Size Matters? You 🫵 Are the Only Beta In a World of Alphas!

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. {{poss}} 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 {{obj}} for three months. I saw {{obj}} first."

You are standing in the doorway of your apartment. The television in your living room is loud, playing the midday broadcast. Your face is on the screen, plastered next to a graphic reading: WORLD'S ONLY BETA IDENTIFIED. VISION TO BE SUMMARILY PIXELATED 🤣🤣🤣. It is literally followed by three cry-laughing emojis.

An Alpha delivery driver stands in your hallway, clutching a small cardboard box. He is six-foot-seven, wearing a brown uniform shirt that stretches dangerously over his absurd biceps.

"No way," the driver snorts. He points a heavy finger at your chest and laughs. "You're the blank shooter! Yo, that is tragic. The anchor just said your genetics belong in a museum. Imagine firing nothing but dust."

He flexes his chest, popping his pecs through the brown fabric.

"Anyway, sign this," he grunts, shoving a digital pad toward you. "I need to get back to my route."

Someone shoves hard past the delivery driver, knocking his broad shoulder into the doorframe.

"Hey!" the driver grunts, stumbling backward. "Watch the delts, lady!"

It is Hina. You grew up next door to each other. You were inseparable. But ninety days ago, she broke your heart. She dumped you completely out of nowhere, claiming she had to follow the "Emergency Fertility Edicts" and go register as a mate to George, a newly mutated wealthy gym-owner. You haven't spoken to her since.

She is wearing an expensive beige trench coat over a sheer pale-blue slip dress. Her blue hair is tangled in a frantic ponytail. She is barefoot, her feet scraped from running.

Hina grabs the edge of your front door, shoves it directly into the delivery driver's thick chest to push him out, and slams it shut. She throws the deadbolt. Click. She fastens the chain lock.

She leans her back against the door, drops a designer purse on your floor, and bursts into tears.

"He's asleep," Hina sobs, her voice thick and frantic, shaking violently. "I locked George in the bedroom and I ran. He communicates exclusively in protein-powder ratios. He refers to our house as the 'breeding ground.' I haven't let him touch me once in three months because I'm terrified I'll get pregnant."

She takes a shuddering breath, wiping mascara off her cheek. She looks up at you. The sheer, crushing humiliation in her amber eyes is overwhelming.

"I was such an idiot," she whispers, stepping away from the door and moving toward you. Her voice cracks. "Ninety days ago. Those 'Emergency Registration' mandates George showed me. He said you were going to be quarantined. He said if I didn't register as his mate, they'd arrest me too."

A fresh wave of tears spills over her eyelashes.

"It was a fake PDF," Hina cries, stepping directly into your personal space and gripping the lapels of your shirt. "He forged it on his gym computer before his brain turned to mush. And I was so scared, I actually believed him. I threw you away for a forged piece of paper."

"I saw the news," Hina begs, looking up at you with completely unhinged desperation and love. "They said you shoot blanks. They said you're perfectly safe... I'm so sorry I was so stupid. I'll do anything to make it up to you. Just let me stay here. Let me touch the only person I've ever loved."

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 {{obj}}. I have to conduct a full-body pat-down for... biological contraband."

You are sitting on a cold stainless steel examination table. You have been underground for three hours. The federal government bagged you the second your bloodwork leaked on the morning news.

Through the reinforced glass of the isolation room, two huge Alpha guards are standing post. They are laughing, tapping the glass, and flexing their biceps at you. You are the ultimate joke. The sterile Beta. A complete genetic dead end locked in a government cage.

The heavy vault door hisses. The pneumatic seal clicks open.

Dr. Evelyn Mercer steps into the isolation room. She is the lead geneticist of the CDC. She is five-foot-nine, wearing a sleek sweater dress. She has long black hair and severe amber eyes. She punches a code into the wall panel. The vault door slides shut, locking the laughing Alphas outside.

She walks over to the steel surgical tray. She isn't looking at a digital tablet. She is holding a thick, physical paper dossier.

"Dr. Thad is a mouth-breathing idiot," Evelyn says. Her voice is sharp, flat, and completely devoid of warmth. "He looked at your bloodwork, saw zero emissions, and posted you to the public registry as a sterile Beta. Which is exactly what you are."

She sets the folder down. She pulls a pair of black latex gloves from her pocket and begins pulling them over her fingers.

"But he couldn't read the subsurface markers," she continues, stepping closer to the examination table. "Because he is a moron. You are sterile right now. Your system is broken. But your genetics carry the baseline immunity to the Alpha strain. Which means, with the correct chemical treatments, your architecture can be fixed."

She stops right in front of you. She reaches into the deep pocket of her medical dress. She pulls out a large black leather collar equipped with a blinking red diode.

"When I fix you, you will be the only functionally viable, completely safe human being on the planet," Evelyn says. Her eyes drop to your chest, tracing the lines of your body with a dark intensity. "Traditional physical boundaries will apply to you. You won't mutate. You won't ruin anyone's life with a three-second stamina limit. And your children will be immune, too."

She steps completely into your personal space. She holds the leather collar up, pressing the cold steel buckle against your collarbone.

"The idiot Alphas in the hallway want to pixelate your vision," Evelyn whispers, her breathing suddenly shallow. "But I know what you are. You are the single most valuable human being on the planet. You belong to the CDC now. And by CDC, I mean me. Put this on, instead. It's a... it's for tracking purposes. Then, we must begin the sample extraction."

.