амега (peterick)

zéro.

The broken street lamps flicker, illuminating the blackened sidewalks in an ebbing, orange glow, dull and uninterested in comparison to the manic purple sign flashing brightly above the entrance of the la Reine des Loups nightclub. Formerly titled the Hotel Royal, myth tells us it was once a home for creatures thirsty for blood and magic. Centuries later, the place boasts good vibes and mind-numbing alcohol, for decades holding its reputation strong as one of the most popular clubs in America for flourishing Alpha entertainment.

I pull my confining leather jacket tight around my slim frame, shielding myself from the biting cold as I rush toward the lively building. The queue of Alphas, men in their customized, ripped tanks and girls limping from stiletto to stiletto in skimpy skirts, stretches for several blocks. As always, the club is full to its brim; they'll be waiting out here for hours, only for their sexual desires to be abruptly turned away by the bouncers guarding the door. Most of them probably haven't even taken the required suppressants in order to grant them access. They scoff their jealousy as the red velvet barrier is lifted for my accustomed arrival.

Entering the club is like walking straight into an oven; a two hundred degree high school disco boiling dozens of human sized tanks filled with sweat and semen, evaporating from the mass of swaying, entranced bodies in thick coils of steam. The overwhelming scent of hot sex threatens my skin to melt away from my skeleton and pool at my feet like candle wax. I can barely see five feet ahead of me.

Avoiding the natural instincts pulling me toward the dancefloor, I locate the bar to the left of the walkway coursing up the center of the vast room, lined with eager Alphas as they wait for their favourite performers to come out and please them. B, the manager of this Omega heaven, holds a special reservation for me here. I may be a frequent visitor, but I rarely come to flounder the submissive dancing behind iron barred cages.

"Buzz!" I call, raising my hand as I break free from the mist. Everybody here knows him only as B, the standard digit used to label Betas, but I prefer to call him by his childhood nickname. The youthful, brown eyed man flashes me a grin as I approach the bar, reflexively thrusting a chilled beer under my nose, on the house. I wave it away, resting my arms atop the counter and restlessly rapping my knuckles against it.

"Wentz," he greets. "What's the verdict?"

"Sex," I state. "This place needs more of it."

"I need more of it. Fuck, I wish I was an Omega. Trust me to bump into one Alpha..."

Betas, or "normals," as the world likes to recognize them, are the closest to average out of any of us. Varying sexualities aren't known to be sparse, but it's easier done than said for an Alpha to be drawn to an Omega, and Betas to other Betas, regardless of whether they like to be called "he" or "she." Natural instinct draws them to other Betas, but normals do have tendencies to swing the other way from time to time.

"Do they like you?" I ask.

"I think he does."

"In that case, I approve." I raise an invisible glass to toast his hopeful success, my eardrums bursting as the music intensifies suddenly from haunting to head banging. The sweat coating my forehead thickens. Puffing wearily, I slap the pockets of my jeans with my palms and drag out a cigarette and lighter. "Man, it's hot as fuck in here; I'm going out for a smoke. Coming?"

Buzz smirks, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. "Betas don't like to work here."

"Couldn't tell," I jest, pinching the butt of the cig between my teeth. "Back door?"

"Hop over."

He unlatches the flap at the far end of the counter and I walk on through the "employees only" exit, nodding curtly as we cross paths. I turn right out of the bare, unused kitchen, which opens up directly into the alley where the employees like to hide during their breaks.