2. Battle Scars
Battle Scars
~WILLA~
S tanding here on this picture-perfect Main Street, turned away for the crime of existing while unmated, I'm transported back to every moment in the city that led me here.
It's funny how discrimination has different flavors depending on the zip code— in the city, it wore designer suits and spoke in corporate buzzwords.
Here, it wears flannel and speaks in fake concern for "safety."
But the message is always the same: Omegas, especially female Omegas, need to know their place.
The city taught me that lesson early and often.
Every job interview that ended the moment they caught my scent, every apartment application rejected with thin excuses, every sidewalk crossing where I had to lower my eyes and quicken my pace when an Alpha passed.
We like to pretend we've evolved past our basic designations, that we're more than our biology, but the city stripped that illusion away daily.
I remember my first real job interview after college— marketing coordinator at a firm downtown.
I'd worn my best suit, practiced my answers, researched the company until I could recite their mission statement in my sleep. The Beta interviewer had been impressed, nodding along as I outlined my ideas for their social media strategy.
Then the Alpha partner walked in, took one breath, and I watched my chances evaporate in real-time.
"We're looking for someone more... assertive," he'd said, as if Omega and assertive were mutually exclusive concepts.
That's how it always went.
Alphas sailed through doors that slammed in Omega faces.
They'd show up to interviews in wrinkled shirts and get hired on "potential." They'd pitch half-formed ideas in meetings and get praised for "thinking outside the box." They'd take credit for Omega work and get promoted for "leadership qualities."
The whole system was rigged in their favor, and they walked through life like they'd earned every advantage their designation handed them.
Brett— I can think his name now without flinching, mostly —was the perfect example.
We'd started at the same company on the same day.
Within six months, he'd been promoted twice while I was still fetching coffee and being told to "smile more.
" He'd swagger into meetings late, interrupt everyone with his "brilliant" insights — usually just louder versions of what some Omega had suggested quietly — and get patted on the back for his "initiative. "
"You just need to be more confident," he'd told me once, early in our relationship, back when I thought his attention meant something. "Alphas can smell insecurity."
What they could smell was biology, and they'd built an entire society around exploiting it.
Every law, every social norm, every unspoken rule favored them. They got the best jobs, the best homes, the best everything, while Omegas scrambled for scraps and got told to be grateful for the opportunity.
But even within our designation, hierarchies existed.
Male Omegas had it easier—not easy, but easier.
They could walk alone at night without quite as much fear.
They got hired for "Omega-appropriate" jobs at better rates.
They weren't expected to be quite as submissive, quite as decorative, quite as willing to fold themselves into smaller and smaller spaces.
I'd seen it firsthand at the community center where I'd volunteered.
Male Omegas got placed in accounting or IT roles.
Female Omegas got reception or cleaning.
Male Omegas could be "independent" until they found the right Alpha.
Female Omegas who stayed unmated too long were "difficult" or "broken."
The worst part was how early it all started.
Before I was even born, my parents had picked out my name: William.
They'd been so certain they were having an Alpha son, had decorated the nursery in strong blues and bought tiny suits.
The ultrasound had been unclear, but they'd hoped.
Prayed. Made plans for their future Alpha who would protect and provide and carry on the family name with pride.
Then I arrived—female, Omega, wrong in every way that mattered to them.
They'd still tried to file the birth certificate with "William." Some desperate attempt to speak a different future into existence, as if a masculine name could override biology. The government clerk had taken one look at the designation marker— that damning little Ω —and shaken her head.
"Can't register a female Omega with a traditionally Alpha male name," she'd said, like she was doing them a favor. "Sets unrealistic expectations. How about Willa? Close enough to honor your original choice but appropriate for her designation."
Appropriate.
That word had followed me my whole life.
Appropriate clothes (modest). Appropriate behavior (submissive). Appropriate aspirations (limited).
Even my name had to be appropriate, neutered down from William's strength to Willa's softness.
My parents never quite forgave me for that, I think.
For being born wrong, for forcing them to change their plans, for failing to be the Alpha son they'd dreamed of. They did their duty—fed me, clothed me, educated me—but there was always that distance, that disappointment that hung in the air like smoke.
"You need to be realistic about your options," my mother had said when I'd told her about my college plans. "Marketing is very competitive. Very...Alpha-dominated. Maybe consider teaching? Or nursing? Something more suitable."
Suitable. Appropriate. Safe. Code words for "know your place."
But I'd tried anyway.
Fought for every inch of space in a world that wanted me to disappear. Clawed my way through college, through internships where I did all the work and got none of the credit, through years of being passed over and talked over and told to wait my turn—a turn that never came.
And where did all that fighting get me?
Standing on a hotel porch in a town I've never heard of, turned away for existing while unmated, with a broken car and a bag full of everything I have left.
The sun dips lower, painting Main Street in shades of gold that would be beautiful if I could afford to appreciate them.
Somewhere in this town, Alphas are heading home to warm houses and guaranteed futures.
Somewhere, mated Omegas are setting dinner tables and feeling secure in their place in the world.
And I'm still here, inappropriate and unsuitable, carrying a name that was supposed to be stronger and a designation that makes me weak in everyone's eyes but my own.
I can't just stand here until the sun sets. No way can I let them win this easily.
My feet carry me back toward the hotel door before my brain catches up, desperation overriding common sense. The bell chimes again as I push inside, and both the clerk and the Alpha manager look up with matching expressions of irritation.
"I said we're not—" the manager starts, but I cut him off.
"You can't do this." My voice comes out stronger than I feel, though the rasp undermines whatever authority I'm trying to project. "There are laws against designation discrimination. Federal laws."
He actually laughs—this soft, condescending chuckle that makes my skin crawl.
"Little Omega wants to quote law at me? In my establishment?"
"It's not about what I want. It's about what's right." I plant my feet, even as every instinct screams at me to bare my neck, to submit, to make myself smaller until the threat passes. "I'm a paying customer. You can't refuse service based on?—"
"Based on keeping our other guests safe?
" He steps around the desk, and I force myself not to step back.
"You know what happens when unmated Omegas stay here? Other Alphas get ideas. Fights break out. People get hurt and don’t get me started on the whole Heat mismanagement since none of Omegas seem to figure out when your Heats are scheduled to riddle through your vulnerable bodies! "
Damn him.
I try to ignore that tidbit because it’s not our fault that nothing has been made to give Omegas a chance at tracking their Heats. Like give us a potential monthly tracker or something. Surely they have the right technology to do so in this time and age.
No. They just don’t want to…
"So punish them, not me."
"You are the disruption." He's closer now, using his height advantage to loom. "Your kind always are. Walking around unmarked, unclaimed, practically begging for trouble."
"My kind?" The rage burns hotter, chasing away the exhaustion for one blessed moment. "You mean people trying to exist? People who just need a bed for the night?"
"I mean Omegas who don't know their place." His voice drops to a growl, and my body betrays me—knees weakening, breath catching, this damn biology of a body responding to an Alpha's displeasure despite my fury. "Who come into respectable establishments thinking they can make demands."
"A room isn't a demand, it's a basic?—"
"Enough." The bark of Alpha command hits me into silence. My words die in my throat, muscles locking even as I fight against the compulsion. "You've been told no. Repeatedly. Now you're trespassing."
I manage to force words past the command's grip.
"You can't... this isn't..."
"Cheryl, call the sheriff." He doesn't look away from me. "Tell him we have an unruly Omega causing a disturbance."
"Please." I hate how the word comes out—small, desperate, exactly what he expects from an Omega. "I just need?—"
"What you need is an Alpha to teach you manners." He grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Since you don't have one, guess I'll have to escort you out myself."
I try to wrench away, but he's already dragging me toward the door. My bag catches on a chair, spilling open, and he doesn't slow down. Clothes scatter across the pristine lobby floor— my life laid out for judgment, shabby and insufficient.
"Let go!" The words tear at my damaged throat. "You can't?—"