026.”
I’m not at any point referred to as a person.
Avoid close contact with Subject Gamma 026, donning chemical masks and protective gear when in proximity. If contaminated in the subject’s pheromone cloud, proceed immediately to decontamination and follow all grey alert protocols per hazmat regulations.
I’d rather be called a spicy omega.
But the SAS needs gamma to be a new sub-gender if they want to collect that sweet government research funding. So, leadership finds, tests, and trains potential gammas like me—omegas with asterisks—keeping a chokehold on the elite few of us who actually awaken weird abilities.
Problem is, my ability came out a little too weird.
Too dangerous.
I’m the freak among the freaks.
So much for this season of Marisol-is-a-responsible-citizen theater.
Now I’m tasting gastric juice cocktail.
We all know that collision was an honest accident.
Right?
That’s a thing that we all know?
I brush my scraped palms, ready to scatter before the guys in plastic suits show up to spray the pathway with de-scenter.
