Chapter 10 Mac Masters #2
“Okay, students. Mister Masters has experienced rut cycles for about fourteen years now. As of this date, he is an unmarked, unmated Alpha. Surprisingly, though he’s currently one of our oldest unbound Alphas, he also is still fairly in control of his faculties.
Can someone please describe the stages of Alpha ferality?
” I felt something cold swipe down my right butt cheek. The alcohol wipe probably.
“Stage one is characterized by mild headaches and mood swings with an increased longevity of rut.” I couldn’t see, but I was pretty sure it was the freckled kid rattling off words again.
“Stage two is typically a heightened version of stage one. This can mean migraines, even hemiplegic ones, and mood swings with higher highs and lower lows. It’s sometimes compared to bipolar disorder in Betas. ”
“Yes, wonderful.” Doctor Moorehead cut him off. “Three cc’s lidocaine and bicarb, Terry.” I heard some shuffling, then felt the prick of the needle as he numbed my ass. “Can someone else advance us into stages three and four.”
A new voice answered, though it cracked with nerves.
“Stage three usually means an Alpha begins to lose control of all their systems, not just mood. Neuro studies have shown activity spikes in the amygdala while activity drastically decreases in the frontal lobe. This creates a perfect storm of emotional dysregulation and lack of impulse control.” The voice paused.
“Continue, Mister Laurie. Terry, scalpel.” Doctor Moorehead pushed the blade to my cleansed, numb skin. I could feel the tug as he sliced, but the discomfort was minimal. “Mister Laurie, do you know the next stage?” The doctor asked after a few moments of silence.
“Stage four is point of no return really.” It wasn’t Mister Laurie, or the freckled know-it-all's voice. It was the Omega, speaking with more confidence this time. “It’s just like with any terminal illness. Without treatment, the symptoms spiral out of control. It’s why we have federal facilities to hold feral Alphas and Omegas.
These people lose themselves. They become something baser, more primal.
Statistically, after stage four, there’s a five percent recovery rate. ”
“Which is why these treatment facilities are so important. Magda, are the pellets prepped?”
“Yes, Doctor Moorehead.”
More shuffling. The students crowded close enough now that I could see a few of them at the edges of my peripheral vision.
“That’s so cool,” one of the students breathed out.
“Yes, this new combo trocar cannula device really makes it a simple process.”
A bit of insertion pressure, some more tugging as the skin tape was applied. The numbing was already wearing off by the time the soft gauze was pressed over the new wound. Shortly after, Doctor Moorehead stood up and announced to the students that the easy part was sorted.
I really didn’t want to walk into the stripping chamber again.
But I got up awkwardly, avoiding eye contact as I pulled the back of the gown into place to cover my ass.
.. like everyone in the room hadn’t already seen it.
Without being instructed, I moved over to the futuristic looking tank.
It was empty at the moment, but that would change soon.
“Mister Masters, please remove the gown and step into the chamber. Nurse Terry will help you secure your regulator and mask.” Doctor Moorehead was already at the machine controls, inputting my personalized fluid parameters.
It took every ounce of resolve I could muster to untie the medical gown and hand it to the nurse.
My fucking face burned with heat as I marched into the tank, not daring to look at the likely staring med students.
It wasn’t my first time in the tank, but it was the first time with this big of a damn audience.
I’d not been this fucking bent over a crowd since Oblivion Haze’s first real gig.
Nurse Terry secured the eye mask, tightening it at the back of my head painfully, then she checked the breathing apparatus was functioning.
She depressed the middle button three times to satisfy the safety check, nodding when a consistent flood of oxygen streamed out.
Before giving it to me, she put a disposable sanitary cover into place over the mouthpiece.
I parted my lips so she could insert the regulator.
“Now remember, you just need breathe regularly. Try not to panic, you won’t drown.
If you feel like you’re not getting enough oxygen, which can happen if someone is nervous with a high consumption rate, just press the center button for a nice, reassuring oxygen blast.” She patted my shoulder then exited, closing the leak proof entrance behind her and locking it into place.
Now that the door was closed, Doctor Moorehead leaned down to speak through a mic.
“Mister Masters, you may find the stripping agents more intense this session. I was a bit concerned by your functional MRI last week. I want to make sure we keep your baseline steady. We also upped your blocking pellets by twenty-five percent today.”
All I could do was give him a thumbs up.
The regulator was attached to the wall behind me, linking with the oxygen supply.
I didn’t want to nod my head and possibly dislodge it and couldn’t very well talk.
I watched him press the round, fat button to start filling the chamber.
Even though I knew the solution would start rising, I still found myself fighting the survival urge to get the fuck out of the death trap.
The doctor straightened up again. He didn’t turn off the microphone as he began talking the kids through what was happening.
“The tank will take approximately four minutes to fill thanks to a mirror tank beneath us which sports a kind of back-and-forth plunger system. Once the carrier solution surrounds Mister Masters, we’ll engage his personalized medicinal mix.
The purpose is to cleanse any adulterating scents he’s picked up since last session, calm his maximus and minora glands, and provide him with what amounts to a skin barrier preventing overactive secretion. ”
“Sort of like antiperspirant?” A kid small glasses perched on a large nose queried.
“That’s stupid, Jared.” The freckled kid barked out, fighting a laugh.
“It certainly is not stupid,” Doctor Moorehead admonished. “Why do Betas need antiperspirants? Because many of them have overactive sweat glands. It is not so different. And we will not,” the doctor locked eyes with the freckled Beta, “make fun of our fellow students.”
“Yes, Doctor Moorehead. Sorry, Jared.” He replied sullenly, knocked off his pedestal.
The carrier liquid was up to my chin now. Yes, I had the regulator in my mouth. Yes, I wasn’t going to drown... probably. Yet, I still went rigid as fear flooded through me. Didn’t have too much time to contemplate my mortality before the liquid had hit the top of the tank though.
I couldn’t hear anything except muffled voices now that my ears were clogged with solution.
I watched mouths move, heads nod, and both nurses take up station on either side of the tank.
When they flipped the infusion levers, two large syringe-like nozzles pushed into the tank from different points on the ceiling.
One began pulsing an ocean blue into the clear, viscous carrier fluid.
The other offered neon yellow. As they began to disperse and mix, I became lost in a green.
And that’s when the burning began.
So great and terrible this time that I wondered if it would remove a layer of skin.
I wanted to scream. I couldn’t scream.
Not and continue breathing.
Every session, I wanted to slam my fist against the slick glass and beg to be released. But I knew that I had to endure the pain. There was no easy shelter for me anymore. I’d fought my feral urges for as long as I could solo. Having help was imperative now.
It was probably a good thing I didn’t know how much it would hurt when I first came to the clinic... if I had? I’d have never had the courage to walk into this tank the first time.