Chains of Fate (MxM Sci-fi Omegaverse)

IV

       If Port Gelu had been modeled after the thousand foot high metropolises' of the old earth, Port Ira was an image of the ancient old world stories the men of the past called 'The Roman Empire'.

Where Gelu was a sparkling new age hub, a testament to the modern world with buildings so tall you couldn't look up and see the tops, there was no city streets, only Port Scuds, and new age ZGrav railways. Zero Gravity was all the rage on a Port that prides itself in its artificial gravity monopolies. One of the many things Jude Energies had a hand in. Then again the Jude Energies Industry had a hand in everything on Port Gelu.

Port Ira was its polar opposite,a stark reminder of a bygone era. Unlike the sleek, vertical marvels of Port Gelu, Port Ira's architecture was sprawling and ancient, with wide stone plazas and crumbling facades that hinted at a time when grandeur was measured in the width of streets rather than their height. Here, the buildings, though aged and weathered, still stood as proud relics or at least carbon copies of those relics.

The streets of Port Ira were alive with the bustling activity of a more old earth society, crowded with vendors, hawkers, and citizens going about their business. Instead of gliding effortlessly through Zero Gravity, lower genders navigated through the maze of cobblestone pathways and narrow alleys, creating a contrast to the pristine, gravity-defying elegance of Port Gelu. The air was thick with the scent of street food, and the distant clamor of markets created a constant background hum.

The contrast between the two ports was jarring. Where Port Gelu was a marvel of technological advancement, Port Ira embraced a rough, historical charm. The old-world design of Port Ira was accentuated by the heavy presence of wrought iron railings, age-worn statues, and grand arches that seemed to echo the footsteps of ancient emperors. The port was grounded, its gravity tangible and oppressive, a deliberate juxtaposition to the ethereal floatiness of Gelu's futuristic infrastructure.

As the skiff descended towards Port Ira, the vast expanse of the old-world cityscape spread out before me, a sprawling canvas of history and lower genders. The ancient port's charm was undeniable, but it was also clear that the gritty reality of daily life here was far removed from the effortless luxury of Port Gelu.

It was here in this starkly, ancient environment that I found myself, escorted by my brother Atticus and his keeper off of a his PortScud and into the heart of a place that seemed to defy the passage of time. As Atticus' navigated us through the maze of streets and alleys, I could feel the weight of the centuries pressing down on me, mingling with the tension of my escape, though it was likely just the gravity difference between Gelu and Ira. Which was two percent heavier on Ira.

The ancient port thrummed with a rhythm of its own, a hum of life akin to Gelu's high-society pulse, yet distinctly different in every conceivable way. Here, among the chaos of lower-gender existence, my discomfort with their lives felt almost baseless—laughable even. To Omegas, Alphas are little more than breeding instruments, chosen and discarded at will, as though flipping through a catalog of fleeting options to be exchanged when the novelty wears off. They are not seen as individuals, certainly not as equals, but as mere tools.  Yet, this dehumanization was not reserved for Alphas alone. To most Omegas, any being that does not share their status is lesser—a creature deemed beneath them in the natural order. Raised on that objectifying ideal, I struggled to view lower genders in any other light, even in moments when their humanity subtly flickered through.

That notion sits heavy with me on many lonely nights, when I consider the basis of my essence at birth is the only thing that has kept me from the blackt. Often I wonder if the things we do as a whole in the Tellus Rerum are wrong, but nothing seems out of place to those around me. Except for myself, I am an anomaly—a discordant note in a composition meant to be perfectly in tune. Not the right temperament, small for an omega, born late and inexperienced. I fall short of my essence, one I should never have possessed. It is ill-suited to me, a mantle I wear without merit.