Archive of Our Own ^beta

You bend down and press the fragile seedling into the small hole you just made in the soil, the smell of your wife’s fresh-baked bread wafting out from the homely kitchen—rye flour and caraway seeds—and, for the thousandth time, you ask yourself: is she happy with this life?

Are you?

It’s the life each of you fought for, anyway. A house and a white picket fence, given in fair exchange for your service. Your last battles in those awful machines are ten years past, even if your body will always, as they say, keep the score. Your back aches whenever you work the garden, a hangover from too much time spent curled over in a rattling cockpit. The constant migraines, the legacy of a psycho-neural net that has, mercifully, long since been decommissioned. Suburban bliss is what is left to you, whether you like it or not. The quiet life. It suits you well, even if you sometimes sense that Delia finds spending all day baking a poor substitute for the excitement.

As the fine afternoon light begins to dwindle, you straighten your aching back and prepare to head inside. That’s when you see her, heading up the path toward your front door.

“Hey there,” calls out your former XO—if that term truly encompasses what she was to you. “It’s… been a while, huh?”

God, she looks rough.

Not a kind thought, but she hardly deserves kindness. The years haven’t been kind either. There are deep lines in her face. Her handsome side-shave has become a shaggy wolf cut that was probably overgrown six months ago. And she’s gained weight. A lot of it; quite the beer belly on her now. She was always tall, but in a lithe way, like a model. Now she’s just big. And Christ, she’s still wearing her old Lancer jacket, patches and all. They tell you not to do that, on the way out.

“Hey,” you reply warily. “It sure has, uh…”

Names are tricky. You shouldn’t use the one you remember.

“Alana.” She grimaces. “That’s what they picked out for me, anyway.” You can’t quite suppress a laugh; she takes it well. “Doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“Nope.” You find yourselves sharing a smile.

“Yeah, well…” She seems oddly pleased by the comment. “Like I said, that’s what they picked.”

“Alana.” You nod. “It’s Beth, here. And, uh. Delia.”

“Beth, Delia.” She tastes the words in her mouth. Doesn’t seem to much care for them, but doesn’t pass comment either. “Good to meet you—again, I s’pose.”

“Right.” Time to broach the question. “What brings you around here, Alana?”

Another big grimace. “Shit. Here comes the real embarrassing part.” She hangs her hand on the back of her neck. Seeing her look this sheepish is quite something. “OK, look. I’ve hit some hard times lately. And I don’t have a lot of friends. So… I was wondering if you had a couch I could crash on? Just for a little while. Just for old time’s sake.”

Old time’s sake, huh?

Two weeks later, you’re starting to really wish you’d said ‘no’ to that. The whole living room smells like her—which is to say, it smells exactly like an old barracks. Alana seems to shower about as often as pilots ever used to, and she sure likes to keep wearing that old jacket. Seeing her face each and every day, however chubbier, isn’t easy. But you don’t just say ‘no’ to an old Lancemate, right? That loyalty is something they started drilling into your heads—quite literally—from basic. You thought you were past it, and you aren’t sure how to feel about the fact that you’re not.

But hey, at least it’s made Delia happy.

Unlike you, she was all smiles from the first moment she heard Alana’s voice. Happy memories, apparently. You bristle at that—but you also feel guilty. No suggestion of petty pleasure in your wife’s eyes. After all, haven’t you all gained a little weight? Not like any of you are in your twenties anymore. None of you are what you used to be; that’s always been important to you. Alana is just a vet, struggling to make it as a civvie. Tale as old as time.

You try to look on the bright side. Delia has been baking more than ever, and that’s saying something. Trying out new recipes too. The kitchen is a factory of delights. Today the scent of brown sugar, caramelizing in the oven, hangs heavy and pleasant. At this rate, neither you nor Alana are going to shed any pounds. Delia has been spending a little more time getting ready in the morning. She breaks out the nice dresses. Works on her makeup. And that’s nice, isn’t it? You like seeing her all dolled up. Makes sense, too. Anyone would be self-conscious around a houseguest.

It’s not like you’re immune to the feeling. There is a nervous energy about your little suburban house that is, somehow, both uneasy and pleasant. Camaraderie never dies. Jokes and remarks about the ‘good old days’ flow easily. There’s a lot to look back on, as long as the bad parts remain unspoken. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. Doesn’t always seem like nostalgia to Alana, though. There’s something in her voice when she reminisces. Like it’s still present tense. Like there hasn’t been much between then and now, for her. A life requires living, and there’s little to suggest Alana has been doing much of that.

One day, on a summer night so warm and humid the breeze feels like a dog’s wet tongue lapping your face, you find yourself sitting outside on the porch with her while Delia clears the kitchen. The aroma of home-baked apple pie lingers, and the pleasant fullness in your bellies lends itself more to comradely silence than to loose tongues. After a time, though, Alana speaks.

“You’re lucky, you know that?” she rumbles, jerking her head back to indicate the house. “To have this. To have her. Really lucky.”

You nod your head thoughtfully. Never once thought you’d hear envy in this woman’s voice.

“How about you?” you probe. “You meet anyone?”

Alana deflates with her long sigh. “Some… someones, I guess.”

“Didn’t take?”

“Nope.” A bleak little laugh. “None of it did.”

“Where’d they put you working?” You keep your voice light, but you are keenly aware of the voyeurism that itches you into speaking.

Alana’s huge body heaves as she shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” she replies eventually. “Don’t think any of it mattered. Not since…”

You’re a little irked when Delia appears on the porch, tray of drinks in hand, dissolving the moment. You wanted, you realize, to hear the horror stories. One more unkind impulse—but you’re growing familiar with those. Alana smiles bright at Delia and takes a mug; you do the same. Coffee and cinnamon caress your nose. The first sip is perfect. Delia’s creations always are. She spends days, hours, weeks, tinkering with them, getting the recipe just right. Unlike you, she couldn’t hack it at work, but she contributes in her own way.

You’re lucky. You smile a little smile to yourself at the look of wonder that passes over Alana’s face as she drinks from her mug. You get this every summer for the rest of your life. You’re the lucky one here.

‘Lucky’ is a tricky feeling to hold on to. After a few weeks of strange cohabitation, Alana and Delia are firmly back on the same wavelength. You always walk in after work or gardening and find the two of them sitting close on the couch. Guess Delia doesn’t mind the stink. Alana always seems to be telling some story about the old days, while Delia watches, eyes rapt and glowing, and somehow it’s always coming to an end as you walk in. Maybe you wouldn’t get it.

And—that’s it. Nothing more than that. Nothing untoward. Delia wouldn’t. She made vows, and she’s never so much as bent them. No suggestive hands on thighs. No shameful glances. It’s nothing more than friendliness. Right? Iffy hygiene and a few off-color jokes aside, Alana is a fine houseguest. Warm. Grateful. Charming, even.

Mostly grateful, anyway. After a week or two, you stop hearing so many thank yous. A week more, and you’d think she owns the place too, judging from how familiar she is.

Well, it’s only natural. Probably.

But one day, you’ve had enough. Without even really admitting to yourself that it’s been chewing you up, you come home from work—just a boring administrator job, the kind they love to slot ex-lancers into—eager to try the cupcakes Delia was baking that morning. There’s nothing to greet you but crumbs and the fading scent of icing sugar. Alana laughs like it’s a joke as she rubs her belly.

“Sorry, Beth! They were so damn good, I just couldn’t help my appetite.”

Delia laughs too. That’s what really does it.

You sit and seethe through dinner in silence. The two of them barely notice. Alana and Delia keep reminiscing and giggling like old lovers. It’s wrong; Alana doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve her baking. Your conviction hardens. This is dangerous. You’re backsliding. You need to do something. You make up your mind.

“So, Alana.” At the end of the meal, you sit back and fold your arms and do not bother to keep the unkindness from your voice. “What’s next for you?”

“Huh?” Alana turns away from Delia to look at you. Her mood is good; she hasn’t noticed you simmering. “Oh, uh… well, believe it or not, I’ve been keepin’ my ear to the ground for work. Waitin’ for a few callbacks—hopefully, anyway. Gotta earn my keep while I’m aroun’ here. Then after I get some savings, maybe-”

“No, no,” you interrupt—and doesn’t that feel good? “I mean, where are you going to stay next?”

“Next?” Alana’s eyes widen. She’s struggling to believe it, coming from you, but she’s been through enough misery the past decade to know when the rug is getting pulled out from under her.

“You’ve been here for a month now,” you put to her. “Don’t you think it’s time for you to move on?”

“Honey, is that really-” Delia begins. You throw her a sharp look. You two have never argued much, and you’ve never before been one to put your foot down. You’ve let her do things her way, even when that means baking at three in the morning. Maybe that’s why she shuts up. Or maybe it’s shame.

“C’mon, B,” Alana tries smiling. Tries turning it into a joke. “What’s the matter? Was it that little crack about how I victorycucked you a few times back in the day? Just joshin’ you, I swear! Or… was it the cupcakes? Look, I get it. It was inconsiderate. Won’t happen again.”

No, it won’t. That dawns on her as she sits and squirms and waits for something in your face to yield. It feels so good to see her squirming. To sit back, implacable, and know that you have all the power for once. Now she finally knows how it feels.

“I think it would be best if you were gone by the end of the week,” you tell her calmly. “I’d like my living room back.”

All the sanguinity drains from that round face, and anger replaces it. Alana always did have that hothead pilot temperament. She’s fighting it, though. Really fighting it. She squeezes her one-word question out as a whiny rasp. “Why?”

“I just told you, Alana.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Alana sees through you right away. “I’m trying to get back on my feet here.”

“Yes,” you reply. “And we gave you a month. Or are you asking for charity, Alana?”

“Don’t… call me that.” There’s a distinct pleasure in seeing it get harder and harder for her to think clearly. How many times did she take that pleasure from you? Delia is looking at you, horrified, but you don’t care. “I don’t want charity.”

“What, then?”

“A chance!” Alana booms. Christ, she sounds petulant. “I want all this.” She gestures at the home around you. “An’ I know I need to figure that out for myself. But I just… they wouldn’t give me a chance, B.”

“You had plenty.” You’re getting angry too. There’s a long-dormant urge in you, threatening to come alive. A dull reflex that yearns to activate. Anger keeps you safe. “You had ten years of chances, and I bet you used up every single one of them.”

“Beth, please!” Delia attempts.

“And why are you so eager to keep a broken dog around, huh?” You round on her next. “You think I don’t notice it? What exactly has been going on between you and Alana?”

“I said, don’t call me that!” Alana’s beyond calm. She’s matching you yell for yell. “That’s not my fucking name!”

“Oh yes it is!” you retort. “Get it through your head: you’re not still who you were in L3! None of us are! Move on. I did. Delia did.” Delia flinches. “That’s why we have this. We don’t use those names. We followed the program and we worked hard. Maybe if you’d done that, you’d have this too.”

Alana goes quiet for a moment. She looks down, veins bulging at her temple. She looks like she wants to hit you. You’d love that. You’d love for her to lower herself to it.

“It’s all I have,” Alana says thickly, eventually. She sounds like she’s pleading with you. “They sandblasted everythin’ else out in the synchronicity training. I couldn’t remember the name my mama gave me even if I wanted to. They gave me somethin’ better. They made me strong. I was somebody. How am I supposed to move on from that?”

The sheer childishness of her grievance is almost enough to make you feel sorry for her. But in the end, the glee of turning the tables wins out.

“It’s all bullshit, you know,” you tell her. “Everything they made us. Everything they put in our heads. That alpha, beta, entire Greek alphabet shit. I looked it up once. You should too. It’s a bunch of crap, based on bad research and pop science. Wolves don’t behave like that in the wild. Wolf packs are just family units. That’s all. Parents and kids. If you want a family, go looking for one. Leave mine alone.”

Just like that, the fight goes out of her. You’ve never seen Alana so totally deflated. It’s quite the sight. You’ll remember it fondly. “Where am I supposed to go?” is her final question.

You ignore Delia’s desperate look. “You’re a grown woman,” you reply with a sneer. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself.”

“Fuck you, B.” Her heart isn’t in it.

“Just for calling me that,” you decide. “You can make yourself scarce tomorrow.”

One more night, and then she’ll be gone. Everything can be back to just the way it was.

You wake up in the middle of the night with Alana’s panting in your ear, her bulk on top of you, and the shaggy scent of her unwashed hair draped all around you.

It feels like a nightmare. It feels like your worst nightmare. “Wwhhuhwareyooo?” you slur, as you fight for consciousness. “Yyyouuu-”

You turn your head. Delia isn’t there. There’s light spilling through the open door, barely enough to see the crazed, wild-eyed look on Alana’s face. You try to sit up. Not happening. Alana’s entire weight is on your chest, and her knees are pinning your arms. You can’t move.

“Hey, Beta.” Alana spits it like it’s a slur. Like it feels unspeakably good to say. Hearing it is the worst thing in the world. “So, when’d you learn to act like such a big, tough girl. Huh?”

One of the only assets your old life as a pilot ever gave you is the ability to wake up in one hell of a hurry when you’re in danger. “H-hey,” you manage, mind racing. “That’s not… look, maybe I got a little… but don’t do this. OK? Think about what you’re throwing away here. I-I mean, you’ve made a lot of progress. Right? We all have. So don’t… don’t…”

You dread to think about what she might do to you. What she might already have done to Delia. You need to disarm the bomb sitting on your chest. You take a deep breath.

“You can keep staying here.” You promise. “As long as you need, Alana, I just-“

A glob of disgusted saliva hits your cheek and shuts you right up. You knew the name was a risk. You were just hoping it might anchor her, somehow. Evidently, she’s far beyond that.

“That’s not my fucking name, you worthless maggot,” Alana drools. “What’s my name?”

“C’mon. Please, just calm down. Let’s-”

“What’s my goddamn name?”

The danger in her voice moves you. You close your eyes and try not to think about what it means.

“You can stay here as long as you need, Alpha.”

There it is. Above you, Alpha shudders like she’s orgasming. Against your will, you shiver too. You open your eyes, and the grin on Alpha’s face is appalling. Suddenly, you find that you cannot think of her any other way. Like she said—that other name, that civvie name, it never suited her.

Alpha does.

You shake your head violently. You feel it beneath. Your old self. Your old role. It’s still real. Still waiting, like the open mouth of a hungry wolf. Ready to claim you.

“I know I can, Beta,” Alpha laughs. “The Lance shares. Am I right?”

“Y-yes, Alpha,” you bleat. “But-”

“Shhh.” Alpha strokes your face with her jagged fingertips, and it is almost gentle. “I liked you better before. This place, all this stuff—it’s so phony. Don’t worry. I’m gonna put you right. Just you wait.”

She sounds utterly delusional. Then you feel her hand curl around the back of your neck, her fingertips reaching for your neural port.

“Since you were so keen to educate me earlier,” Alpha leers. “Let me return the favor. You know, when they demobilized us, those fucking government cheapskates didn’t actually take anythin’ out of our heads the way they said they did. Cost-prohibitive. All they did was turn off the psychnodes. Kill the neural net that way. Only, there’s a manual override. You just need to know where to find it.”

That’s when you give in to panic and start fighting her.

It’s a losing battle, of course; her weight is far too much for you to shift, and despite the fat she’s gained, she’s strong. All you can do is toss your head from side to side, hoping somehow to keep her at bay. There’s something between Alpha’s fingers, something long and slender, something she’s trying to use to pry your sealed neural port open.

Once she gets it loose, you go completely still. A conditioned reflex from your Lancer days. Learned helplessness. Don’t wanna jolt the doc into damaging something important.

And Alpha’s grubby, probing paw is nothing like the doctors’ expert fingers. Her evident shakiness, be it from feverish excitement or simple clumsiness, is almost as distressing as the deeply invasive sensation of air against the inside of your skull. Paralyzed by horror, you feel Alpha’s index finger worming its way into the breach, then her middle digit too, past the skull and the membrane beneath, and then-

Nothing.

The brain does not have nerve endings. They told you that before the surgery like it was meant to make you feel better. It was cold comfort then, and it’s cold comfort now. Nerve endings or no, the imagined sensation of Alpha’s chubby fingers prying their way through your gray matter is impossible to ignore. Curling, pushing, exploring, palpating, digits hooked like she’s finger-fucking your skull. Your lower half spasms impotently as Alpha retreats for a moment, then plunges back into you as if resetting her aim. She’s feeling around blindly for something, and doing untold damage in the process.

A scent blossoms in your mind, almost familiar. Burnt toast. Your face goes slack. You void your bowels on the bedsheets underneath you. A thousand stillborn thoughts and sensations threaten to bloom, but they come to nothing as your brain short-circuits beneath Alpha’s fingertips. A great, unbearable pressure builds within your skull, worse than any headache could possibly be. The inside of your skull is bright, painful chaos. You have never been more aware of the fragility of your being—your very personhood—as you are while it falls apart thanks to the crude groping of the woman you hate most in the world. Alpha pries your hemispheres apart, and the very thread of your consciousness becomes unspooled into an unfathomable sequence of flashes of impulses of pains of nouns of verbs and-

“Got it,” Alpha smirks, as her fingers touch hard metal and something long dormant hums to life.

-nothing. Again.

You feel nothing as Alpha pulls back her fingers with an unpleasant, wet pop. Or as she forgets to seal your neural port back up, or as something that was once essential to you dribbles down the back of your neck, quiet and dead. You are deep in fog now, as tired as if you had never slept at all, and to string together the random, disordered firings of your neurons into something so definite as a feeling would be an effort so gargantuan as to unmake you. Better to drift. Better to let a dumb smile dawn on your face. There is nothing for you to feel.

Except Alpha.

After ten long years, the psychoneural net that once made Alpha, Delta, and you into a pack girds itself around your thoughts like it was never gone. Then, hungry for connection, it reaches out—and another mind hearkens to its call. Hers.

During your service days, you tried over and over again to fight her off. Never successfully; she was always the greater will. This time, it occurs to you, you might have been able to succeed if only Alpha had left you whole. Her mental fortitude is not what it once was. Years of idleness and degradation have left her mind as flabby and loose as her body. But it does not matter; as a drooling lobotomite you are lesser still, and you find yourself welcoming the smothering, searing presence of her mind within yours. On your own, you cannot form a single, clear impulse. You cannot act. You need a leader. And from now on, just as she wanted, she will be your Alpha.

You surrender to her delusion. You become a pack again.

“There we go,” Alpha coos. Suddenly, she is calm. Dominance is a balm to her. She did not know how to be a civilian—but she knows this. “Isn’t that better, Beta?”

Hearing that name arouses a flicker of resentment. It dies the moment she pushes a thought into you. For a second time, you feel her fingers in your head, pressing into alignment thoughts that do not belong together. The scent of burnt toast is all-consuming. You drool your acceptance down onto your pillow.

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Good. Good.” Alpha reaches down and musses your hair mock-affectionately, just like she always used to. She glows with victory—then remembers what she’s here for. Revenge clouds her face. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About wolf behavior, or whatever. Looked it up, too. You were right! It’s all bullshit. Ain’t that something?”

Her laugh splinters the air. Even following the thread of her words is hard, but her tone is dangerous enough to call you to attention. You fight to guard whatever’s left of your mind against whatever’s coming, agonizing though the effort is.

“Wolf packs are families, like you said—but then a pretty little bird gave me a wonderful idea. We’ll just have to be a family instead.” Alpha howls at her own cleverness. “Delta can be the mommy.” Delta! That’s something. That means something. You have to look out for her. Don’t you? “And me? You can call me Daddy, Beta.”

You make it a contest, barely. With what little acuity is left to you, you try to fight off her reaching, psychic fingers—but it’s far too late for that. Alpha shines within you like the sun. At the very first suggestion of resistance, she clamps her palms around the bruised remnant of your ego and crushes it into pulp. Your entire body throbs as a new, grotesque self-conception unfurls within you. Your ruined mind works overtime in service to Alpha—in betrayal of you—dredging up connotations of juvenility, of immaturity, of subordination and parental affection. Your capacity for introspection sings a swan song, and you are desperately, keenly aware of your own rapid contraction.

Then, that too is gone.

You smile. Everything is all right. God is in her heaven.

And Daddy’s home.

“Atta girl,” Daddy coos, sensing your submission. She pinches your cheek, then finally clambers off you. In her absence, you cling tight to your own soiled bedding. “Be good for me, Beta. It’s past your bedtime. And I can hear Mommy calling.”

Hope and its cousin Death blossom within you. You nod eagerly, and feel very proud of yourself for remembering a promise made long ago.

If you’re good, she’ll let you watch.

You fumble for the key under the mat and, after three attempts, slide it into the lock and open the door. The stale, unwashed, barracks-sweat scent swarms you, but no longer wrinkles your nose. It is as familiar as it ever was, and a smile comes to your lopsided face as it transports you into a nostalgic daydream. If anything more of you than this remained, you might well ask:

Are you happy with this life?

You set down your things and shrug out of your suit jacket, leaving it a lifeless pile on the ground. Work isn’t going well, thanks to your diminished capacities. But your ex-Lancer status gives you leeway; you’ve been put on a performance improvement plan, and Daddy reckons you’ll be good for a few more paychecks before they cut you adrift. You’re not sure what happens then, but you don’t worry about that. Worrying is for Mommy and Daddy.

Are you happy?

You drift through the kitchen. The oven is cold, as always. There is dust on the counters. You’re hungry, but you don’t worry about that either. Mommy will feed you a microwave meal once she’s ready. Next you head upstairs, following the sounds of slapping flesh. You went to work, you’ve been good, so you get to watch. That’s the rule.

Mommy and Daddy are in your bedroom. No, their bedroom. Obviously.

Daddy Alpha mounts Mommy Delta on the bed, rutting into her with great heaves that send ripples through her bulky body. Mommy Delta, ever a more delicate thing, is smothered by her but, enthralled by the neural net, that seems to you right and proper. Daddy is magnificent; all that size and strength are the proof. Not a scrawny runt like you. You’re so grateful she’s seeing to the needs of the Lance. You slump quietly onto the chair in the corner, allowing your hand to drift between your legs as the mood takes you. Daddy does not even notice you enter—but Mommy does. She looks at you, a strange smile on her face.

“Welcome home, Beta,” she says, and only someone who knows her as well as you could sense the mockery.

Are you happy with this life? And more importantly, is she?

You wonder about that, when you can. You did not sense her through the neural net that first night, not even when Daddy Alpha claimed her right before your foggy eyes. Only later, and by then her resentment, her fragility, her boredom and yearning were already like fine vinegar, years matured. You look at her, and you wonder: what might you have done differently, that long decade? Should you have worried more about the compulsive baking? Should you have pushed her back to work? Should you have tried harder to be the leader she needed?

Was she ever happy? 

Thanks to Mommy’s words, Daddy notes your presence.

“Hey, kiddo,” she pants derisively, mid-thrust. “How was school?”

Any reply you might give is swallowed by the riptide of her mental presence as it bears down on you. She is engorged, colossal, irresistible. The pride of claiming sings in her anew. Whatever confidence ten years cost her, she has regained in mere weeks of shared madness. Through the neural net, her psychic fingers pry apart the withering folds of your gray matter and press them into a new shape.

Excitement fills you. Joy fills you. Your hand quickens against your cunt as rapturous wonder strikes you anew with each one of Daddy Alpha’s ungainly thrusts into Mommy. Her power, her potency, her dominance—the awe of these overwhelms you. You are grateful, once again, to have such an example to follow, your gratitude undiminished, against all reason, by the certain knowledge that this second nightmare-childhood is forever. Your desire for Mommy Delta burns just as bright, spousal affection stained unmistakably Oedipal. The pride of being claimed makes her more beautiful than ever. You wish you were a big enough girl for a woman like her. It’s the kind of thing a real person might resent, but the pride of a sidelined child is enough for you. You are so very proud to watch your Daddy Alpha fuck the mommy who is your wife, day after day, as everything you built falls to ruin.

This is your life; are you happy?

Well, it’s just like the good old days.