Page 4 of Omega Alliance

Dani leaves me alone in the inking parlor, but the invisible team who direct my day don't give me long to rest. The wall in front of me flashes bright, then text begins to crawl across the screen.

This is their way of communicating with me. Words, but never voices.

Today's lunch has been provided by Pack Wimberly of Galveston, Texas. Remember to say thank you—and to smile.

That's my cue to suck it up and move on with my predetermined schedule. Everyone watches me eat. It's become one of the many favorites for my viewers, partially because I’m required to talk through the entire half-hour experience, carrying on a conversation with a dining partner who doesn't exist. Each meal is sponsored by a different pack. It's ridiculoushow many lotteries they hold to decide even the most minuscule details of my life.

I'm assuming Pack Wimberly is a large one based on today’s spread. I inhale turkey, potatoes, gravy, green beans, and even a few bite-sized gourmet chocolates. It's the biggest meal I've had in days, and I need the comfort after the painful tattoo session this morning.

I devour every last bite until I’m well past full, then I make a big deal out of licking my hands clean when I've finished. Hopefully, others will catch on and send me more feasts like this rather than the bland rice dishes and salads I am most often stuck with.

Of course, I smile the whole time, just as I've been instructed, as I am reminded several times per day every single day of my life. I know better than to ignore an explicit order from the director.

There aren't any privileges they can take away from me, seeing as I have none to begin with. But a poor performance on my end leads to swift and severe punishment from theirs.

The watchers see it too. I still have the lash marks on my back from the time I failed to show proper enthusiasm for my special weekly pack visit. The angry red scars are mostly concealed by my tattoos, but when I run my fingers across them I can feel the memory.

It reminds me not to act out of turn again.

To do whatever they say without question—and always with a smile.

It is the only thing I can control, after all. Whether or not I comply.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of mundane tasks. I try on outfits provided by my off-camera stylists, read words provided on the prompter—I’m expected to recite themconvincingly as if they’re my own thoughts—then finally I'm allowed to shower.

As the first drops of water hit my face, I close my eyes and visualize Dani, replay her song in my head. She sings in the shower for herself, and now, thanks to my vivid imagination, she sings for me, too.

I can almost picture her here with me, brushing my hair away from my face, running the washcloth over my tired muscles, taking care to avoid the new artwork she carefully covered with protective plastic.

What would it be like if her touch brought pleasure instead of its usual pain?

I keep my eyes scrunched closed as I clean myself from top to bottom, pretending it's her. Pretending it's anyone, that I wasn't always here by myself, condemned to live out my days alone but never in private.

Then I wonder what she would look like standing bare before me. What tattoos does she have hidden beneath her clothes? And what song might she sing to me now? Why did the one she chose earlier remind her of me?

I replay her words over and over again, willing them to make sense, for me to understand what added meaning lay hidden within the music, to know whether she thinks of me when we're apart, too.

I imagine her lips tilting up into a smile before crushing against mine, me threading my fingers through her dark hair as I cry out with bliss…

But it's only a fantasy.

I am alone in the shower. Just as I am alone in my room while I towel off and put on the clothes that were set out for me. Alone, but not really.

Most of my outfits are short and skimpy, leaving little to the imagination as the watchers ogle me from the privacy of theirpack homes. The new dress waiting for me is quite unusual in that it’s a full-length maxi dress with a flowy skirt and fitted sleeves that go all the way down to my wrists. The bodice is tight and a bit uncomfortable if I'm being honest. It feels as though something is jabbing into my ribs, threatening me should I breathe too deeply.

Somehow the presumably modest ensemble makes me feel even more exposed than usual. Why expend so much effort to cover my body in art if they only want to hide it? At least the loose skirt gives my newest design room to breathe and heal.

I study myself in the mirror, trying to decide what I think of my appearance. The light blue is pretty, but the fabric is itchy, the high neck of the gown stifling. I hardly resemble myself. Normally my dyed hair and tattoos make me look alternative, edgy, but this overtly feminine dress softens my entire appearance.

Someone must have wanted it this way.

I turn toward the wall, expecting the text to appear, to tell me who's sponsored this outfit and what I owe them for thanks. To remind me, yet again, to smile.

But the words don't come.

Instead I hear a voice, and it’s one I recognize instantly.

DANI

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