Page 1 of Omega's Formula
1. Nolan
“You’ve got post, boy.”
Mrs Kay’s voice carries up the narrow stairwell, sharp as always. She must have heard me coming out of the bathroom. I stop in the doorway to my twelve-by-twelve kingdom, my damp shirt still in one hand.
“Thanks, Mrs Kay. Be right down.”
“I’ll leave it on the hall table. Got a bowl of stew here too—figured you forgot to eat again.”
She’s not wrong. I glance at my phone. 9:47 PM. My double shift at the hospital coffee shop ended at nine, and I spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing stains out of my work shirt in the bathroom sink because the building’s washing machine has been broken for three weeks and I can’t afford the laundromat.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I call down.
“Just eat, boy. I don’t need you starving to death in there. There’d be paperwork.” But there’s warmth in her voice. Margaret Kay might be the grumpiest landlady in the city, but she’s also the only reason I have a roof over my head.
My ‘apartment’ is supposed to be a studio, but it’s just a room. My kitchen is a two-plate on the desk opposite, and I share the bathroom with two others. Still, I pay almost nothing for it. Mrs Kay hasn’t put my rent up in years. I suspect that if I skipped a payment, she’d not say anything. So far, I’ve managed to pay on time every month even if it’s been close far too often.
I hang my shirt over the radiator to dry and head downstairs. The envelope sits on the scratched hall table next to a big bowl of vegetable stew. It smells incredible. Mrs Kay has already disappeared back into her ground-floor apartment, probably settling in for her nightly ritual of whiskey-dosed tea and whatever’s on TV.
The envelope is heavy paper with an embossed logo in the corner: St Mary’s Hospital, Barclay Trust.
I take a deep breath. I get a lot of hospital posts, but this is the one I’ve been waiting for.
I grab both the letter and the stew, climb back upstairs, and shut the door behind me. I shove the stew on the crate that acts as my bedside table and tear the envelope open.
Dear Mr. West,
Thank you for your application on behalf of Ellie West for enrollment in the Neurological Regeneration Trial. After careful review of the submitted materials, we regret to inform you that your application has been denied.
The words blur. I have to read them three times before my brain keeps trying to rearrange them into something different. Something that doesn’t mean Ellie’s dying and no one’s going to help.
Reason for denial: Failure to meet eligibility requirement 3.2(c): Applicant must demonstrate stable family situation and adequate support system. As primary caregiver is an unmarried, unregistered omega without partner or family unit, this requirement is not satisfied.
I sink onto my bed—a twin mattress on a metal frame that creaks if I breathe wrong. The stew sits forgotten beside me.
Unmarried, unregistered omega.
That’s what it comes down to. Not Ellie’s test results, which clearly show she’s a perfect candidate. Not her prognosis without treatment, which the doctors have made painfully clear.Not the fact that conventional treatments stopped working six months ago and we’re running out of time.
No. What matters is that I’m an omega without an alpha, and that makes me too unstable to be trusted with my sister’s care.
I keep reading, because I’m a glutton for punishment.
Please note: Per Federal Designation Act Section 2017, all unmated omegas over the age of 20 are required to register with the Omega Match Bureau unless granted specific exemption. Our records indicate you have not completed registration. Failure to register may result in additional penalties and further impact eligibility for government programs and services.
Yeah, yeah. I know that. Every omega in the country knows they’re supposed to be registered and the penalties that come when you refuse. The letter goes on, but I stop reading.
I’ve been running on exemptions for years. I’ve used every bureaucratic loophole I could find to avoid the Bureau. Right now, I’m exempt on the basis of my caregiver status, which is ironic considering the reason that the trial has turned me down.
Registering means matching, and matching means giving up the last scraps of control over my life to some alpha who’ll expect me to be grateful for the privilege. Grateful to beowned.
They can fuck off. All of them. I know what alphas are. I’m not letting them near me. Not as long as I have any say in the matter.
The thought makes my stomach twist. This letter means I may no longer have a say. Not in any real way.
On my desk, my phone buzzes and the screen lights up. I grab it instinctively. I only get calls and messages from Ellie and the hospital.
Ellie asking for you. Everything okay but she wants to talk. —EB