Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

6. The Irony Of The Alpha Dream

6

THE IRONY OF THE ALPHA DREAM

~VALE~

T he ice bath is both salvation and torture.

I ease myself in with a hiss, watching as the water rises around my useless legs. The cold should be shocking – at least it used to be way back then – but now I barely feel it.

Just another sign that things are getting worse, that this disease is progressing faster than anyone predicted.

The doctors call it a blessing, this growing numbness.

Say I should be grateful that at least I'm not in constant pain anymore. But they don't understand. The pain was proof I was still fighting… that I had a fucking chance.

This creeping absence of sensation?

It's just death coming for me one nerve ending at a time.

Death is inching closer and closer to claiming its next victim.

I lean against the tub's edge, letting my head rest on the cold porcelain as memories surface unbidden. Memories of when this all started when I was still whole as an Alpha.

What I consider useful to my pack.

It had been such a simple mission. Routine, even. The kind of operation we could have run in our sleep after years of working together. Some government pencil-pusher had tried to block our access to key intelligence, thinking bureaucracy could stop us from completing our objectives.

They never learn.

I'd already identified the weak points in their security protocols, the gaps in their surveillance coverage, and the personnel most likely to look the other way for the right incentive. I even mapped out every camera angle, patrol route, and potential complication.

That was my role in the pack – the strategist, the planner, the one who saw ten moves ahead while others focused on the immediate threat. I took pride in it. In being the mind behind our operations, in ensuring our success through meticulous preparation rather than brute force.

The mission had gone perfectly, of course. They always did when I was running point. We'd acquired the intel we needed, left no trace of our presence, and made it back to base without incident.

Should have been celebrating another successful operation.

Instead, everything went to hell during a standard training run.

The day had been brutally hot, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer and your lungs feel like they're working overtime. We were running drills – keeping sharp, and staying ready for the next mission.

Business as usual.

Atlas noticed first. He always does, somehow. Maybe it was a change in my scent or the way my footsteps faltered slightly. Maybe it was just that uncanny sixth sense he's developed since losing his sight.

The world started spinning, colors bleeding together like wet paint. My legs...my strong, reliable legs that had carried me through countless missions, suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else. Like they were made of lead and lightning all at once.

I remember Atlas calling my name.

How desperate I tried to respond.

Recall how the ground rushed up to meet me.

Then nothing.

It was just fragments after that; urgent voices growing distant, hands lifting me, sirens wailing…machines beeping…

They put me in a medical coma, they told me later.

Said it was the only way to stop the seizures, to keep my body from tearing itself apart as whatever was attacking my system ran its course.

The official report said it was a grazing shot during the mission. Just a bullet that barely touched me, hardly worth mentioning. Shouldn't have been anything serious.

But it wasn't just a bullet.

It was a message.

A warning.

A death sentence delivered in a laboratory-engineered package that no doctor can quite figure out. No known pathogen matches its profile. No existing treatment seems to touch it. No cure on the horizon.

Just this slow, inevitable decline.

First, it was just occasional numbness in my toes. Easy to ignore. Easy to pretend it wasn't happening. Then the pain started – burning, stabbing, constant. Made it hard to walk, think, and function like a normal individual. No less an Alpha.

The doctors prescribed everything they could.

Experimental treatments, Aggressive physical therapy, and lovely cocktails of medications that could probably cure whatever this shit was.

Nothing worked.

Nothing stopped the progression up my legs; the way the disease ate through nerve endings and muscle tissue like acid through paper. Nothing halted the creeping paralysis that threatened to turn me into a prisoner in my own body.

The ice baths help, sometimes.

Numbs everything enough that I can pretend the lack of sensation is from the cold, not from my body betraying me piece by piece. Let me imagine, just for a moment, that this is temporary. That I'll step out of this tub and everything will be like it was before.

But my skin shouldn't be this red from the cold.

Wouldn't look like I've been scalded when I can barely feel the ice.

Another sign that I'm running out of time faster than anyone expected.

It makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I used to be the one who could outthink any opponent. The one who could see the patterns others missed and turn bureaucratic obstacles into advantages with a few carefully placed words or well-timed actions.

Now I can barely walk some days.

Can't run missions anymore.

Can't be the asset my pack needs.

They try to hide it, but I see the worry in their eyes.

The way they watch me struggle with basic tasks I used to perform without thought. The way they pretend not to notice when I have to stop and rest. When my legs refuse to cooperate because the pain becomes too much to mask.

It’s agonizing to watch each of them observe me.

Atlas with his careful attentiveness. Always aware of when I need help, even when I’m too fucking proud to dare ask or accept.

Dante is the forced joker in the group. He’s always trying to keep things as normal as they can possibly be in such a frail state, despite the reality that shatters his heart to see me deteriorate day by day.

Kieran is the silent observer. The support that watches in the midst, ready to catch me when I fall, but hopes to never be given such an opportunity to perform at his peak.

They're all waiting for the inevitable.

Watching me die by inches.

All powerless to stop it.

Just like I am.

The water's not even cold anymore, heat leached from my failing body turning it tepid.

Won’t be long before this treatment will be on the list of useless methods of alleviation, bringing me closer to that package of acknowledgment that will be presented to me sooner than later.

Hospice care…

I push the mere idea as far as it can in the depths of my mind, but the reality keeps sinking in, while I try to distract myself.

Counting the sensations I can still feel. Measuring progress in losses. Racing against a clock I can't see but know is ticking down

The disease is winning.

Has been winning since that first moment of dizziness on the training field, and will keep on its path of victory until there's nothing left of me but memories and regrets.

And all the strategic thinking in the world can't solve this problem.

It’s funny when you’re forced to accept that you can't plan your way out of this decay. Can't possibly outsmart death when it comes from within.

This is my reality.

My future.

My end.

Unless I can find that single puzzle piece of change that could trigger a new path of hope? If I can find answers that may assist in discovering some other method to tackle this sick unknown illness. Or maybe a miracle will happen…

But I stopped believing in miracles the day my legs first betrayed me.

So I sit in my lukewarm bath, watching my reddened skin refuse to acknowledge the ice, and there are those taunting thoughts that seep into my consciousness like how the frost is desperate to continue seeping into my lifeless set of legs beneath this icy oasis of water.

How much time do I have left?

How many more missions can I support from the sidelines?

How long before I become a burden they can't afford to carry?

The questions have no answers, and the future does not dare to hold any promise that the end of the path will lead me to feel content with facing death.

The future holds no promises.

So I close my eyes against the truth written in my unfeeling flesh, and I wait for the water to grow warm enough to admit defeat.

Just like my body already has.

The tepid water lulls me into memories I usually keep locked away, dangerous things that prowl the edges of consciousness like wolves at twilight.

These are the memories that cut deepest – not of what was taken, but of what was freely given and lost anyway. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands, watching it slip away no matter how tightly you grasp.

I remember running with a clarity that makes my useless legs ache with phantom strength.

The wind had tasted like possibilities back then, each breath a promise of horizons yet to chase. My body moved in perfect harmony, every muscle and sinew working together in a dance I took for granted, never imagining it could end. Like a symphony playing its final note without knowing the conductor has already laid down his baton.

It was during one of those runs that everything changed – not the run that broke me, but one that haunts me still with its sweetness. The autumn air had painted the world in amber and gold, leaves dancing on the breeze like nature's confetti when it happened.

A scent so sweet, so hauntingly familiar it stole the breath from my lungs and replaced it with pure memory.

Cupcakes.

But not just any cupcakes – these were my grandmother's autumn masterpieces, the ones that made her tiny bakery a sanctuary for those who still believed in magic.

Like catching fragments of childhood dreams in sugar and starlight.

I can still see them arranged on her vintage trays with an artistry that bordered on sorcery. Swirls of teal frosting caught the light like seafoam at twilight, while magenta accents seemed to pulse with their own inner radiance. A dusting of edible shimmer transformed each one into a small miracle, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to dream in technicolor instead of safe, pastel mundanity.

"These are witch's cupcakes," she would say with a wink that held secrets, her eyes twinkling with mischief and magic in equal measure.

Each creation was split between worlds – rich chocolate meeting delicate vanilla in a perfect division, like day and night sharing a single horizon. Not marbled or mixed, but distinctly separated, each flavor holding its own truth while complementing its opposite.

But the real magic lay hidden within. In every batch, one cupcake held a secret heart of gold, its filling catching light like captured stars when lucky teeth found treasure. The pursuit of that golden center became a quest that transformed simple customers into adventurers, each bite holding the possibility of discovery.

The last time I tasted one of those cupcakes feels like a story from another life, told about someone else who wore my face but knew how to smile without pain shadowing the edges.

I'd spent the day in her bakery, watching hope and disappointment play across faces as each customer sought that elusive golden center.

As closing time painted long shadows across the floor, a single cupcake remained – perfect in its solitude, teal, and magenta swirling together like the northern lights captured in frosting.

"This one's yours," my grandmother said, her eyes holding that special light that meant magic was afoot, real magic, the kind that changes lives and destinies. "You've earned it."

My hands trembled as I lifted it, the weight of possibility almost too much to bear. That first bite filled the world with wonder, and there it was – that shimmering golden center, like holding a piece of forever on my tongue.

Her laughter filled the bakery with joy as she brought forth a box that seemed to breathe with its own life.

Dark wood carved with patterns that danced when you looked away, promising secrets for those patient enough to wait for them.

"When the clock strikes midnight," she said, her voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "Some magic needs the perfect moment to bloom."

But midnight never came.

At least, not the way it was supposed to be.

The call that shattered everything came at 11:47 PM, hospital voices speaking words that rewrote the world.

Like watching color drain from a painting, leaving only shadows behind.

She was gone, taking her magic and mysteries with her into whatever lies beyond.

The box still sits in my closet, unopened, sometimes whispering with her voice in the depths of night. But I've never found the courage to lift its lid, to face that final piece of her magic. Some gifts, once opened, can never be unclosed.

Some mysteries solve themselves best by remaining mysteries.

That scent – that impossible, wonderful, heartbreaking scent of autumn and childhood dreams – vanished with her. I thought I'd never encounter it again, had resigned myself to carrying it only in memory, like pressing dried flowers between pages of a book you'll never read again.

Until that day.

Like finding a key you'd forgotten existed to a door you never knew you needed to open.

She stood in a valley that seemed painted by some mad artist's brush, where dark ivory foliage danced with touches of purple so deep they bordered on maroon.

Nature itself had reshaped its canvas around her, as if even the trees and bushes knew they were merely backdrop to something extraordinary.

A white van waited nearby, half-hidden by the riot of strangely colored vegetation.

Everything about the scene whispered wrongness, each element carefully staged like a theater set waiting for tragedy to unfold. But I couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but drink in every detail with the desperate thirst of a man who'd found an oasis in hell.

Her hair caught the light like captured seafoam, that same impossible shade of teal ivory that had crowned my grandmother's most magical creations.

Magenta strands wove through the longer layers, invisible until the wind lifted them like ribbons of dawn breaking through twilight. The colors should have warred with each other, should have seemed artificial and wrong.

Instead, they looked like destiny made manifest.

Like the aurora borealis had descended to earth and decided to dance through her hair.

Her skin bore the kiss of extended sun exposure, a golden tan that spoke of hours spent beneath an unforgiving sky. Not the angry red of burns or the deliberate bronze of leisure, but something more...enforced. Even from this distance, something about it raised warnings in the tactical part of my brain – the part currently drowning in her scent.

God, that scent.

It filled my lungs like liquid magic, each breath a symphony of sensation.

Sweet vanilla twined with rich chocolate in perfect harmony, while fresh-baked promises danced with childhood dreams. Memories of autumn evenings and midnight possibilities swirled together into an intoxicating blend that made my head spin and my heart ache with recognition.

She moved toward the van with a grace that carried undertones of hesitation, each step measured as if the ground might betray her.

Tall and slender, she reminded me of a hothouse flower transplanted to wild soil – beautiful but fragile, reaching desperately for sunlight after too long in shadow.

Her movements spoke volumes in a language I'd been trained to read: the careful positioning that expected pain, the tension thrumming through her shoulders ready for fight or flight, the way her eyes cataloged escape routes with practiced precision.

Like a dream learning how to run before it dissolves.

When she reached the van's open door, one foot already crossing the threshold between present and future, she turned.

Somehow, impossibly , her eyes found mine across the distance that suddenly seemed both infinite and nonexistent.

Time surrendered its steady march and held its breath.

The world narrowed to this single, perfect moment of connection.

Her eyes... dear god, her eyes. Looking into them was like seeing every question I'd ever had answered all at once, like finding the key to a lock I hadn't known needed opening. They held secrets and shadows, pain and possibility, magic and madness all swirled together like the colors in her hair.

Her scent expanded then, filling the world with impossible possibilities.

It was everything I'd lost and everything I'd never known I needed: the sweet nostalgia of my grandmother's bakery mixing with the sharp clarity of evergreen forests, while delicate flower gardens danced with the subtle comfort of afternoon tea.

Every childhood memory, unvoiced dream, and lost possibility distilled into a single breath.

For one heartbeat, I believed in the possibility of her being mine. Like in fairy tales, where love at first sight, led to those wondrous happy ever afters that didn't taste like ash and regret.

But fairy tales are liars dressed in pretty words and prettier promises.

The real stories hide beneath, written in blood and tears, in midnight calls that come too early, in boxes of magic left unopened because some truths cut too deep to touch.

I knew it even then, in that frozen moment of connection. Nothing this perfect could last.

Unless it was a trap waiting to catch its prey.

But god, how I wanted to believe. How I wished to be that very moth heading towards that burning flame, knowing what catch would send me into a burning oblivion.

The moment shattered like sugar glass.

She blinked, the van door slid shut with the finality of a coffin lid, and engines roared to life with a sound like destiny laughing at the mortal presumption.

Just like that, she was gone, taking with her the scent of promise and possibilities.

I could have followed if I'd known then what emptiness waited in my near future. Fought to interrupt whatever was hidden in that valley to track down this Omega who’s scent teased of memories I thought would forever stay forgotten and buried.

Looking back now, with legs that barely work and a future measured in declining abilities, I wonder if everything would be different if I'd chased that van.

If I'd trusted that moment of connection.

Believed in the magic of teal frosting and magenta dreams one last time.

But fairy tales lie like lovers at midnight, sweet and seductive and utterly false.

Laughable when you think about it now.

The irony of life in this sinister world who shows mercy to no one.

The water's gone completely cold now, or maybe that's just me.

Getting out is always the worst part – a battle between pride and necessity that pride loses more often with each passing day.

I reach for the metal bars installed along the tub's edge, my personal cage of accessibility that transforms my bathroom into something between a hospital ward and a prison cell.

The chrome gleams mockingly in the overhead light as I grip it, preparing for the herculean task of hauling myself upright when my legs refuse to cooperate.

Like puppets with half their strings cut …

I think bitterly, watching the useless limbs float in the water. There's an art to this now, a careful choreography of upper body strength and momentum that lets me pretend I'm still somewhat independent.

The transfer bench waits beside the tub – another concession to reality I fought against until a particularly bad fall made the choice for me.

Water cascades off my body as I maneuver onto the bench, each movement calculated to minimize strain on legs that barely register sensation anymore. The towel is within easy reach – I've learned to position everything just so, creating an environment where I can maintain at least the illusion of self-sufficiency.

The ritual of drying off and dressing has become an exercise in patience and strategy. Soft flannel pajama pants wait on the heated towel rack, another small luxury that makes the process slightly less humiliating.

Getting them on requires a series of practiced movements, lifting and manipulating legs that feel increasingly like dead weight attached to my body.

"Preservation through minimal usage," the doctors had said, as if rationing my remaining mobility like wartime supplies would somehow stave off the inevitable.

Still, I follow their advice in the evenings when no one's watching, when I can drop the pretense of fighting against the decline. Save the strength for when it matters, for the moments when I need my pack to believe I'm not completely useless yet.

It forces me to think what it would be like to have an Omega around to assist me in times like these. One that didn’t mind that I was a dying cause or waste of time. I’ve envisioned what it could be to have her help without judgement or guilt. To feel her warmth as tenderly soft hands graze lightly across my flesh, moving upward with each button before she leans in and gives me an encouraging kiss.

Dreams. All of it.

I quietly laugh at how pitiful it is to even imagine such possibilities.

No Omega wants a disabled Alpha…

The wheelchair sits waiting, a throne I never wanted for a kingdom of diminishing returns. Each transfer into it feels like admitting defeat, even as I recognize the necessity.

Another dark chuckle that escapes me as I settle into the familiar contours echoes off bathroom tiles with bitter irony.

"From pack enforcer to invalid," I mutter to the empty room. "What a fucking journey."

Might as well throw me into the circus for I’d be able to make Alphas far and wide laugh at my predicament.

At least this isn't the final destination.

No, that honor belongs to the hospital bed I know waits in my future, where I'll lie counting breaths until even that simple autonomy deserts me.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

My wheels whisper against hardwood as I navigate the familiar path to my desk.

Earlier conversations drift back, fragments of Atlas and Kieran's discussion about their next mission filtering through memory.

Patient 495 – the number sticks in my mind like a burr, demanding attention. Something about her retrieval being a priority, with termination authorized if extraction proves too difficult.

What makes one omega so important that they'd risk a full infiltration? And why the kill order if she can't be taken alive?

In my experience, omegas are either valuable or they're not. This both-or-neither approach sets off warning bells in the tactical part of my brain that still functions at full capacity.

The thought of omegas brings its own bitter taste.

These days, they exist in my world only as theoretical entities or as whispered offers in medical facilities.

"Comfort omegas," they're called – professionals paid handsomely to service dying alphas who'll never know true mating. The universe's last cruel joke for those of us circling the drain.

My hands clench on the wheelchair's arms as an unwanted image rises: sterile hospital rooms, pitying smiles, the mechanical exchange of pleasure for payment. The fantasy of connection without the reality of it.

A pale imitation of something I'll never have.

Enough .

I have to tell myself firmly, wheeling up to the command center I've created at my desk.

If I don’t get out of my own head, the thoughts will keep spiraling down, and it would make a long night of nightmares and broken expectations.

Three monitors glow to life at my touch, each one a window into the digital world where my disability means nothing. Here, in the realm of information and strategy, I can still be useful.

My fingers move across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, pulling up databases and search algorithms I've spent years perfecting.

If they need information about this mysterious Patient 495, I'll find it. If there are patterns to uncover, secrets to decode, or strategies to formulate, I'll be the one to do it.

My body may be failing, but my mind remains sharp as ever.

Let the others handle the physical aspects of the mission. My battlefield is here, among the ones and zeros, in the shadow realm of data where I can still fight without legs that work or a future that extends beyond the next few years.

The screens fill with information as my searches begin their relentless hunt. Somewhere in this digital ocean lies the truth about Patient 495, about why she matters enough to risk my pack's lives.

The dark web opens before me like a labyrinth of shadows, each path promising secrets for those brave or foolish enough to seek them.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, breaking through surface-level security like tissue paper. Ravenscroft's outer defenses fall just as easily – amateur work meant to deter casual hackers and curious journalists.

But beneath that superficial protection lies secrets desperate to not be found by someone as smart as me.

The first real firewall hits like a slap to the face, elegant and vicious in its complexity. This is military-grade security, the kind that whispers of government black sites and classified operations.

My initial probe bounces back so hard it nearly crashes my system.

"Playing hardball, are we?" I mutter, cracking my knuckles as I settle in for a real fight. This is my element, where physical limitations mean nothing and pure intellect rules supreme.

The hours blur together as I dive deeper, each layer of security more intricate than the last.

Ravenscroft's general information comes easily enough – staff records, supply manifests, and maintenance schedules. But anything involving Patient 495 or her ward is locked behind encryption that would make NSA analysts weep.

A pattern emerges as I work: four high-security sectors, each protecting data about specific patients. Four omegas were deemed valuable enough to warrant this level of digital fortification. The realization makes my blood run cold.

What the hell are they doing in there that requires this much protection?

My coffee cup scrapes against the desk as I reach for it absently, muscle memory seeking caffeine. The liquid that touches my lips is scalding hot, nothing like the cold dregs I expected.

I jerk back, cursing as the burn registers.

"Wait." I frown at the steaming cup, mind rewinding. "When did I..."

"About twenty minutes ago," Atlas's voice comes from behind me, making me startle. He's perched on my bed, one leg crossed over the other in that impossibly elegant way of his. A small earbud dangles from his right ear, his audiobook apparently paused mid-narrative.

I stare at him, then at the coffee, then back at him.

The digital clock on my monitor reads 3:47 AM.

"How long have you been here?"

"A while." His lips quirk in that subtle way that means he's amused by something only he understands. "You were rather engrossed in your hunt."

That's putting it mildly. My neck creaks as I stretch, muscles protesting hours of stillness.

"How do you do that? Move around like you're not blind as a bat?"

A soft chuckle escapes him.

"The same way I made your coffee exactly how you like it – two Splenda, four cream, sweet enough to give a dentist nightmares. I pay attention."

"You do more than pay attention," I grumble, taking another careful sip of the perfectly prepared coffee. "The way you navigate this place, you'd think the blindfold was just a fashion statement."

Atlas shrugs, the silk band across his eyes shifting slightly with the movement.

"The world is more than what we see. Sound, scent, air pressure, vibration – they all tell stories if you learn to listen."

"Stories like whatever's playing in your ear?" I gesture toward his dangling earbud, then feel foolish for the motion he can't see.

But he seems to sense it anyway.

"Ah, yes. Rather appropriate, actually. A tale of omegas in captivity and their rescue by mysterious alphas in glowing masks." His head tilts thoughtfully. "The parallels to our upcoming mission aren't lost on me."

A laugh escapes me, raw and genuine.

"What, are you trying to manifest some grand pack romance? Looking for our fairy tale ending?"

"If it works, it works." He says it lightly, but something in his tone suggests he's only half joking. "Though I suspect our reality might prove more complicated than fiction."

I turn back to my screens, where Ravenscroft's secrets still taunt me from behind their digital walls.

"Reality usually is. Speaking of which, this place... there's something wrong here, Atlas. The security they've got around these omega patients – it's beyond anything I've seen outside of top-level government facilities."

"Wrong how?" He leans forward slightly, all traces of amusement vanishing.

"It's not just Patient 495 they're protecting. There are three others, all locked down under the same level of security. The encryption, the firewalls, the redundant systems – this is nation-state-level protection. The kind you use when you're hiding something that could start or end wars."

Atlas absorbs this in silence, his fingers drumming a thoughtful rhythm on his knee.

It's fascinating to watch him process information – the slight shifts in his expression, the minute changes in his posture that speak volumes to those who know how to read them.

"Can you break it?" he finally asks.

"Given enough time? Maybe. But we're talking weeks, not days. And that's assuming they don't catch on and change their protocols." I scrub a hand over my face, frustration mounting. "Whatever they're doing with these omegas, they're serious about keeping it secret."

"Then we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." His tone carries a hint of anticipation that I recognize from countless missions past. "Go in blind and adapt."

"Blind being the operative word," I mutter, then wince at my own tasteless joke.

But Atlas just smiles that enigmatic smile of his.

"Sometimes not seeing is an advantage. It keeps you from being distracted by what's obvious, lets you focus on what's hidden." He rises smoothly from the bed, moving with that uncanny grace that makes me question everything I think I know about blindness. "Get some sleep, Vale. You've done enough for tonight."

"Says the man listening to romance novels at four in the morning."

"Research," he corrects primly, retrieving his fallen earbud. "One should always study successful precedents."

I watch him navigate perfectly around my furniture, heading for the door without a single hesitation or misstep.

"You really think we're going to find our happily ever after in a place like Ravenscroft?"

He pauses at the threshold, hand resting lightly on the frame.

"I think fate has a sense of humor. And I think sometimes the darkest places hide the brightest lights."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone with my computers, my cooling coffee, and thoughts of what other secrets Ravenscroft might be hiding behind its walls.