Adens Omega

The walk to Devil’s Gorge isn’t a long one. It’s only about a mile or so from the pack house, along a winding, established path—one that doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes at a steady pace. Typically, it’s something the deltas run or train through once a season, give or take. I, however, have had the unfortunate pleasure of running it far more than that. And unlike the other deltas, I usually run it alone. That’s not to say I’m unsupervised. I’m not. One of the delta sergeants is always there, watching, making sure I don’t slack off or go too slow. Alone doesn’t mean unwatched. It just means no one runs beside me. I know it makes me stronger but no matter how hard I try I just can’t get any faster at it. Eric stops the group and turns to face us. “Mark, you’ll take Lucas to DG. The rest of you follow me—we’ve got the eastern slope to run.” A few of the other deltas shoot me sharp glances. I lower my head. What I would give to be one of them. One day I’ll be a delta. One day this pain will be over. I’m not one to question the Moon Goddess, but maybe—just this once—she was wrong. Maybe I’m not an omega. Maybe I’m Delta. Or even a Gamma. All this training… it has to pay off. One day I’ll be free. One day I’ll be like Eric. Strong. Respected. One day, I’ll make my father proud. Mark and I made it to the start of the course. He looks me up and down—uniform on, vest secure, everything within regulation. He checks me over again, and he isn’t kind about it. He grabs me roughly by the chin and forces me to look at him. “You are pathetic, you f*****g know that? I could be with the others running the territory line, but no—I have to babysit you. You will run this course, and if I have to go in and drag you out like I did last time, so f*****g help me.” He shoves me hard toward the starting line. “Get going. I will not be responsible for a late lunch.” The starting line was marked by two logs, they stand about 6ft on either side, but beyond that just the slope. Mark blows his whistle, I take off at a jog, the earth drops away sharply, the shale slope cutting down into the throat of the gorge like the pack house itself spat it out. Loose stone, gray and jagged, shifts even under Mark’s heavier boots. The first few feet are controlled. Careful. Heel, then toe. Testing weight before committing. The gravel shifts anyway. Tiny rocks skitter downward, ticking against larger ones, the sound echoing farther than it should. The slope steepens quickly. It isn’t a path so much as gravity waiting for a mistake. I try to angle sideways like I’ve been taught, knees bent, center of gravity low Eric’s voice in my head “Gravity is a fickle mistress, take it at an angle or your center of gravity will pull you head over heals and you will have to run the course with a concussion.”. My vest pulls at my shoulders. The weight feels heavier already, though we’ve barely begun. A rock gives out under my right foot. My stomach lurches. I slide half a yard before digging my heel in hard enough to stop. The shale bites through the thin fabric at my palm as I catch myself. Skin tears. Warm sting. I swallow it down. Above me, Mark doesn’t move to help. “Move,” he barks. Not loud. Just enough. I grunt and keep going, I have a long way to go. The wind cuts through the gorge and funnels upward, carrying no scent but cold stone and old water. No pack. No reassurance. Just emptiness. My wolf presses forward inside my ribs. Too exposed. Too high. No one was at our back. The instinct to turn, to retreat upward toward safety, hits hard and suddenly. My glands prickle painfully beneath my jaw. I clamp down on it. Deltas don’t hesitate on a slope, Deltas don’t run, Deltas don’t give up. I take another step. And another. The shale shifts constantly, forcing every muscle to adjust. Ankles burn. Calves tighten. My boots scrape, searching for friction that barely exists. Twice more I slide, each time catching myself before I tumble fully. Each time losing a little more skin. By the midpoint, my breathing is already too fast. It’s not even the hardest part of the course. That’s what makes it cruel. The descent doesn’t exhaust you completely — it destabilizes you. Shake your footing. Steals confidence. Makes you aware that the ground itself doesn’t want you. Halfway down, the slope sharpens again, almost vertical for a stretch of twenty feet. You don’t walk it. You commit. I lower myself, crouching, trying to keep my weight centered. My hands dig into rock. Pebbles cascade past my boots like warning bells.Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t— My left foot loses purchase entirely. For a split second there’s nothing under me. I slide hard, hip striking stone, shoulder twisting. Pain explodes bright and immediate. My body tumbles a yard before slamming to a stop against a jut of rock that punches the air from my lungs. Above me, silence. Mark is watching. Waiting to see if I cry. My wolf whimpers, small and wounded. I force myself upright before the sound can escape my throat. I am a Delta, and Deltas keep going, I don’t look back up. I don’t ask for help. I just keep descending. By the time my boots finally hit the basin floor at the bottom of the gorge, my hands are scraped raw, my hip throbs, and dust coats the inside of my mouth. It’s only the first section. And already, something inside me feels a little less steady than before. The bottom of the descent doesn’t offer relief. It offers mud. With the rain from this morning and the steady mist that has started up again. The basin stretches wide and flat, a low pocket where the rainwater collects and begins to fill and will never fully leave. What looks solid from above is anything but. The surface trembles faintly, dark and slick, disturbed only by old footprints half-swallowed by clay. I take one step forward. My boot sinks almost to the ankle. Cold seeps through instantly, socks slowly being soaked by the moisture. By the third step, it’s mid-calf. The mud is thick — not watery, not loose. It grips. It holds. Every movement makes a slow, obscene sucking sound as it tries to keep what it’s taken. I pull my leg free and I can feel my foot threaten to slide out of my boot, if it wasn't laced within an inch of my life it might have. The vest shifts with the motion, heavier now. The fabric has already absorbed moisture from the descent. Drags at my shoulders, pressing down like hands that don’t intend to let go. “Move!” Mark’s voice carries across the basin, I can hear the anger and agitation. I keep moving. Running here isn’t running. It’s lifting. Dragging. Forcing each leg upward before planting it again only for it to disappear back into the sludge. My thighs burn almost immediately. My calves, already strained from the shale, protest with every step. The mud splashes up the back of my legs. It creeps beneath the hem of my pants. Cold. Thick. Inescapable. Halfway across, my pace falters. Not because I want it to. Because my body is starting to shake. Omegas aren’t built for sustained output like this. Not alone. Not without regulation, our biology isn't meant for excursion in the ways that Delta’s are. My breathing grows sharp and shallow, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with endurance. My glands throb painfully beneath my skin, dirt and mud that got under my vest are rubbing painfully against my glands, they are already so sensitive, and this is making them so much worse on top of the cold and isolation they are in bad shape. My wolf stirs restlessly, distressed. I shove it down as I see Mark’s watchful silhouette at the edge of my vision. “I will be a delta, I will be a delta.” My boot catches on something submerged, maybe a root, maybe a buried rock. I pitch forward, hands plunging into the sludge before my face follows. Mud floods into my sleeves. It smears across my cheek. For a second I stayed there. Just a second. The ground is cold and it smells like earth and rot and water. My wolf whimpers. “Get up!” Mark snaps. I push up immediately. Mud drips from my hands. My vest feels twice its weight now, saturated and dragging. Every step is slower than the last, suction resisting me like the earth itself is testing whether I deserve to leave it. By the final stretch, my legs are trembling visibly. I can feel it… that tiny loss of control. The micro-shakes in muscle that mean fatigue is turning into something more dangerous. Don’t slow. Don’t give him a reason. I force my knees higher. Each lift feels like hauling dead weight. My lungs burn. My heart is pounding too fast, too hard. The far edge of the basin looms closer. Solid ground. Almost there. Almost… My foot slips again, but I catch it before I go down fully. I stagger the last few yards and practically lunge onto firmer earth, collapsing to one knee as the mud finally releases me with a wet, reluctant sound. My legs feel hollow. The course isn’t even halfway done. Behind me, Mark says nothing. Silence can be worse than yelling. I wipe mud from my eyes with a shaking hand and stand again. The crawl tunnels wait ahead, low and dark beneath the rock. And I’m already tired.