Chapter Text
One must start somewhere. A singularity and go backwards, vomiting up matter until pop! Here I am, a dying star assembling itself. Rewind the universe and turn a black hole to white.
Impossible. That would require a decrease in entropy and violate the second law of thermodynamics. While I have always believed that laws were meant to be broken or at least twisted, this law cannot be broken: I go forward from the point at which I am.
Thus, I am here. So I will begin at this moment. I know not the end.
Yet.
My eyes scan the large blob of a being from head to toe. A mass of a man with no neck, voluminous torso, and legs the size of twigs attached to clown feet.
"I'll give ya one more shot at it. Change this ta gold."
The man's distinctive voice is inescapably familiar yet his name eludes me. His vernacular is obviously American southwestern—the twang is inescapable, but it's also coupled with a gruffness from a chronic inflammation of the larynx.
The man foists his clenched fist into my face. He opens his fat, bruised hand to reveal a small stone in the center of his chaffed palm—a piece of white-grained granite to be precise. The distracting magic of its sparkle makes me forget my dilemma and my suffering. Mica, quartz, and feldspar winkle until my vision begins to whirl and blur like an exploding supernova.
I bite back the pain, but it returns three-fold. The explosive white-hot agony replaces all my thought processes, and I can no longer recall the owner of the gnarled hand before me. Nor do I recognize the hovel I'm in, or the foul bed I lie on.
Although Throbbing spears shoot through my head, neck, and shoulder, I manage to grasp what the man wants. It's what most everyone wants when they realize I am an alchemist: riches, power. From me.
With his other hand, he latches on to my hair and tugs me to a sitting position on the filthy, disease infested cot.
Aw, yes, now I remember him. He is my captor, and I, only tender for him to lend and spend. He's yanking my head, twisting it around like a cruel child would to as he or she removes a doll's head.
I clamp my mouth tight to keep myself from screaming.
"Change it!" the man gruffly demands.
"I can't," I gasp. "I can't, Peeler."
"That is not my name!" He yells, then lets go of my hair for an instant and boxes my ear.
I try to think. A way out. I had a plan. Where is it? I must not forget. It's drowning in the pain. Where is my mind? It is often all I have. As long as that thread of a connection remains, I might find a way to escape. I must. It's not only my fate I need to salvage.
My head feels as if its steel pounded thin on an anvil. The smack to the side of my head compounded it, and my mind palace remains distant to me. It's there, but the path to it is but a mere filament, so thin, and becoming thinner with each second.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and assess.
Fever: 41.2 C. Pulse: 110 beats per minute, elevated.
Respiration: 10 breaths per minute.
Automail Status: Unresponsive, rejection immanent.
Transport Status: Epidermis at junction red and swollen, flesh putrid, puss seeping.
Prognosis: Dire.
------------
My body is a traitor. First it reverts back to omega, now it's rejecting my prosthetic arm.
I hate it when my transport disappoints. Memories of other childhood rejections overwhelm me: raised from birth as an alpha, at four I looked in the mirror, and the reflection staring back was not me. Stunned, I asked my mum, "Who is that omega boy?" She covered her mouth, and said, "That is you."
From that day, I realized Dickinson was wrong. Truth, not hope, is the thing with feathers. It perches on the soul and waits to come out. It always does. My truth came forward at the worst possible time, and it never asked a crumb from me.
My lie was not that I am an omega. Although oppressed, I saw omegas every day who didn't hide, and no one shunned them. But for some reason, I had to hide who I was.
I found the truth in my studies through my books, my science, and my obsession: alchemy. I wanted to become an alchemist. I scoured shops for supplies and books to learn all I could. I read every scrap I found. At ten years old, I performed my first transmutation: a simple fire into water. All the while, my family encouraged me.
Later that very year I discovered the reason why I lived as an alpha within the first chapter of a book I'd found in an old apothecary. The book was titled The Alchemystic , the chapter that revealed the covert purpose was in "The Unseen."
"Why must I hide what I am?" I had wondered. The answer was in the chapter: The lie is that "Omegas who have the ability to transmute are an aberration of unchecked power." They are said "not capable of controlling the enormity of the power they wielded" that they were "too emotional and physically frail" to withstand the pressures of calling, but in reality, omegas were the most capable. No Alpha or Beta alchemist compared to that of the great Omega "alchemystics." Posing as Betas and Alphas became the only way for the Omega alchemystics. They transmuted suppressants.
I recall a day not long after, I began taking the suppressants—I knew little of the sacrifice or the cost to my family at the time. Years later I was relieved to be able to transmute rare elements and prepare my own suppressants. Of course the elements needed were hard to procure and at tremendous cost to family physically and monetarily.
A violent tug of my hair brings me back. This time the pain does not cloud my senses, it heightens them. It all floods back, how I got here, where I am.
I remember who the man is, and I'll be damned if I'm going to give this man what he wants.
I also remember my plan.
"My arm is being rejected," I say slowly. "I have a serious infection. I am an adept alchemist, I am of no use in this condition. If I do not receive medical treatment, the infection will spread and I will die. I will be of no value to you."
He laughs in my face and pulls my hair. The stench of his breath forces me to struggle to turn my head. He yanks my hair harder and spits in my face.
"So, what's the value of a little more than nothing?" the man asks. "Nothing! That's exactly what yer worth to me if you don't change this stone."
The stone again. Always the same ...
I won't change it. I've used my power in the past on suppressants, but without them? I could do the unimaginable. I believed I could do anything. I tried to bring my mum back from death, and in doing that, I threw one brother into oblivion and lost my arm. In the end, my arrogance cost my family our home and my freedom.
Equivalent exchange. The price is too high. In my current physical state, unpredictable.
One day I will bring back what was lost. I must acquire the knowledge and skill, but I will never succeed if I give up and remain here in this hell.
The Tender Box. That's what this place is called!
"Worthless is what ya are. A nobody, a nothing," says the man.
To punctuate his point, he slams my head into the stucco wall behind me. Curiously, the force of the blow sharpens my thinking, not clouds it.
He no longer has me in his grip, and I slide to the right along the wall to increase the distance between us.
"Yer own stupidity got ya where you are. You had to jump from the roof and break the fall with yer arm. Should have put that chip in yer head sooner. That won't happen again."
My left hand brushes over my occipital lobe where the tiny chip is embedded. No, it won't happen again. Only a speck is this tiny tech buried inside my brain. Referred to as the "modicum tempus" since one has little time before one's brain liquefies into mush when the prisoner strays too far from the source. In this case, the source was in the hands of my keeper. I do know where the source is—hidden in his safe. As if I couldn't open it, but to do that I needed to be well. My fate is in the hands of Paylar the Terrible, ah! Now I recall my keeper's name!
As if anyone could ever keep me. Paylar wasn't even his real name, but he insisted everyone address him as such. Ridiculous!
Luckily or unluckily for me, I still hold a modicum of value in his eyes. If I didn't, my heats would be forced. I'd be given heinous black market drugs, then auctioned off to the highest bidder. I was able to stave off such actions from my keeper through a bit of fast talk along with a few hand and blow jobs. But the threat of having a forced heat thrust upon me and used by a waiting line of alphas, made my stomach turn. Such is the life of an omega without means in these times.
"Turn this stone to gold," Paylar demands. "Change it, and I will get that arm tended to."
I've been through this before countless times with this imbecile.
"Not without proper medical attention first," I bargain—not that I ever intend to comply.
It's a deal that's a slippery slope. I've fallen down that path before. I never would have taken it, but I was forced on that trail. It's a choice I never would have made, but my mind was compromised by a primitive drive reaching back hundreds of thousands of years. I never trusted Moriarty's actions, but at one time I did trust his words. For two years, he never gave me one reason to think otherwise. I thought to keep my family safe, but they were already gone. Just one lie upon an Everest of lies.
Even in his death, Moriarty lied.
I was handed over to Moran upon Moriarty's death. Just a commodity shifted from one hand to another to be used to finish Moriarty's work. And when no longer useful, discarded. That is why I'm here.
Finish his work . I practically choked on the words, recalling that day he trapped me.
"Suck it up, Pink Wednesday Pants, and produce, then I might think about it."
Pink Wednesday Pants . Another ridiculous title. How I came by it, was a long story involving pink lace panties. Could I help it that they were the only article of clothing left in a drawer when I was trying to escape? It was better than nothing. Second thought, maybe not.
"Yer no alchemist! Best alchemist in all of London, my arse! All them stories about your powers was a lie."
"Best in London? No, I am the best," I say caustically. "And I am an alchemystic. Never forget that."
"If you are, prove it. Seems ta me the only thing yer good for is heats. Sorry Pink Wednesday Pants, unless you can turn this ta gold, this is your last stop. You show me now. Turn this stone here ta gold or diamonds or somethin' else of value, or I pedal yer pink panties to the highest bidder."
"I will use small words so that you will understand. I. Am. Hurt. I. Can't. Do. It."
"That Moran chap said you took out half a block with an open chest wound. You can turn this to stone."
"I use my head for the process. The heart has little to do with it."
"I'm gonna be usin' another part of ya if ya don't. You may not look like an omega, but there are a few kinky clients who love freaky omega arse."
"Spoken with such elegance."
"Yer makin' fun o' me again," he said. "I'd smack ya harder, but I don't want to damage that pretty face."
I shiver. The very heart I denied betrays me as white-hot pain shoots into my chest. I will myself to remain upright. I clear my throat.
"What good is a pretty face if I am dead? I can't do anything in my current state. My ability is fettered. I need medical treatment."
"And you think you're worth that to me? No way I'm sinkin' anymore into ya."
"That is not necessary. One of your clients told me about a physician who does charitable work."
"Speak English."
"He works for next to nothing."
"No one works for nothing."
"No one you consort with does, but there are a few good Samaritans left in the world. He is one."
"Hmm. Not sure if I believe in such a thing."
I begin to shake and do not try to hide it. While I have to use some of my acting skills to convince Paylar, this is not pretense. In fact, I believe I am about to lose consciousness. Even Paylar notices. I clutch my coat for security.
"If you get worse, I'll have Rodrick fetch him. What's this do-gooder doctor's name?"
"Watson. Dr. John Watson."