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Michael Ross was an Omega. This wasn't a new thing, he had been one for his whole life. But it was in moments like these that he was truly pissed at the universe for assigning him the worst possible gender. Finding a police officer standing in front of the room where he was supposed to pull off a drug deal. A suitcase with enough narcotics to put him to jail for life in his possession. It wasn't the best outcome for this day. If he had been an Alpha or Beta, he would have looked the officer in the eye in a calm and self-assured manner, asked the time to throw him off and then proceed to walk away.
But you don't do calm and self-assured as an Omega. You do emotional, compassionate and most of all, submissive. The officer was mustering him, widening his stance in typical Alpha “I'm better than you” attitude, and the gun in his belt was making Mike really nervous. Why the fuck did he ever thought he would get away with this?
If through some miracle, he managed to survive this day, he would drop Trevor like a hot potato. Friends don't let friends do drug deals.
He would have to say something soon because the Alpha cop was starting to look suspicious, Mike couldn’t even look him in the eye. You don't look Alpha's in the eye, you look down at the floor like the submissive no-good that you are. The first rule of Omega-dom, and one that he wouldn't forget thanks to the miracles Omega-specific schooling.
Look Alpha's in the eye and you're challenging them, and that is not a thing you want to be doing. The only exception to that rule is when the Alpha explicitly gives his or her permission, but even then you better be trembling when faced with their prowess.
Mike had no real trouble with the trembling part which was less because of Alpha prowess and more because of the real, loaded gun the guy had.
“I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, still staring down and finally, his fucking hormones were doing their job, which at the moment was, broadcasting that he was one weak and very frighted Omega.
The Alpha breathed in and his whole demeanor changed. Where previously he was imposing and accusatory, he now dropped his shoulders to appear less threatening.
“Omega,” he said, voice calm and soft, well, as calm and soft as an Alpha was able to manage, which was, let's be real here, not that much. They always had this rough and dominating tone that resonated through Mike's body like a fucking wire being pulled, but he was used to that.
“Where is your Alpha?” The cop continued, drawing nearer, his knees bending to get him down to Omega height, forced by his biology to help the distressed little thing in front of him.
Lucky for him, Omegas were hardly ever violent. Most of them couldn't stomach blood and cruelty, they were too empathic for that. Try hurting someone when you feel their pain like you were cutting into your own skin.
Only twenty percent of all crimes were committed by Omegas, and fifteen of these percents were low-level crimes like stealing cars or food or money, to feed their families. The remaining five percents were assault and battery, mostly caused by self-defense. Only two percent of these assaults ended in murder, and these two percents were committed by Omegas in defense or revenge of people in their care.
Omegas were the victim of 60 Percent of all assaults and rapes, another thirty percent were Betas, and the remaining ten were Alphas. Ten seemed like a low percentage in comparison but it was more accurate than the 0.7 statistics that had been quoted for years.
This statistic had famously claimed that only 0.7 Percent of assault and rape victim's were Alphas. In truth, these 0.7 percents were the only Alpha's that ever reported the crime. Nowadays the statistics took all the Alphas committed to the hospital into account, when their injuries seemed the result of violence to their person, whether or not they reported it as assault.
And yes, Mike knew that because he had read it five years ago, in the yearly report of the New York Police Department, pages 1237 through 1319.
Anyway, the general conses was that Omegas were harmless. So much so that, in fact, most Department manuals advised that when confronting an Omega with a weapon, the first thing to do was to talk the Omega down from committing suicide. The first thing to do when confronting an Alpha with a weapon was to incapacitate him with however many bullets were necessary to achieve that. (NYPD Procedure Manual, 2014, pages 269, 301 and 307)
Mike left his thoughts with a violent flinch away from the Alpha's fingers. The guy had tried to comfort him by gripping his neck, which was something like an off switch for Omegas. The Officer would have never attempted that with a mated Omega, but since Mike wasn't mated, it was basically all right for every Alpha to touch him, as long as the touch was to his benefit (E.g: Calming him down).
He would have to do something to get himself out of this before the cop decided that he was beyond help. “Distressed” Omegas weren't in control of themselves and as such, it was legal to take them into custody, whatever the circumstances.
“I'm sorry.” Mike stuttered. He didn't even have to fake the anxiety, though it was still less the Alpha and more the life imprisonment that awaited him if he screwed this up. “My Alpha asked me to bring these files as fast as possible”. He indicated the case with a nervous gesture. “He left them at the office, and he asked me to bring them and I’m really late...” Mike trailed off.
He didn't have an Alpha mate (As smelled by the cop), but as a working Omega, he had to have an Alpha chaperone to oversee him. These “Workplace Alphas” were protector, superior and contact person for any work-related issues all wrapped up into one. In truth, working Omegas were little more than assistants for their Alphas, because however high a position the Omega held, there was always “their” Alpha above them. That meant on one hand, that all the Omega's mistakes were the Alpha's responsibility, on the other, that all the Omega's achievements were also contributed to their Alpha. It wasn't fair, but life hardly ever was that for Omegas.
The Officer seemed reluctant to let Mike go, but even more so to leave his post, which was just as well for Mike who took another step away from him and then turned and hurried in the opposite direction. He was so glad that he had worn his only suit today, at least that made the working Omega lie somewhat believable. How did the police even knew where the deal took place? Mike found it hard to believe that Trevor had ratted him out, he would lose the drugs and the money and gained nothing from Mike being in prison.
While hurrying through the corridors he hoped that the cop would take some time to get over the “Omegas are all law abiding citizens that don't have the balls for crime”-mentality to the “wait the guy had a suitcase, and this was supposed to be a drug bust.. oh fuck”-epiphany, but he already heard footsteps following him.
Mike raced through the hotel with little thought to the luxurious gold and royal blue carpet and the somewhat overdone ceiling. He slowed down whenever he encountered people and kept his head down as Omegas were supposed to, but the fact remained that he would have to find a hiding place soon.
“Think, think, think” he repeated in his head, and suddenly, the image of an advertisement on the notice board in the lobby flashed before his eyes. Mike found the next staircase, thanks to the floor plan he had seen when he exited the escalator earlier and went two stories up. Finally, he reached the right room, indicated also by the “Associate Assistant Interviews by Pearson Hardman” sign next to the door.
He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and took a few moments to smooth his hair back into form and fix the wrinkles in his suit, with only moderate success.
A sharp dressed redhead Beta behind a too big desk was the first thing he noticed when he opened the door. The second thing was a row of Omegas lined up on chairs along the wall, all looking vaguely angsty. The beta looked bored out of her mind and threw more or less covert pitying glances at the Omegas.
Mike felt like a mouse in front of the snake, as she silently judged his disheveled appearance and a cheap suit. “Rick Sorken?” She asked, with one arched eyebrow. “You are five minutes late to the Interviews, Mr. Sorken, is there any reason why I should still let you in?”
Mike shrugged. “I was just trying to ditch the cops, I'll be out of your hair in a minute.” It was a gamble, there was no guarantee that she wouldn't call the hotel staff, but in his experience, bored people rather enjoyed the entertainment than end it prematurely.
She looked to her right, at someone out of Mike's view, winked, and then nodded. “Mr. Specter will see you now,” she said, indicating a doorway into another opulent room.
--oo--
Harvey sighed, not for the first time, at the design choices of the hotel staff. Really, people seemed to think that luxurious just meant a surplus of gold. Golden wallpaper, golden curtains, golden chandeliers, and golden lampshades. It looked like the exact opposite of the sophisticated comfort they tried to achieve. More like pseudo expensive flea marked stock. He preferred the sleek, sharp functionality of modern design, but what did he know, he only made seven million a year.
There was nothing more annoying than picking Associate Assistants. Omegas weren't made to be lawyers. Alpha's had the necessary ambition and ego, Betas the much-needed acumen and ruthlessness to become a valuable asset to the firm. Omegas, however, were too emotional, simply too nice for the job.
It was convenient to have an Omega in the room with you occasionally, as they were adept at influencing the mood and calming both Alphas and Betas, as well as other Omegas. Technically, a client that felt safe was more likely to tell the truth and to trust in the lawyer handling his case. But that about covered all the advantages Omegas held. They weren't fit for negotiating. They weren't fit for espionage. They weren't fit for ruthlessness. They weren't fit for closing cases.
Still, the Omega quota dictated that there needed to be at least 20 Percent Omegas working in every firm, 5 Percent of these in high earning Positions. Harvey had always resisted to being a Workplace Alpha, on grounds that he rather have a person working with him that would at least be able to profit from his knowledge. But Jessica had finally put her foot down and forced him to find an Associate Assistant, which was really just a fancy way of saying Omega drudge.
Luis had a new Associate Assistant every year, mostly because the old one sooner or later complained about untoward sexual advances, but that could also just be Luis complete inability to respect personal space or boundaries.
Omegas just weren't Harveys thing. Their shy demeanor and floral scent were attractive for the exact duration of one fuck, after that they turned annoying very quickly. For any kind of meaningful relationship, he needed someone to challenge him, to interest him, and to bedazzle him. Omegas were pretty much the embodiment of boring blandness.
This was one of the few things in which Donna and he weren't on one wavelength seeing as she was married to a rather successful Omega politician. The Omega, of course, had an Alpha superior but did good work on her own, according to Donna.
Said redhead was now winking at him in a rather conspiratorial way and sent another Omega interviewee his way. This one was at least good-looking.
The guy was nervous, he didn't meet Harvey's eyes, which was the social norm after all, but he also tried to not even look at Harvey at all, and that made him seem skittish. His suit clearly wasn't tailored, his tie was too skinny and the color scheme was entirely was too dark for the omegas pretty, blue eyes. Also, it wasn't at all cut in the normal Omegan style.
Male Omegas typically wore formfitting suits that accentuated their childbearing hips and concealed any muscle tone they might possess, slimming shoulders and arms, and instead emphasizing the stomach and thigh areas. All complete with floral prints and soft pastel colors.
This Omega looked like he stole a suit from the Alpha section of Walmart. He was also way too thin, nothing at all like the stereotypical Omegas in advertisements. He wasn't well-fed or supple or mellow. Instead, he appeared to be aggressively slim, his body toned in a way that suggested endurance sports and screamed bad eating habits, all topped off with nervous energy, and constant alertness.
“Mr. Sorken?” The Alpha smirked, somewhat amused by the name. It sounded like a Finnish Pokemon.
The Omega shook his head with a wry smile. “Mike Ross, actually.”
Harvey shot him a questioning look and the Omega explained, his tone completely neutral: “I'm not really here for the job. I was supposed to do a drug deal for a friend, but there was a police officer in front of the door, so I assumed that somebody ratted me out and I needed a place to lay low for a while. I remembered the ad for the interview, so I came here.” The Omega sat up a little straighter like he expected punishment. His slim fingers were intertwined with his tie, and Harvey would have felt for the poor piece of fabric if it hadn’t been polyester.
He couldn't do anything else but laugh. “That is the best story I have ever heard. An Omega, dealing drugs in the Hilton,” to his own surprise, his amusement was entirely genuine, complete with embarrassing giggles that he had thought his job should have rid him off by now. “if you really expect me to believe that, I'm gonna have to see the suitcase.”
The Omega frowned, glancing at Harvey's collar, and some deep part of Harvey purred at that, even if his brain found the whole Omega submissive act annoying.
The kid fetched the suitcase from next to the sofa where he had placed it previously. His steps were small, but sure. He opened the case, emptied it onto the desk and sat back down.
And over the countless see-through plastic packages, filled with a white, powdery substance, he looked Harvey dead in the eyes with a very smug expression.
--oo--
He had no intention of antagonizing the Alpha, after all, he could still call the police on Mike, but the older man had this unsettling way of looking at him. It made Mike feel weak and stupid and it worried him to no end because the most basic impulse of all Omegas was always to be desirable to Alphas.
Mike hated that. Feeling small and useless and at the same time. He wanted nothing more than to impress the Alpha, somehow, to show that he was a worthy mate, even though, in the back of his head, logic screamed at him that he neither wanted a mate, nor an Alpha. That was really the only reason why he thought it a good idea to dump all the drugs onto Mr. Specters expensive cherry wood desk. Maybe it would stop the Alpha from looking so self-assured and at ease when Mike was a nervous wreck.
The Alpha seemed like he was always smirking, he sported this sarcastic little twist of his lips that said: “You look like an idiot, and you just proved that you are one, too.” Mike, of course, found that insanely attractive.
Now that he thought about it, the Alpha was generally very attractive. His suit was dark and expensive, his shoulders broad enough to suggest a considerable amount of physical strength, his hair was gelled into this sleek style that somehow embodied sex symbol as well as a successful businessman, and his eyes were this dark brown that would look so fucking good on ruby colored sheets.
Mike knew that because he was looking directly into these eyes at the moment. Something was wrong with that, but his brain was rather content with imagining how Mr. Specter would look in bed.
A rather loud growl made him cower in his seat, head lowered and neck bared instinctively, even if it made him feel sick to his stomach. Submissiveness was programmed into his genes, a way to appease Alphas and keep himself safe. The Alpha chuckled and murmured: “Better.”
Mike cautiously lifted his head again, working against his own instincts, as they told him to be subservient or be mauled by an apex predator.
The Alpha picked one of the packages up, smelled the white powdery substance, then dipped his finger in and licked it. Fucking obscene bastard. Mike suppressed a moan at the same time as Mr. Specter sighed contentedly, and he hated himself for it.
“Good stuff,” the Alpha said, and his voice was this deep, comfortable drawl, that somehow still sounded articulate. It did nothing to dissuade Mike's phantasies. It fit right in there with all the “Good boy's” and “Fuck yeah's”.
Mr. Specter dropped the bag in front of Mike, and in his shock, he looked him in the eye again. This time the only reaction was a slightly darker edge to his smirk. “You want some?” he asked, and it took Mike some time to notice that the question regarded the coke in front of him and not the man himself.
His answer to both was yes anyway.
The older man cleared a small silver plate which previously held glasses and a water bottle, pulled a (black) credit card from his (real) leather wallet, and parted some of the coke into two fine lines. He then took out a crisp 100 dollar bill, rolled it and inhaled, as though he'd never done anything else. Trevor had used straws for this kind of thing, more hygienic, he had said, but as a rich Alpha, Harvey probably had a way to get his hands on newly printed money, if he so desired. Showy asshole.
Mike envied his practiced ease and wondered of lawyers took drugs all the time. He had smoked a few joints in his time (okay, more like a few each day) but didn't have much experience with other narcotics. There was something nice to the warm relaxed feeling of weed, the slight sleepiness and the way it calmed his thoughts.
Mr. Specter seemed to have noticed his hesitation.”Your first time?”
“Yeah... I really don't normally...” He had no idea where to go with this sentence, (...do hard drugs? ...do hard drugs with attractive Alphas I don't know? ...do hard drugs with attractive Alphas I don't know in hotel rooms?) so he just blushed a bit and tried not to stare at his counterpart too obviously.
There was a soft breath that might as well have been a laugh and then the Alpha asked him: “Any psychological issues like anxiety or panic attacks?”
Mike shook his head. The only problem he had was that his brain didn't turn off sometimes.
“You'll be fine,” the Alpha reassured him and took Mikes hand where it rested on the desk and curled it around the bill. His touch was warm and firm, Mike wanted to always be touched like this. Then he wanted to hang himself. His Grandma had warned him about this exact thing. His gender left him with little defense against Alphas.
“Just do half of the line if you're not sure.” The older man let go of his hand and instead placed his hands on his own thighs. He leaned back and looked around the room with a slow deprecating gaze, Mike wondered what the furniture could have done to warrant that kind of abuse. Yes, it was abhorrent, but still, not the fault of the fabrics, more the fault of a bad interior designer.
He closed one nostril with his finger and inhaled the powder through the bill with the other. It felt harsh, not the overwhelming pounding of a bad hit, more like that slight disorientation when you sneeze. The Alpha finished the rest of his line, grinned and mumbled: “Discoshit”
“Did you just quote Blow at me?” Mike would let a lot of things go, but not pop culture references by disturbingly sexy Alphas.
Said Alpha looked away like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, adorable wrinkles of his forehead and an expression that was part annoyed and part charmed, but that might have been the coke. Mike felt like his thoughts were twice as fast as normal like he could remember everything like he could remember his whole life like he could write a novel on his life and everything he had ever learned would be in it. “Now you're talking to me, Baby.” He said and hoped.
Dark eyes found his. “Yeah, I won't go there, kid.”
Mike answered with his best puppy dog look and was rewarded with a deep sigh. The Alpha rolled his shoulders, and the suit stretched in a way that suggested just the right amount of muscle. “All right, Scarface, but we are not quoting drug movies at each other.”
His brain vomited information all over the place, it was disturbing and fucking awesome. He just blurted out everything. “You'll be dead before you fucking reach Kiev. Harold, I'm gonna be on Television. This is bat country. I can't believe this is the same car. Time sure flies when you're young and jerking off. Anywhere not in your pocket. I'm sitting on Frog one. Get that chicken, dude! I'm sexually paranoid. Look at me babe, I'm hysterical. Let's plan a murder or start a religion. I fucked her brains out... for eleven seconds. You know Billy, we blew it. Look at that subtle off-white coloring.”
This was the point to stop, his mouth was starting to get a bit dry.
”Really? Maybe half of that.” The Alpha seemed irritated but also slightly impressed. Mike took it as a win. “But since you're so talkative, tell me why you agreed to do this drug deal?”
That was easy. He needed money to pay for a good nursing home for his Gram. He needed money for the apartment, living in New York was ridiculously expensive. He wanted to help Trevor. He wanted to buy Jenny that one coat she always talked about. He wanted to buy all the books that interested him. He wanted to not think about how to finance his food for a while.
“Books?” The beautiful voice did nothing to slow his thoughts. Mike wondered if he had also said that out loud. Probably.
There was a deep laugh that made Mike want to touch, “Coke is not for you.” Mr. Specter continued. He looked like an Angel with the glimmer of gold around him.
The voice continued, a smile hiding behind the smoothness, “Enough with the flattering. But please tell me more on these books.”
Mike nodded, he could to that.“West's United States Supreme Court Digest would be nice. The College Library doesn’t have the newest one yet,”
Mr. Specter sat up, turning his body towards Mike and focusing all his attention on him. It was exhilarating, to hold the Alphas focus so completely. “Why are you interested in Case Law?”
“Cause I went to Harvard,” he answered, the smug smile felt like Candy on his lips.
The Alpha narrowed his eyes, “But Harvard only admits Alphas and Betas.”
“Yeah, you would know, arrogant asshole like you,” The smile turned sardonic in seconds. “I posed as a Beta. Made it for a year, before they searched my room cause my idiotic roommate was suspected of dealing. Found his Metadate and my Cyproterone. They made me sign a confidentiality agreement, in exchange for not reporting me to the police.” That he was theoretically breaking right now, but if the Alpha hadn’t turned him over to the police already, he probably wouldn't do it now, either.
“But you would have to have passed the bar.” There was definitely disbelieve there, still, Mr. Specter had leaned forward, towards Mike.
“As I did,” Mike said slowly, “with a 1.80.”
Mr. Specter nodded, but still seemed rather doubtful: “If you wanted to study law so badly, why didn't you do it the right way? There are Omega programs...”
Mike snorted loudly: “Oh yeah, study the law for one year, so you can practice it for one more before you get mated and squeeze out babies for the rest of your life. I'm sure there can't be much difference in quality between a one year and six-year program, right? Go fuck yourself.”
The Alpha opened and closed his mouth a few times, probably shocked by the gall. Well, he could just get used to it.
“I want to help people. I can't do that with a knock-off degree and an Alpha who constantly looks over my shoulder ignores my input and belittles my suggestions. I know that this must seem alien to you, but some people just do not have your privilege.” Mike was still somewhat shaken by his own daring here, his suit felt too tight and too hot, suddenly, as the Alpha's staring at him finally registered in his brain.
“You could come work for me. I need an associate assistant anyway.” Mr. Specter himself seemed surprised by the offer, indicated by his bewildered gaze. Coke would apparently do that.
Mike resisted the urge to laugh at him, managed to imbue his voice with enough annoyance anyway. “Did you not just hear me talking about how I don't want a workplace Alpha?”
“Look, kid,” Mr. Specter sighed deeply, as though he actually cared. “Face it, if you really want to practice law, this is the only way you are ever gonna do it. The laws won't change without Omegas demonstrating that they should be changed. Now you can run on home with your tail between your legs, smoking your life away and whining about how unfair the world is, or you can take the job and be such a shining beacon of success that even the most prejudiced knot head won’t be able to deny that you deserve your place at one of the best law firms in the country.”
It might have been the drugs, but Mike really wanted to say yes. Impossibly, this Alpha seemed somewhat decent, and if he worked for Pearson and Hardman, he had to be a good lawyer. It would be hard work, and they would probably butt heads often, but the prospect of working with him didn't make Mike want to barf at least. If it didn't work out, he could always go back to being an underpaid bike courier, posing as a Beta. And if by some miracle he managed to actually make things better for Omegas, it would be worth the torture of having to be around Mr. Specter on a daily basis and not climb him like a tree. A tall dark and handsome tree wearing bespoke suits. He was so fucked. Hopefully.
“All right.”