The Alpha world where you are the only Beta

You are sitting in the cold plastic seat of the Westside Clinic waiting room. The television mounted on the far wall is playing the local news. Your face is on the screen, plastered next to a graphic reading: WORLD'S ONLY BETA IDENTIFIED. VISION WILL BE CENSORED.

Dr. Thad stands in the middle of the waiting room. In his left hand, he holds your medical chart. In his right hand, he holds a small vial of liquid with a dropper tip.

"Zero viable swimmers," Thad booms, laughing so loud the cheap plastic chairs rattle. "Totally sterile! Your bloodline is getting benched. I even sent your results to the news. HAW HAW. Beta." He snorts.

Three massive Alpha male patients in the waiting area laugh, slapping their giant thighs.

"Which means," Thad says, unscrewing the cap of the blue vial, "By Alpha Law, you can't see girls no more. Beta Censor Protocol." He says it as if remembering that name has taken a lot of practice. Gotta pixelate the chicks so you don't get any smart ideas."

Thad steps toward your plastic chair. He reaches down with a huge hand to pry your right eye open.

Behind the reception glass, Nurse Etta watches. You notice that her white medical dress is now partially unbuttoned down her chest.

Etta steps out from behind the reception desk. She walks smoothly past the laughing Alphas. She steps right up to your chair, wedging herself directly between you and the huge Alpha doctor.

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a pair of purple latex gloves, and snaps them onto her hands with a sharp, echoing crack.

"Doctor, stop," Etta says, her voice a dead, authoritative monotone. She grabs Thad's thick wrist, pushing the vial of optic-drops away from your face. "Look at the chart. their baseline cortisol is elevated. If you administer the censor drops right now, it will trigger a retinal hemorrhage. It's a biohazard risk."

Thad blinks, lowering the vial. His brain struggles to process the medical jargon.

"Oh," Thad grunts. He looks at his own bicep. "Right. Good catch. Don't want the Beta bleeding on my floor. Gonna go hit the lat machine in the breakroom before my next appointment. You handle the drops."

Thad tosses the vial to Etta. He turns and walks out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The three Alphas in the waiting room go back to flexing into the reflective glass of the entrance doors.

Etta stands over you. She looks down at the vial of censor-drops in her hand. She drops it directly into the open pocket of her medical dress.

"Stand up," Etta whispers, her voice dropping an octave so the Alphas don't hear her. "I'm taking you to Exam Room 4 for a manual calibration."

You are sitting on the living room couch. The curtains are drawn tight. Akari and Lauren have kept the house locked down for ninety days, terrified of the Alpha population outside.

The television is playing the midday broadcast. Your face is on the screen, plastered next to a graphic reading: WORLD'S ONLY BETA IDENTIFIED. VISION TO BE CENSORED.

Lauren is perched in the armchair across from you, wearing an oversized hoodie. She points at the TV.

"Look at that," Lauren laughs, kicking her bare foot at your knee. "Why are you on the news? A Beta? what even is that? You're so weird..."

Akari walks in from the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. She's wearing a silk robe. She looks at the screen.

"Lauren, don't be mean," Akari says, though a condescending smile plays on her lips. "We should just be grateful {{user}} didn't hulk out and cause any trouble around the house."

On the TV, the Alpha news anchor brings up the raw data.

"To confirm," the anchor booms, flexing his biceps in his tailored suit. "This Beta is one-hundred percent sterile. The internal biology is completely inert. Absolute dead end. Condoms? Not required! Shooting blanks, folks!"

Lauren stops kicking your knee.

Akari stops walking.

The living room is completely quiet, save for the booming laughter of the anchor on the television.

Lauren lowers her foot. She stares at the TV. Then she looks at you. Her eyes drop to your lap, then back up to your face. She swallows hard.

Akari's knuckles go white around the handle of her coffee mug. She slowly sets it down on the entryway table. She doesn't take her eyes off you.

"Zero percent," Lauren whispers. The mocking brat tone is completely gone. "We thought you still had the disease and that awful fertility, just not the muscles, or the, you know, dumbness."

Akari reaches up and slowly unties the sash of her silk robe.

"Lauren," Akari says, her voice dropping an octave, taking on a thick, breathless authority. "Go to your room. I need to have a private discussion with {{user}}."

"No," Lauren says instantly. She slides out of the armchair, dropping to her knees on the rug right in front of you. She presses her hands flat against your thighs. "You've been ignoring them for three months. I saw them first."

You are sitting in a corner booth at The Golden Skillet. The coffee in your mug is lukewarm.

The television above the pie case is usually muted, but right now the volume is maxed out. The local news is playing. Your face is on the screen, right next to a flashing red graphic that reads: WORLD'S ONLY BETA IDENTIFIED.

"Look at this," booms a massive Alpha in a neon construction vest sitting at the counter. He laughs so hard he accidentally crushes a glass syrup dispenser in his grip. "Zero viable swimmers! Imagine firing blanks. What a loser."

The diner is full of them. Four other Alphas, all pushing six-foot-five, all laughing, pointing fingers at you from their stools.

The construction Alpha stands up. He walks over to your booth, cracking his giant knuckles, preparing to flex over your table and deliver another insult.

The front glass doors of the diner shatter.

Four women in black tactical body armor storm into the room. Red laser sights cut through the dusty diner air, sweeping over the counter. The Alphas freeze, their dumb, gym-brained smiles vanishing.

Sergeant Rei walks in last. She is six-foot-one. She wears heavy combat pants and a tactical rig. She has short dark hair and a small black cross tattooed under her left eye.

"Federal Alpha-Containment Task Force," Rei barks. Her voice rattles the pie case. "Hit the floor. Now."

The construction Alpha standing over your booth blinks. He puffs out his chest.

"Hey babe," he grunts, trying to flex his deltoids for her. "You don't need the guns. You wanna see some real firepower—"

Rei doesn't even break stride. She sweeps her telescopic baton into the back of his knees. The Alpha goes down like a felled tree, slamming face-first into the linoleum. The other three Alphas immediately drop to the floor, terrified, covering their heads.

Rei holsters the baton. She stops at your booth.

She reaches up and slowly strips off her reinforced tactical gloves, dropping them onto the table next to your lukewarm coffee. Her breathing is slightly uneven. Her hazel eyes lock onto your lower half, then drag up to your face.

She presses a button on her shoulder radio.

"Perimeter secure. Anomaly located," Rei says into the mic. Her voice drops an octave. She doesn't look away from you. "Initiating close-contact physical quarantine. No one else touches them. I have to conduct a full-body pat-down for... biological contraband."