"I… yes," Gina responds, a furrow creasing her brow. She can't help wonder where the woman is going with this.
"if your sure," the girl says, and her smile is all teeth. "Wouldnt want you to rip when the time comes."
Gina feels her cheeks burn. Her freckled skin gives her away too easily.
They all laugh again. Gina stares at the floor, her hands white-knuckling the fabric in her lap.
She wants to scream. To run.
But she does neither.
She keeps breathing, slow and shallow, like she's underwater.
Because this is what it costs. This humiliation, this isolation, this degradation. It's the price of her grandfather's life.
Gina doesn't speak again, rather she grabs and unfolds the uniform, scrutinizing the clothes once more
The material is so thin and utilitarian.
She hates it with a passion that even surprises her.
After a few minutes of blessed silence, the bronze-skinned Beta speaks again. "You know what you're here for, right?"
Gina looks up, already dreading what she'll say next.
"To breed," the woman says. "To be picked. If you're lucky. If not, you're out by next month with a half-empty purse and a big red failure mark. No second chances."
The omega leans forward again, eyes gleaming. "They say the Alpha is brutal. Doesn't like weak ones. Doesn't like when they cry especially."
Gina clenches her fists in her lap.
"I'm not weak."
The room falls silent for a moment, then a ripple of hysteria bubbles up, dry and filled with mirth.
"Sure, sweetheart." The Omega crows through her tinkling giggles.
She says nothing else.
Just strips off her old clothes and pulls on the grey.
The uniform clings too tightly around her arms. It itches at the seams. She can still feel their eyes on her. Still hear the sneers under their breath.
Her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. This is what she signed up for. For her grandfather. For survival.
Gina curls onto the thin mattress, facing the wall, and lets the artificial light burn against her closed eyes.
In two weeks, her body may no longer be her own.
It's a scary thought.
***
Morning breaks, but the windows are blacked out. Lights rise with artificial dawn and alarms blare at six.
Breakfast is a nutrient bar and a metal cup of vitamin slurry.
They are required to eat in silence. Lab assistants monitor their consumption, noting every calorie.
By eight, Gina is lined up with the others in the Evaluation Hall.
A long corridor of glass where scientists and observers watch from behind tinted panels.
The eight candidates stand barefoot in a line. Grey uniforms. Grey walls. Grey faces.
They are examined.
Pulse. Pupil dilation. Hormone levels. Cortisol spikes.
And finally, scent compatibility.
A technician passes each of them a vial and a cotton swab. Gina's hands fumble a little as she opens hers.
The vial contains a synthetic pheromone mixture; a diluted trace of the Alpha's scent.
The test is simple: swipe the pheromone under the nose and monitor physical response.
Gina does it.
Her body reacts instantly. Heat. Shuddering heat.
Her stomach twists and she nearly drops the vial. Her thighs clench without her permission.
The technician makes a note.
"Strong reaction," he murmurs.
The Betas ahead of her smirk.
One of the Omegas bites her lip, a flicker of competitiveness in their gaze.
The assistant nods. "High compatibility rating. You'll be flagged for second tier evaluation."
Gina can't breathe. Part relief. Part shame. Her heart pounds.
Later, they are allowed a single hour in the Rec Room; small, sterile, filled with identical grey mats and a wall screen playing an old nature documentary.
The other women chat in clusters, sharing stories about their pasts, their wants, their dreams.
Gina sits alone.
She thinks about her grandfather's hands, weathered and wrinkled as he handed her the last family heirloom to sell.
She thinks about the bills stacking up like a guillotine.
She thinks about the child she may be forced to carry.
The omega closes her eyes.
They find her later in toilet and push her against the sink, the four omegas, the sour smell of bruised egos radiating from their pores.
They call her names and slurs, "slut" and "whore" and "desperate hooker" ringing out with each hit they deliver to her body using a wet towel (so it won't bruise too badly bit it will hurt so much worse)
When they are done, they leave her alone, laying fetal on the floor, eyes wide and unseeing as tears pour down her cheeks.
It's hours before she finds the strength to stand up and go back to the dorms before one of the guards come find her.
That night, Gina doesn't sleep. Just lays still and quiet in the dark, listening to the soft exhalations around her aching body.
Waiting for the week to turn.
Waiting for him to arrive.
Waiting to see if her name will ever mean more than the nothing it's always been.
***
Maxwell Warren hates everything.
The sun hasn't even crawled past the edge of the horizon, and already the world grates on his nerves like a jagged blade.
The sky is a murky shade of blue-black, and he stares at it through the tinted glass of his vehicle, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
He hates the protocol, the parades of desperate women, the layers of bureaucracy required just to plant his seed in a desperate womb.
He especially hates that he has to make an appearance at the facility today.
"Are you ready, Alpha?" Victor Stone, his Beta and right hand man asks from beside him, voice neutral, clad in the finely tailored suit Maxwell had lent him.
Maxwell scoffs. "Don't mess it up. One wrong glance, one misstep, and the entire plan crumbles. You're me today. Remember that."
Victor dips his head in respect. "Yes, Alpha."
Maxwell's own attire is deliberately drab; a standard grey beta assistant's uniform, collar low and statusless. His hair is mussed just enough, his posture relaxed.
No one will recognize him for what he is: The Alpha of Westros.
He glares at Victor again, like it's his fault his in this situation.
"Burn those clothes when we're done," Maxwell spits, adjusting his sleeves as if he could brush the filth of anonymity off his skin. "If I ever have to see them again, I'll have your head."
Victor doesn't react. He's used to Maxwell's venom, has been by his side for years.
Still, the tiniest flicker of exasperation at his boss ghosts across his face. "Understood." He says dryly.
Maxwell just scowls and sinks back into the leather padding.
He can't wait for this day to be over.
They arrive at the facility without ceremony. It looms ahead like a beast, all sharp lines and blinding white walls.
Inside, women wait like cattle, eight chosen from hundreds, filtered and screened to offer their bodies as vessels. Incubators for an Alpha's heir.
It honestly makes him sick.