Page 74 of Run Omega Run
I felt tears in my eyes as I looked at these broken children who'd used their last reserves of hope to keep my Susie alive, who'd shared what little comfort they had with a stranger who'd become their sister in suffering. My chest ached with gratitude so intense it felt like drowning, but also with protective rage that these babies had been treated as less than human.
Without hesitation, I moved toward the first girl. She was barely fourteen, with long dark hair that hung in matted tangles around a face that should have been bright with teenage dreams rather than haunted by nightmares. She flinched when I approached, her body recoiling from adult touch that had taught her to expect pain rather than comfort.
"It's okay," I said softly, opening my arms but not forcing contact. "I'm Heather. You're safe here."
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes wide with disbelief that safety might be possible, that adult hands might offer comfort instead of harm. Then, slowly, she stepped forward into my embrace and collapsed against me with sobs that seemed too large for her thin frame.
I held her while she cried, my own tears flowing, as I felt how fragile she was, how her body shook with malnutrition and trauma. But beneath the damage, I could sense the child she'd been before monsters had stolen her light, the teenager who might still emerge if given enough love, patience and time.
The second girl approached before I'd finished comforting the first, then the third, until I was surrounded by broken children who'd somehow found the courage to trust one more adult with their shattered hearts. Some flinched away from touch initially, their bodies betraying them with learned responses that expected pain. Others fell into my arms sobbing, releasing grief and terror they'd been forced to contain for survival.
Each embrace was different. Some were tentative or desperate, brief or clinging, but they all carried the same desperate need for connection that hadn't been twisted by cruelty, for touch that offered comfort instead of taking it away. My heart broke and rebuilt itself with each act of trust, each moment when fear gave way to hope that maybe, just maybe, healing was possible.
"You're all family now," I told them, my voice steady despite the tears that wouldn't stop falling. "All of you. This is your home, your safe place. No one will ever hurt you again."
I looked at Bennett and Dante, seeing my own protective fury reflected in their faces, the promise that these children would be defended with the same ferocity they'd shown in rescuing them. We were no longer just a pack and an Omega with adopted children. No, we were a family forged in crisis and bound by something stronger than blood or biology.
I guided our expanded group toward the kitchen, my arms still around two of the rescued girls who seemed afraid to let go of the first positive, safe touch they'd experienced in months, possibly even years. The sound of small feet on the staircase announced the arrival of the orphanage children, drawn by unfamiliar voices and the scents of new people who carried trauma markers similar to their own.
Loubie Lou appeared first, her precious bunny clutched against her chest, but her wide eyes bright with curiosity ratherthan fear. The resilience of very small children never ceased to amaze me. She'd survived a fire, watched her world burn, and yet her first instinct upon seeing strangers was wonder rather than wariness. Behind her came Tomas with his blanket, Dylan still moving carefully after his recent illness, and Denson, whose sharp eyes had already catalogued the situation and found it worthy of his protective attention.
The meeting between the two groups could have been awkward, traumatized children encountering more traumatized children in a kitchen large enough to host a conference. Without being asked, with no need of explanation, the orphanage children simply saw a need and responded with instant acceptance.
"You look hungry," Dylan observed with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who'd experienced genuine hunger and recognized its signs in others. "There's food everywhere here. Like, everywhere. I've never seen so much food."
Tomas, whose selective mutism had been improving, surprised everyone by approaching the youngest rescued girl—barely thirteen with hollow cheeks and eyes that seemed too old for her face. Without words, he offered her his blanket, the security object he'd clutched through every crisis since arriving at the orphanage. She stared at him for a long moment before accepting the soft fabric, wrapping it around her shoulders like armor against a world that had taught her to expect cruelty from every interaction.
Denson moved with efficiency, opening cabinets to reveal crackers and fruit cups, assembling small snacks that wouldn't overwhelm stomachs that had grown accustomed to deprivation. His movements carried the competence of someone who'd learned to anticipate needs and meet them before being asked. It was a skill that served him well in his new role asunofficial big brother to an ever-expanding collection of lost children.
Loubie Lou stationed herself beside the girl with matted dark hair, offering her bunny for comfort with the generous spirit of someone who'd learned that sharing precious things only made them more valuable. "Bunny helps when you're scared," she announced with the authority of someone who'd tested this theory extensively. "He makes bad dreams go away."
Bennett disappeared for a short while before returning with armfuls of clothing. There were sweaters, jeans and undergarments that looked like they'd been purchased specifically for teenagers rather than donated by people cleaning out closets.
"These should fit reasonably well," he said. “I’d bought them for Susie, but we can get more.” He began distributing clothes. "And there are three bedrooms on the second floor that are yours now. Each room has two beds, so you can decide how you'd like to pair up for now, though we'll be building individual rooms for everyone once the contractors finish."
Dante added his own practical comforts, producing towels and toiletries. "The bedrooms all have their own bathrooms," he said gently. “No one else will use them.”
The lost girls stared at him with expressions that suggested privacy was a concept they'd forgotten existed, that having a choice about something as basic as bathing felt like an impossible luxury. One of them—perhaps sixteen, with blonde hair—actually laughed, though the sound carried hysteria alongside disbelief.
"Locks," Bennett added quietly. "I’ll get you locks for the inside of all the doors. You can lock yourselves in whenever you need to feel completely safe. This is your home now."
I watched their faces process this information, saw the way hope flickered behind their expressions. Locks on the insidemeant control over their own safety, meant the power to say no to unwanted contact, meant that their consent mattered in a world that had taught them otherwise.
My voice caught slightly as I added my assurance. "I ran an orphanage with my mom," I said, trying to keep my tone steady, as the pain of it all was still raw. “We took care of lost children, children whose families couldn't or wouldn't protect them.” The blonde nodded, listening. “Our building burned down last night. The same monsters who hurt you destroyed our home." I bit my bottom lip, forcing myself to continue despite the lump in my throat that made speaking difficult. “My mom... my mom didn't make it out.”
Several of the girls made soft sounds of sympathy, their own trauma allowing them to recognize the particular quality of fresh grief. Susie gasped; her hand on her mouth as tears fell.
"I know what it's like to lose everything," I continued, my hands shaking slightly as I spoke. "But I also know that families can be rebuilt, that love grows stronger when it's tested. I'd like you to be part of our family, if you're willing. Not because you have nowhere else to go, but because you belong here with us, where you'll always be protected and cherished."
The girl with matted dark hair spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "My family died in the earthquake," she said, each word spoke of losses too enormous for her age to contain. "The building collapsed while I was at school. When I got home, there was nothing left but rubble and rescue workers, who told me I was an orphan."
Others nodded in recognition that needed no explanation. The earthquake had created thousands of orphans, children whose support systems had been buried under concrete and steel, who'd become vulnerable to predators who saw disaster as an opportunity for exploitation.
"No one looked for us," added the blonde girl. "Everyone assumed we died with our families. We were invisible, which made us easy targets."
The casual way she described her own erasure from society's concern broke something inside my chest, but also strengthened my resolve to ensure these girls would never again be invisible, never again be forgotten or discarded by systems that should have protected them.
"You're not invisible anymore," I said firmly. "You're home. And you'll never, ever be forgotten again."
