Page 225 of Unhinged Omega

GEO

The desert stretches out before me like a rusted corpse, all jagged edges and wastes where nothing good grows. Kind of reminds me of myself. I take a long drag of my cigar, savoring the burn in my lungs as I exhale a cloud of smoke into the evening air. The pre-war vodka in my glass catches the light of the setting sun, glinting amber and gold like it holds some kind of promise.

It doesn't. Nothing out here does.

I've spent too many years in this hellhole not to know better. The Outer Reaches—the asscrack of what's left of civilization. But it's my asscrack. My little empire carved out of radiation and desperation. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. Then I remember I've got nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

The metal folding chair beneath me creaks as I shift my weight, leaning back to stare up at the bruised sky. Too many clouds, thick with radiation and dust. Not enough stars. I've never even seen a sky that didn't look like shit, so I don't know why it bothers me.

Maybe that's why I have my little collection. It's a window into a world I'll never see. A world that will never exist again.

My hand drifts unconsciously to my eye patch, fingertips tracing the worn leather edge where it meets scarred flesh. Some days the phantom pain is worse than others. Today it's just a dull throb, like a headache that's settled in for the long haul. Kind of like Raven and his fucking obsession with the silver-haired omega.

The hatch behind me scrapes open, and I don't need to turn around to know who it is. She doesn't lumber like every alpha down here except for Raven, but the footsteps on the stairs are too soft to be his. That vaguely lavender scent hits my nostrils like a dream, just enough that I try to breathe deeper to get more of it and find myself regretting the fact that I finished the job on that particular sense.

Not for the first time lately.

"Needed some fresh air," Cosima says, not bothering with a greeting as she steps out of the hatch.

I glance over my shoulder and nearly do a double-take. It's the first time I've seen her wearing anything other than stolen or borrowed clothes. She's wearing a dress, of all damn things. Not just any dress, either. It's one of those frilly, floaty numbers in pale violet that matches her eyes. Definitely Raven's doing. The kid always did have an eye for that sort of thing. He's probably on cloud nine now, having a living doll he can dress up.

Not the kind of thing I usually go for, but I'd be lying if I said she doesn't look good in it. The fabric clings where it counts, floating around her legs like she's some kind of pre-war fairy tale princess. Makes her silver hair look even more otherworldly in the dying light.

"Good luck finding fresh air anywhere this far west of Surhiira," I grunt, turning back to the wasteland. "Radiation index is in the yellow today. Better than red, I guess."

She moves to stand beside me, looking out at the same bleak landscape I've been staring at for the last hour. The dress ripplesin the breeze, incongruent with the dead world around us. Like a patch of spring in the middle of nuclear winter.

"It would be fresher if you weren't smoking that shit," she scoffs, wrinkling her nose at my cigar.

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. Most people are too afraid of me to talk like that. She's either stupidly brave or has a death wish. Could be both, considering the company she keeps.

"What are you, my mother?" I take another deliberate drag, blowing the smoke in her general direction just to be a dick. Then I surprise myself by offering her the cigar. "Want a hit?"

She eyes it warily, but I can see the curiosity flickering across her face. For all her high-class upbringing, the girl's a rule-breaker. Probably part of how she ended up out here in the wasteland instead of sipping tea in some Reinmichian estate.

After a moment's hesitation, she plucks it from my fingers, holding it awkwardly like she's not quite sure what to do with it. She studies the glowing ember, turning it over in her delicate hands.

"I stole one of my father's cigars out of an ashtray once," she admits, her voice distant. "He caught me before I could even take a drag. Locked me in the closet for an entire day."

The casual way she says it—like it's nothing, like every kid gets locked in closets—makes something hard twist in my gut. And I guess enough do, but omegas? I always figured they got special treatment, even in a fascist shithole like Reinmich.

"Sounds like he would've gotten along with my old man," I grunt, swirling the vodka in my glass. "Fuck him."

Her violet eyes flick to mine, a flash of surprise at the raw honesty. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but there it is. Hanging between us.

She studies the cigar again, determination hardening her features. Then she brings it to her lips and takes a drag, clearly just to say "fuck you" to daddy dearest.

Right on cue, she starts coughing, her face contorting as she tries not to hack up a lung.

"Tastes even worse than it smells," she gasps, handing it back to me with watering eyes.

I chuckle, reaching into the cooler by my chair and offering her a bottle of water. "Takes practice."

She eyes the water, then reaches past it for my glass of vodka instead. Before I can stop her, she tips it back and downs the rest without so much as a wince. The glass returns to my hand empty, and I find myself oddly impressed.

"Quite a tolerance there for an omega," I observe, setting the glass aside.

"I'm Vrissian," she says flatly, like that explains everything. "And after the cigar, I learned to get good at sneaking."

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