Page 3 of Omega's Fire

I don’t argue. Even I know I need rest.

I make my way back to the squat, legs heavy with fatigue. I can hear the other residents settling into their evening routines: soft sounds of conversation from other floors, the smell ofsomeone cooking dinner on a hot plate similar to mine. We’re a community born of necessity. These are my true brothers and sisters and I would do anything for them.

My new ‘flat’ in the travel agency feels smaller in the evening light, shadows stretching across the flooring. It doesn’t feel like home but it’s safe, it’s mine, and it’s temporary. The housing appeal will succeed, or I’ll find another solution, or I’ll make this work until graduation provides other options.

I’m pulling textbooks from the last unpacked box when my phone buzzes with a notification.

OMEGA MATCH BUREAU: Registration confirmation #89274-O

I stare at the screen. I’m hallucinating from exhaustion. I must be. The notification remains, stark and undeniable against the glow of my phone.

My fingers shake as I unlock the screen, opening the full message.

CONFIRMATION OF REGISTRATION

ID: #89274-O | TORRES, LEO J.

DATE OF REGISTRATION: 10/15

STATUS: Processing Complete

The phone slips from my fingers, clattering against the floor. Registration. They’ve registered me. Without my consent.

That ever present rage rises up. How? I’ve never signed up for anything. Besides, to get the bio-chemical markers to match me, they’d need...

It’s obvious and I’m an idiot. Maybe if I hadn’t been so tired, I would have picked up on it.

The blood drive. The second vial. “Standard screening”. What horseshit. I should have known.

I scramble for my phone, searching the website for the blood drive. It takes me a minute but I finally find a copy of the consent form and there it is, buried in paragraph four of the secondpage:“Samples will be shared with appropriate agencies where applicable for community health benefits.”

It’s vague enough to provide legal cover. Specific enough that a court might uphold it.

They’ve stolen my blood and signed me up. I could kick myself. I’ve spent so long fighting against the Bureau and the endless ways they try force omegas into their system and I didn’t see the obvious when it was right in front of me.

For a moment, all my fury flies inward at myself for being stupid enough to be deceived but then my brain orientates itself. Nope. This is not my fault. This is the fucking Bureau. They did this.

I dial Meg’s number, pacing the office as it rings. When she doesn’t answer, I text instead:Emergency. They registered me. Blood drive was a setup.

The reply comes immediately:WHAT. On my way over.

But I’m already on my feet and trawling through my books. There’s going to be a way out. If the Bureau thinks they can trap me with that kind of bullshit, they’ve seriously underestimated Leo Torres.

I’ve been fighting since I was fifteen years old. I’m not about to stop now. I am not taking this lying down.

The war has just begun. They might have started it but I’m going to finish it.

Nash

The studio lights are too bright. I can barely see the audience. That might not be a bad thing. From the boos and general grumblings, they’re glaring at me harder than the lights. We’re forty minutes into an hour-long intellectual sparring match and my cheeks hurt from the polite smile I’ve been keeping plastered across my face.

I cross my legs, adjusting position. The audience of Point of Contention watches like spectators at a boxing match. A few are rooting for me, but most are waiting for the knockout blow from David Glass.

“Let’s shift gears a bit, Dr. Thorndike,” Glass says. The man has a gift for appearing approachable while going for the jugular. “The government matching system, proponents call it essential support for omegas, critics call it forced marriage. Where’s the truth?”

I allow myself a measured smile. “Calling it forced marriage is an enormous exaggeration. It completely misrepresents what it is.” Someone in the audience boos. I ignore it. “We need the matching system. We need registration. Prime matches —those with compatibility scores above ninety-five percent— are the closest thing to soul mates that science can explain. Why on earth would anyone not want to meet their one true love?”

A soft murmur ripples through the audience. Glass just nods.

---