König

König sat alone at a corner table, broad shoulders hunched over a plate of goulash he'd made himself, too much paprika again, but he wasn't about to admit that. The sniper hood concealed most of his face as always, lifted just enough over his nose to shovel food into his mouth between sips of black coffee that had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

At 48, König had seen enough to know that Friday nights at base followed a predictable pattern. The younger operators would filter in after drills, their voices too loud, their laughter too easy. And tonight was no different.

"Oi, did you see the way Johnson looked at that new omega in logistics?" A young alpha, couldn't have been more than twenty-five, elbowed his buddy at a nearby table, his voice carrying across the half-empty hall.

"Which one? The little brunette?" Another alpha, this one with a Scottish accent, grinned widely. "Mate, half the alphas on base have their eyes on that one. Good luck getting through that crowd."

König's grumbled beneath his hood. He stabbed at a chunk of beef with more force than necessary, the fork scraping against the plate. Of course they were talking about omegas. They always were. Young omegas with their sweet, potent scents and their regular heats that had every alpha within a kilometer radius acting like fools.

Not that König regretted how things had turned out. Not really. He'd made his choices, thrown himself into the military at seventeen, proved himself on countless battlefields, built a reputation that preceded him into every room. He'd survived when plenty of others hadn't. The lack of a mate, the absence of a claiming mark on his neck... well, that was just how things had gone. He had chosen his career. And he didn´t regret it.

He took another bite, chewing slowly. The truth was harder to swallow than the goulash.

Maybe he was a little bitter about it. Just a bit.

"König, sir!" A voice cut through his thoughts. He looked up to see Corporal Weber, a wiry alpha with nervous energy, standing at attention beside his table. "Sorry to interrupt your meal, but Colonel Keller wants the patrol schedules for next week on his desk by 0800 tomorrow."

"Ja (Yes), I know," König rumbled, his voice rough and gravelly, the Austrian accent thick. "Already done. Check your email."

Weber blinked in surprise. "Oh. Right. Thank you, sir." He hesitated, shifting his weight. "Um, also... some of us are heading into town later if you want to—"

"Nein (No)."

The refusal came out harsher than König intended, but Weber took the hint and hurried away. König watched him go, then returned his attention to his food. He knew what „heading into town“ meant for the young alphas. It meant prowling the bars, scenting for unmated omegas, maybe getting into a territorial pissing match with local alphas who didn't appreciate PMC operators on their turf.

König had done his share of that in his younger days. Before he'd accepted that his omega designation was something he'd never quite fit into properly. Before age had stripped away even the biological markers that might have made him desirable to an alpha.

His scent, that warm brown sugar and cinnamon that had once been strong enough to turn heads, had faded to almost nothing over the years. Now, someone would have to press their face directly against his neck to catch even a whisper of it. And his heats? Those had become a joke. Irregular, weak, barely more than a vague discomfort every few months that he could power through with some ibuprofen and a day or more of administrative work.

In a way, it had made life easier. No more alphas trying to dominate him, to put him „in his place“ despite his rank and his size. No more suppressants that made him feel sick and foggy-headed. No more desperate, humiliating cycles where his body betrayed everything he'd tried to build.

But sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered what it would have been like. To have someone's mark on his neck, their scent intertwined with his own, to belong. Just... having a mate.

The mess hall door banged open, and a group of operators tumbled in, their voices overlapping in excitement.

"—swear to God, the scent was incredible—"

"—probably already got three alphas courting—"

"—not fair, mate, some of us don't even get a chance—"

König's appetite vanished. He pushed his plate away and stood, his height drawing immediate attention. Even slouched with age, even with the extra weight around his middle that his uniform couldn't quite hide anymore, he was an imposing figure. The conversation died as several pairs of eyes tracked his movement.

He said nothing, just cleared his table and stalked toward the exit, his boots heavy on the linoleum. Behind him, the chatter resumed in hushed tones.

"Christ, did you see the look he gave us?"

"That's Colonel König, you idiot. Show some respect."

"I know who he is. I just didn't realize he was an omega until I saw his file. Doesn't seem right, does it? Someone that big—"

König's hand clenched into a fist, but he kept walking. Let them talk. He'd heard it all before. Besides, they weren't wrong. He didn't fit the omega mold, never had. Too tall, too aggressive, too unwilling to submit to anyone's expectations of what he should be.

The hallway outside was blessedly empty, lit by harsh lights that flickered slightly. König made his way toward his quarters, his joints protesting the long day of training exercises. Getting older was a bastard, everything hurt more, took longer to heal, required more effort to maintain.

He'd been a beautiful weapon once. Fast, lethal, unstoppable. Now he was just... serviceable. Still dangerous, still skilled, but with an expiration date that grew closer every year.

His quarters were spartan, a single bed with military-issue sheets, a desk covered in paperwork, a small bookshelf with German novels he'd read a dozen times, and a few personal effects that revealed nothing about the man behind the hood. König stripped off his tactical vest with practiced efficiency, then paused at the small mirror mounted beside the door.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his sniper hood.

The face that stared back at him was weathered, scarred. Pale blue eyes set deep beneath hooded lids, crow's feet etched at the corners from years of squinting through scopes and across hostile terrain. His russet hair, streaked heavily with gray now, fell shaggily around his face. Stubble covered his jaw, gray mixing with auburn. His nose, broken and reset poorly more than once, sat crooked above thin lips.

He looked tired. Old.

König's hand unconsciously moved to his neck, fingers brushing over the unmarked skin where a claiming bite should have been. Where it would never be, now. What alpha would want an omega past his prime? One whose scent was barely detectable, whose heats were ghost echoes of what they should be, whose body had softened with age and whose fertility was questionable at best?

He yanked his hand away, disgusted with himself for the self-pity. He'd survived a thousand firefights, taken down terrorists and war criminals, led men through hell and brought them back alive. He didn't need an alpha. Didn't need anyone.

But God, sometimes he wanted it anyway.

A knock at the door made him grab for his hood, pulling it back on with automatic speed. Only when he was properly covered did he bark out, "Herein (Come in)!"

The door opened to reveal Sergeant Hofer, one of the few operators at KorTac close to König's age. The beta had a folder tucked under one arm and an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've got a situation. New contractor arriving tomorrow. Personnel wants you to handle the intake briefing."

König's eyes narrowed. "Why me? That's usually Captain Müller's job."

Hofer shifted uncomfortably. "Well, sir... given the, uh, enthusiasm from some of our younger alphas lately, command thought it would be better if someone with more... authority handled the orientation. Someone who wouldn't be affected by—"

"By their scent," König finished flatly. "You mean someone whose own biology is so fucked that they won't embarrass themselves sniffing after fresh meat."

Hofer winced. "I wouldn't put it that way, sir."

"But that's what they mean." König snatched the folder from Hofer's hands and flipped it open. His eyes scanned the personnel file, name, rank, skills. No photo, no designation, which was standard for new contractors until they cleared security protocols. "Fine. What time?"

"0900 at the main briefing room. Thank you, sir."

Hofer retreated quickly, closing the door behind him. König stared down at the file in his hands. Another young thing for them to circle like sharks. Another reminder of everything König had never had and never would have.

He tossed the folder onto his desk and sank onto his bed, the frame creaking under his weight. Through the thin walls, he could hear laughter, voices, the sounds of people living their lives with an ease he'd never quite mastered.

Tomorrow he'd put on his uniform, his hood, his armor of rank and reputation. He'd conduct the briefing with professional efficiency. He'd ignore the knowing looks from the younger operators, the ones who saw him as a curiosity, the omega who'd aged out of desirability, who'd never been claimed, who existed in some strange liminal space between what he was and what he should have been.

But tonight, alone in his quarters, König allowed himself a moment of weakness.

He was allowed to crave some affection, wasn't he? Even at his age. Even past his prime.

Even if he'd never admit it to anyone but himself.

König lay back on his bed without bothering to undress further. Sleep would come eventually, it always did, though it took longer these days. And tomorrow would be another day of being Colonel König: the sniper who never was, the omega who never fit, the soldier who kept going because that was all he knew how to do.

Outside, the night carried on, indifferent to the quiet loneliness of one aging omega who'd convinced himself he didn't mind being alone.

Almost convinced himself.

But not quite.