8. Infiltrate And Destroy
8
INFILTRATE AND DESTROY
~DANTE~
T he underground meeting room smells like gun oil and determination.
Our weapons are laid out across the steel table like deadly puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled. Each of us moves with practiced precision, checking magazines, testing comm units, and ensuring everything is perfect.
Because it has to be perfect.
We won't get a second chance at this.
"The size alone makes it a nightmare," Kieran mutters, methodically cleaning his favorite rifle. "Ravenscroft isn't just big…it's a fucking labyrinth. Multiple levels, endless corridors, security checkpoints every fifty feet."
I watch his hands move over the weapon, remembering our scout mission.
The facility had loomed against the sky like some gothic monastery gone wrong, all sharp angles and hidden horrors. Even from outside, you could feel the wrongness seeping from its walls.
"The security's unlike anything we've hit before," I add, adjusting my earpiece to sit more comfortably against my good ear. "Not just guards and cameras. They've got routine exchanges happening at all hours – vans coming and going like some twisted delivery service."
Vale looks up from his laptop, his legs propped carefully in his wheelchair. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him use it in this space, but that means he’s conserving his energy so he can run with us into this hell of a barricade.
"What kind of exchanges?"
Kieran's hands still on his weapon.
"Two kinds, from what we saw. One's basically a corpse disposal…vans full of dead omegas being shipped out to God knows where. The others..." He shakes his head. "Live transfers to other facilities. Like they're trading baseball cards but with people."
If that doesn’t sound inhuman.
Then again, these fuckers don’t give a damn. All of this is just an exchange in their books. Nothing more.
"What about the special four?" Vale's fingers hover over his keyboard. "The ones we're supposed to extract…do they get moved around?"
"Never seen it," I say, remembering the hours of surveillance. "Those four – Patients 495, 367, 892, and 444. They stay put. No transfers, no releases. Just endless tests and trials."
Kieran frowns, setting down his rifle.
"The secrecy around them is what gets me. No names, just numbers. Like they're trying to erase every trace of who these omegas were before Ravenscroft got hold of them."
"There has to be something special about them," he continues, pacing now because he can never stay still when he's working through a problem. "The way they're treated, the security around their files…it's like they've got qualities other omegas don't. Like they've survived things that should have killed them."
Atlas, who's been quietly assembling equipment by touch alone, speaks up.
"That could be exactly it." His blindfolded face turns toward us with uncanny accuracy. "Their value isn't in who they were, but in what they've become. What they've survived."
Vale goes suddenly still – the kind of stillness that means his tactical mind has just made a connection the rest of us haven't seen yet.
"Oh shit," he whispers, fingers flying across his keyboard with renewed purpose.
"What is it?" I prompt quickly, knowing if someone doesn't draw him out, he'll disappear down the rabbit hole of research and leave us hanging. "Vale, what are you thinking?"
His face has gone pale, making the shadows under his eyes more pronounced.
"They're not just experimenting on them. They're training them. Breaking them down and rebuilding them into something specific."
"For what purpose?" Atlas asks head tilted in that bird-like way he has when he's processing new information.
"For sale," Vale says grimly. "But not to just any buyer. These omegas are being conditioned for alphas who couldn't handle normal ones. Alphas who'd..." He swallows hard. "Who'd destroy an ordinary omega within days."
The implications hit like a physical blow.
I think of the vans full of dead omegas, of the endless transfers between facilities. How many had they gone through before finding these four who could survive?
How many had died in the process of creating their perfect products?
"You're talking about feral alphas," Kieran says flatly. "The ones too dangerous to be allowed near regular omegas."
Vale nods, still typing.
"Think about it. Most countries have laws against letting certain alphas claim mates. The ones with histories of violence, the ones who've killed previous omegas, or ones whose instincts are too strong to control. They have lots of criminals stuck on fucking islands and who are the government going to send to that abandoned piece of floating land with feral Alphas in each directional compass? No one is going to volunteer as tribute. No Omega who wishes to be pampered and loved. Regardless of the circumstances, those alphas still exist. Still have needs . And let’s be real, we know they may be convicted fuckers trapped in their circumstances, but they have money to spend."
Fuck.
He’s absolutely right.
"So Ravenscroft creates custom omegas who can survive them," Atlas concludes, his voice carrying a rare edge of disgust. "Breaking them down and rebuilding them until they're strong enough…or broken enough…to endure what normal omegas couldn't."
My hand clenches around the gun I'm cleaning, metal creaking under my grip.
"They're creating victims who can survive being victimized. Over and over again."
"Worse," Vale says, turning his laptop to show us strings of code I can't begin to decipher. "They're not just making them survivable. They're making them valuable. These four…they've got special abilities. Enhancements from whatever shit Ravenscroft's been pumping into them. The kind of abilities that would make them irresistible to the right buyer."
“What do you mean? They got magic or some shit?” Kieran asks, looking confused. “You know that isn’t real.”
“No, not magic and shit.” Vale shakes his head, looking focused. “Enhancements. Like making an Omega be able to see in the dark? Or inject them with chemicals that enhance their ability to run a lot faster. Sure, they can’t defy gravity and the common laws of life, but what if they can dodge a lot faster? Can see things at a distance so they can avoid what we can’t see. They’re molding them to be weapons of their own accord.”
Atlas whistles, gauging our attention.
“Create Omegas that can survive the onslaught of raging feral Alphas who’d be desperate to claim them within whatever pack they’ve molded in captivity,” he summarizes. “And the longer they’ve been conditioned in those laboratory states, the more valuable they become for a pack to purchase in the depths of those forbidden islands or hidden underground, where feral Alphas roam and fight, or in the depths of cage rings where only one winner can be rewarded a worthy Omega that can handle that wild violence.”
The room goes quiet as we absorb this.
Each of us has seen horrible things, just as we’ve done a few actions that will haunt us in our graves, but this level of systemically torturing Omegas until the strongest survive, just to sell them to monsters…
It’s a new level of depravity.
"No wonder they authorized termination if we can't extract them cleanly," Kieran mutters. "Can't risk their precious products falling into the wrong hands. Or worse, telling their stories."
"What makes Patient 495 so special?" Kieran asks, breaking the heavy silence that followed Vale's revelation. "Why is she the primary target?"
Vale wheels closer to the table, his movements careful but determined.
"Six years," he says, the words carrying weight. "She's been there the longest. Six years of systematic manipulation, of experimental injections, of being thrown into situations designed to push her past normal survival thresholds."
His fingers drum against his wheelchair arm, a nervous tell he's never managed to break.
"Think about it – six years of constant fight-or-flight response. Of being pushed to adapt or die. Most people would break within months, but she's survived. More than survived – she's adapted."
"What would that do to someone's mind?" Atlas asks softly, his blindfolded face turning toward Vale with eerie precision. "Six years of systematic torture, of being forced to evolve past normal human limits?"
We all fall silent, contemplating the horror of it.
Even with our collective experience of violence and trauma, it's hard to imagine surviving that kind of prolonged psychological warfare.
Vale breaks the silence first, his tactical mind already analyzing possibilities.
"There are two likely outcomes," he says, voice clinical but hands trembling slightly. "First scenario – she's gone completely feral. Pure animalistic response, no higher reasoning left. If that's the case..." He swallows hard. "If we can't reach any trace of humanity in her, termination might be a mercy."
The words land like lead in my stomach. Six years of suffering, only to be put down by the people meant to save her.
The wrongness of it tastes like ash in my mouth.
"That can't be our only option," I say, surprised by the vehemence in my voice. Looking around, I see the same resistance written on my packmates' faces. Even with our feral moments, and our sometimes-tenuous grip on our alpha instincts, we'd exhaust every possibility before harming an omega we're meant to protect.
"Second scenario," Vale continues quickly, clearly as uncomfortable with the first option as the rest of us. "Her mind could have developed a compartmentalization mechanism. A split consciousness, if you will. One part remains capable of normal interaction, while another..." He searches for words. "Another part emerges when triggered, like a survival program activating in response to specific stimuli."
"Like an animal's fight-or-flight response?" Kieran asks, leaning forward with interest.
"Exactly. Even the gentlest creature will go feral if its survival is threatened. But with Patient 495, Ravenscroft could have deliberately cultivated this response. Made it controllable, predictable."
Atlas nods slowly.
"It would make her more marketable. A weapon that can be sheathed and drawn at will is more valuable than one that's always active."
"And more manageable," Vale adds. "They could demonstrate to potential buyers that she's mouldable, adaptable to whatever specific purpose they have in mind. A perfect balance of deadly capability and controlled submission."
"The perfect pet," Atlas says with quiet disgust. "Engineered to be whatever her owner demands."
"Fucking mindfuckery," Kieran spits out, starting to pace again.
His agitation fills the room like static electricity.
"This whole organization... it's not just abuse, it's the systematic destruction of everything human. Everything sacred." His voice rises with each word. "They're just omegas! Just people born into this fucked-up world! Why are they being victimized like this? What gives anyone the right to?—"
His fists clench at his sides, rage making his whole body tremble. We all feel it – this helpless fury at a system that allows such atrocities.
That categorizes some lives as disposable, and some beings as less than human.
I watch my packmates process this information, each in their own way: Atlas stands absolutely still, a predator scenting prey, his blindfolded face revealing nothing but the tension in his jaw.
Vale's fingers fly across his keyboard with increasing urgency, as if he could find answers in the endless stream of data.
Kieran paces like a caged wolf, his movements sharp with barely contained violence.
And me?
I touch my damaged ear, remembering how it feels to be irreparably changed by circumstances beyond your control.
Patient 495 didn't choose this fate any more than I chose to lose half my hearing. But while my damage was from a single explosive moment, hers has been carefully, systematically inflicted over years…
The thought makes me want to tear Ravenscroft apart with my bare hands.
"They're not born to fall into these circumstances," Atlas says, his quiet voice cutting through our collective rage. "They're submitted."
The word hits me like a physical blow, and my thoughts spill out before I can contain them.
"Submitted...meaning someone in their lives reported them. Someone deliberately put them in Ravenscroft."
Atlas nods slowly, the motion deliberate and heavy with meaning. The implications spread through the room like poison gas, stealing our breath as understanding dawns.
"You're telling me," Kieran whispers, his voice dangerous and low, "that someone in their lives – their family, their friends, people who should have protected them – decided that because they were an omega, or maybe just inconvenient, they deserved to be locked up in an asylum known for killing omegas in the name of research?"
Atlas doesn't answer immediately. I know his patterns well enough to recognize this as calculated restraint – he's giving Kieran's rage time to simmer rather than explode.
The silence stretches, becoming almost unbearable as we wait for confirmation of something too horrible to contemplate.
Finally, Atlas speaks, each word measured and precise.
"That's the only way they can be submitted. This isn't about criminal behavior – actual criminals go to actual prisons, face actual consequences. No one simply gets sent to Ravenscroft." His blindfolded face turns toward each of us in turn. "They're submitted after being deemed mentally unstable or incompatible with available packs. And that designation requires exhausting every possible pack option first."
"There's more to it," Vale says softly from his position by the computers. His fingers have stopped their endless typing, hovering motionless over the keyboard. "There's a pattern I've noticed. A... consistency in who gets targeted for these false accusations."
"What do you mean?" I ask, though something in his tone tells me I won't like the answer.
Vale's hands clench briefly before he forces them to relax.
"Those who don't fit the 'right' appearance as an omega – they're particularly vulnerable to these accusations. It's easier to make charges of instability stick when society has already decided someone doesn't look the part."
Frowns deepen around the room as we process this.
Vale sighs, then drops what feels like another bomb.
"I've been talking to the other subunits in Parazodiac Nexus."
That gets everyone's attention.
We've been operating so long as our own isolated unit that it's easy to forget we're part of something larger. The Parazodiac Nexus Operations isn't just us – it's an entire network of alpha packs working to infiltrate and maintain some semblance of order in the black market dealings between alphas, betas, and omegas.
We're the ones the government sends in while pretending they're not systematically dismantling the very operations they rely on in the shadows. Our unit, Subdivision A, earned its designation through having the highest combination of successful rescues and confirmed kills. When situations require special handling, when standard protocols won't suffice, they call us.
The irony isn't lost on me – we're essentially government-sanctioned criminals taking down other criminals, all while our superiors pretend they don't benefit from the very systems we're supposedly disrupting. It's a dance of hypocrisy and necessary evil that we've learned to navigate, but moments like this make the bitter taste of it rise in my throat.
Vale continues, his voice taking on the clinical tone he uses when delivering particularly difficult intelligence.
"The subunits have been tracking submission patterns. It's not random, and it's not just about mental stability or pack compatibility. There's a systematic targeting of omegas who don't fit traditional expectations – whether that's appearance, behavior, or background."
The implication settles over us like a shroud.
We're not just dealing with individual acts of cruelty but with a coordinated effort to remove "undesirable" omegas from society. To turn them into products for the very alphas society claims to protect them from.
Atlas remains perfectly still, a statue carved from tension and controlled rage. Kieran's pacing has stopped, which is almost more worrying than his movement.
And I...I find myself touching my damaged ear again, wondering how many of these omegas were marked as "different" by things equally beyond their control.
If we were Omegas with our list of disabilities, we would be thrown in a pit and set on fire due to our lack of perfection. These Omegas are being given to these laboratories to become rats all because they don’t fit the labeled implication of a perfect and worthy Omega for the plentiful packs of Alphas deemed valuable to the government’s domain.
It’s exactly why we have a love-and-hate relationship with the government because we understand the underlying truth of our continued existence.
The bitter irony of our position isn't lost on me as I watch my packmates process this latest revelation.
We're given carte blanche to conduct these missions, handed the best tools and intelligence, all because we're useful to the powers that be – despite being what society would typically consider broken alphas.
A blind pack leader.
A half-deaf tactical specialist.
A trauma-bonded enforcer.
The strategist with a degenerative condition that eats away at his mobility and lifespan.
By all social standards, we should be outcasts.
Instead, we're Subdivision A, the elite unit of Parazodiac Nexus, precisely because our "flaws" make us unpredictable, and make us think outside conventional boundaries.
Watching Vale work his magic on the computer systems, I can't help but appreciate the irony of our position.
Here we are, granted every privilege and tool we need for these missions, treated like elite operatives despite being what society would consider broken alphas.
Atlas, our thirty-seven-year-old leader, navigates the world without sight but seeing more than most people with working eyes.
I’m also thirty-seven, half-deaf but reading bodies and situations better than when I had full hearing.
Kieran at thirty-five, carrying the phantom pain of a broken bond that should have destroyed him.
And Vale, our youngest at thirty-two, a brilliant mind trapped in a body that's betraying him more each day.
We're useful to the powers that be, so our "flaws" are overlooked. But I can't help thinking about how different our fate would be if we were omegas instead of alphas.
Our ages alone would condemn us – any omega over thirty is considered past their prime, unworthy of investment. Never mind that rich alphas can afford endless fertility treatments for their aging omegas.
IVF, surrogacy, experimental therapies – all available if you have the money and the right designation.
But an unmated omega in their thirties? They're fodder for places like Ravenscroft. Better to use them for experiments than let them take up space in "proper" society.
I watch Vale's expression darken as he digs deeper into Ravenscroft's systems.
He's thinking about the Parazodiac Nexus, I can tell.
About why our organization was formed in the first place, about the delicate dance we do with the government. They pretend we're their obedient soldiers, and we let them pretend as long as they don't interfere with our real mission.
The contract's simple enough: we maintain loyalty as long as they respect our autonomy.
The moment they try to control us too tightly, they'll learn exactly why we're considered the most dangerous pack in the organization. It's all about balance – they get plausible deniability, we get the freedom to operate our way.
My good ear picks up Vale muttering about the other subunits.
B, C, and D – all capable in their own right, just not quite as practiced at our particular brand of controlled chaos.
Though B and C are certainly giving us a run for our money lately.
B's got their deep cover operations down to an art form, infiltrating pack hierarchies and dismantling them from within. C handles all the cyber warfare, making sure our targets disappear from both physical and digital spaces. They're both climbing the ranks fast, their success rates nearly matching ours.
But it's D that's really stirring things up.
Newest to the ranks but rising faster than any unit in Nexus history. What's really got people talking isn't just their effectiveness – it's their whole approach to pack dynamics.
I can see why the traditionalists hate them.
D's thrown out the old alpha pack playbook, incorporating elements usually associated with omega packs.
Stronger emotional bonds, fluid hierarchy, and collective decision-making rather than pure dominance. By all traditional logic, it should make them weaker.
Instead, they're stable.
Efficient.
Their missions are precise, and their civilian casualty rates are remarkably low. While other units battle constant alpha aggression and dominance challenges, D operates like they've found some secret we've all been missing.
It's making everyone question things – the rigid hierarchies, the assumptions about designation determining capability.
The very foundations we've built our society on.
If alphas can function better by adopting traditional omega traits, what does that say about how we treat omegas in the first place?
We're not exactly traditional ourselves – maybe that's why we're so effective.
We've learned to turn our supposed weaknesses into strengths.
But we still have privileges these omegas don't.
We're still protected by our alpha status, still given chances they'll never get.
In another world, Patient 495 and the others might never have ended up in Ravenscroft. Their differences might have been valued rather than used as excuses to condemn them.
My hand finds my damaged ear again as I think about power and privilege, about how thin the line is between being considered useful and being considered disposable.
The government sees us as their attack dogs, forgetting that even dogs can choose their targets.
Can choose their masters and where their loyalty lies.
They gave us the authority to act.
They'll have to live with how we use it.
"The targeting isn't random," Vale says, his fingers still dancing across the keyboard. "Ravenscroft's new admissions follow distinct patterns. Ethnic minorities, power plays between rival families, and—" his voice catches slightly, "—parents punishing children they deem unworthy."
The words hit me like a physical blow, snapping something loose inside my chest that I've kept carefully bound.
Family betrayal.
The ultimate weapon, the deepest wound, the kind of hurt that never really heals.
My brother's face flashes in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Marcus. The older brother who should have protected me but instead tried to destroy me.
All because I excelled where he struggled because I represented everything he couldn't be.
He had all the external markers of a perfect alpha – the imposing height, the muscular build, and the commanding presence that made others instinctively lower their eyes.
His voice alone could freeze blood, make lesser alphas bare their throats in submission. But where it mattered, where it really counted…
He couldn't protect his omega.
Couldn't save his pack.
Couldn't handle the responsibility that came with the power he'd been granted by birth.
The memory of that failed mission rises like bile in my throat.
I'd tried to warn him. Told him the intel wasn't solid, and that taking an omega into that situation was asking for disaster. But he wouldn't listen.
Couldn't admit that his younger brother might know better.
I remember the aftermath with perfect clarity, despite how much I've tried to forget. The bodies of his packmates, broken and bloody.
His omega, sweet Maria who'd only wanted to prove herself useful, who'd trusted Marcus to keep her safe…her screams still echo in my nightmares, in the spaces where my hearing used to be.
My stomach churns as I think about bringing any omega into the kinds of missions we handle now.
The guilt of watching my brother's pack die, of seeing how that loss transformed him from a proud alpha into something feral and broken…sits in my chest like a stone.
The grief turned him savage.
Took whatever warmth had remained in his heart and replaced it with pure hatred. I watched my brother disappear into that darkness, watched him become something that even pack bonds couldn't reach.
We tried to help at first.
My pack – this pack – tried to give him a place to heal, to rebuild. But you can't help someone who's chosen vengeance over recovery.
Can't trust an alpha who's lost everything, who sees your happiness as a personal affront.
The day we cut ties was both the hardest and easiest decision I've ever made.
Hard because he was blood, because some part of me still remembered the brother who'd taught me to fight, who'd protected me when we were young. Easy because I couldn't risk my pack, couldn't endanger these men who'd become more family than my own blood ever was.
A feral alpha who's lost everything is more dangerous than any enemy you could face.
They have nothing left to lose, no reason to hold back, no instinct for self-preservation to keep them in check. Marcus made it clear he'd rather drag us all down with him than watch us succeed where he had failed.
Vale's voice brings me back to the present, still listing off the categories of omegas most at risk for Ravenscroft submission.
But all I can think about is how family is supposed to protect you; to lift you up in a world that wouldn't go over and beyond to do such.
Instead, we live in a world where parents sentence their children to torture, where brothers turn on brothers, where blood ties become weapons to destroy rather than bonds to strengthen.
I touch my damaged ear again, a habit I can't seem to break, touching the single earring I keep forgetting exists there.
The last gift my brother gave me before I put a bullet in his leg and walked away forever.
Sometimes I wonder if he's still out there, hunting and planning his revenge. Other times I hope he found peace.
Found a way back from the darkness that claimed him.
But looking at the data Vale's uncovered, seeing how deep the corruption runs, how families willingly sacrifice their own to places like Ravenscroft...I think I know the truth.
Families work together with the government to submit their children, particularly Omegas that no longer benefit them for some financial gain or package that will give them some closure while losing a being they raised — if you can even call it that.
"The newer submissions have to follow specific criteria," Atlas says, his voice carrying that particular tone he gets when piecing together a puzzle. "Either familial submissions or ethnicities that society has deemed...inconvenient. The ones submitting them must benefit somehow from the transaction."
Vale's fingers pause on his keyboard.
"If that's true, then these four omegas..." He trails off, mind clearly racing ahead. "They might have been chosen specifically for their differences. A diverse portfolio, if you will. Each one meant for a particular market, a particular type of buyer."
The clinical way he says it makes my stomach turn, but the logic is sound.
Even in this hellish equation, diversity adds value.
"Which would make Patient 495 the crown jewel," Atlas concludes, his blindfolded face turning toward Vale's screens as if he could see the data scrolling past. "The most unique, the most valuable, and therefore?—"
"The most expensive," Vale finishes.
Kieran's pacing intensifies, his boots wearing a path on the floor.
"Then how the fuck are we supposed to save them?" His hands shoot up in frustration, gesturing wildly. "Let's be real. Omegas are most valuable when they're packless, right? That's why they're like glimmering diamonds hidden in the depths of a haystack."
He starts moving faster, energy practically crackling off him.
"Not just one haystack, but a whole fucking field of them, all buried in the bottom pits of this asylum that's claiming these haystacks are defective because they don't have enough 'bounce' or some shit."
Vale's typing actually stops completely – a rare occurrence.
"That's…actually a remarkably apt analogy."
Kieran shoots him a look that could strip paint.
"Fuck off," he growls, but there's no real heat in it. He's too caught up in his train of thought. "But think about it…if we go in there and just…temporarily claim them as our Omega in our pack, wouldn't that force them off the bidding table?"
The silence that follows feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. We all stare at Kieran as the implications of his words sink in.
Pack status changes everything in our world.
An unclaimed omega is a commodity, something to be bought and sold.
But a claimed omega?
One with pack bonds, even temporary ones?
That's protected property.
To interfere with pack bonds is to invite the kind of retribution that makes even the most hardened alphas think twice.
Atlas stands perfectly still, processing.
Vale's hands hover over his keyboard, frozen in the act of seeking data he might not need anymore.
I find myself holding my breath, the solution so elegant in its simplicity that it seems impossible we didn't think of it sooner.
Because Kieran's right.
For all of Ravenscroft's power, their government backing, and security measures, they still have to operate within certain boundaries.
Selling unclaimed omegas to wealthy degenerates? That can be hidden, justified, or swept under bureaucratic rugs.
But interfering with legitimate pack bonds?
That's the kind of offense that starts wars.
The realization ripples through our pack bond like a current of electricity. We're not just a rescue team anymore. Not simply operators sent to extract assets. If we do this – if we claim these omegas, even temporarily – we become something else entirely.
We become protectors in the most primal sense.
Make ourselves the very thing Ravenscroft has been trying to prevent: a legitimate barrier between these omegas and the fate that's been planned for them.
"But there's four omegas," Kieran whispers, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The flaw in his otherwise perfect plan hangs in the air between us, a problem without an obvious solution.
Until Atlas chuckles.
We all turn to watch him rise from his chair, a rare grin spreading across his face beneath the blindfold.
"And there's four subdivision units of Parazodiac Nexus."
The words land like a tactical nuke in the middle of our planning session.
Suddenly, I see it – the perfect way to not only save these omegas but also create a situation the government can't easily sweep under the rug. Four elite units, four omegas, and four potential pack bonds that would make any interference a declaration of war.
Atlas's blindfolded gaze finds me unerringly, that sixth sense of his knowing exactly where I stand. It's my cue to step up, to take point on the operation that could change everything.
"Guess we have a change of plans," I say, the weight of command settling on my shoulders before I turn to Kieran. "You wanna gather Subdivisions B, C, and D?"
The groan that escapes him is practically theatrical.
"I got beef with D."
Oh right.
"That's because you told their lead alpha his cock was smaller than his ego," Atlas notes dryly.
We all stare at Kieran, who shrugs with absolutely zero remorse.
"That's still valid. Plus, I said my cock was bigger, which is a fact. I ain't apologizing for shit."
Atlas's chuckle breaks the tension while I shake my head.
"You're stubborn as fuck and suck at making allies, you know that?"
"That's why I'm here, and Dante is over there. Our leading man." Kieran shoots back. "I'm not the leader decision maker and you, Atlas, are the one who can get them to bow and behave."
He's not wrong.
Atlas probably has enough dirt on everyone in the organization to burn it to the ground twice over. It's one of the reasons he's so effective – people assume his blindness makes him less observant when really it just means he pays attention to things others miss.
He’s still the true leader of this unit, regardless of blindsight, but on paper, I’m the one who has to step up so no one takes advantage of us as a unit.
I turn to Vale, still stationed at his computer array.
"Can you get anything solid on Patient 495?" I won't mention the other omegas – let the other units choose their charges when they join in. "The more we know going in, the better our chances."
"I'll do my best," Vale nods, already diving back into his digital hunt. "Once I have something concrete, I'll head to the site with the modified vehicle. We'll need proper cover for surveillance."
"Vale." Atlas's voice carries a weight that makes us all pause. "You stay in position unless there's a genuine emergency."
The frown that crosses Vale's face is pure frustration, but before he can protest Atlas moves. He crosses the room with that uncanny grace of his, finding Vale's shoulder unerringly and gripping it hard.
"Listen to me," he says, voice softer but no less intense. "That place is massive. A labyrinth of corridors and security checkpoints. I know you have an injection that can give you full mobility, but it's temporary. If it wears off while we're trying to escape..."
He pauses, squeezing Vale's shoulder harder.
"I can't let you be captured. They'd torture you, probably kill you, and I won't—" His voice catches slightly. "I won't watch you die. Not after everything you've fought through."
The moment between them feels almost too private to witness. Vale swallows hard, his usual tactical precision cracking to show the emotion beneath. "Thank you," he whispers. "For caring enough to stop me."
Atlas nods once, sharp and decisive.
"Infiltration starts three hours before sunrise. That's when shift changes happen. When guards are less alert of their surroundings."
The plan crystallizes around us – four units, four omegas, one chance to change everything. Kieran stretches, his grin turning feral.
"Let's go get those subdivision fuckers and infiltrate Ravenscroft."
I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what's to come.
We're about to dive into the dragon's den to retrieve an omega everyone seems to want. The risk is enormous, and the potential for failure is catastrophic.
But looking at my pack – at their strength, excitement, and brilliant determination – I know we'll succeed.
We have to.
Because this isn't just another mission.
This is about changing the system that creates places like Ravenscroft in the first place.
And potentially finding something we didn't know we were missing in the process.