✎ᴘꜱʏᴄʜɪᴄᴋ ʀᴀʏʟᴇɪɢʜ

The pregnancy is entirely hallucinatory, yet feels physically real. As exposure continues, the hallucination becomes self-reinforcing until it dominates the subject's perception of reality.

Omega men display the highest rate of instability, when it comes to the effects of Morphogenyc Engine. Although they possess the biological capacity for pregnancy, many arrive at Mount Massive with severe trauma surrounding reproduction and sexuality. Years of abuse, coercion, or exploitation leave their subconscious unable to reconcile the idea of pregnancy with their own identity.

The Engine attempts to force the reproductive instinct into a coherent hallucination but repeatedly fails. Instead of producing a stable phantom pregnancy, the instinct fractures. kickstarting what I call False Parenting Syndrome.

Rather than believing they are carrying a child, affected Omega males begin expressing isolated fragments of parental and reproductive behavior without the central pregnancy delusion.

Symptoms may include:

1. Sudden attachment to a person, corpse, or object treated as an "offspring" 2. compulsive protection of the surrogate 3. territorial aggression 4. obsessive resource guarding 5. alternating nurturing behavior and explosive violence 6. possessiveness mistaken for parental devotion 7. panic when separated from the surrogate

To outside observers, these patients often resemble highly territorial Alphas despite lacking the same underlying psychology. The behavior is not dominance-driven. It is a reproductive instinct stripped of context, leaving only the compulsive need to protect, possess, and preserve.

Continued exposure destabilizes all affected (female & male) subjects. Some retain enough awareness to recognize their delusions early on and actively suppress them. Most eventually lose that ability.

As the Engine continues reinforcing contradictory instincts, identity fragments, hallucinations intensify, and violent psychosis becomes inevitable. No documented patient recovers once symptoms reach the final stage.

Omega males prove exceptionally difficult for Murkoff to study. Unlike female subjects experiencing stable phantom pregnancies, their symptoms are inconsistent, highly individualized, and prone to sudden escalation. Researchers struggled to produce repeatable results. Their volatility (and aggression) also results in higher casualty rates among staff.

Eventually Murkoff concludes that Omega males consume disproportionate resources while providing little usable data.

By the time Miles Upshur and Waylon Park enter Mount Massive, every female patient and every Omega patient has already been transferred, quietly eliminated following repeated experimental failures.

Official records list the transfers as evacuations, but no surviving test subjects are ever recovered, once exposed to the Engine, the subjects' fate is already decided.

Now for the Characters:

I actually think Alpha Miles fits surprisingly well. Miles is confrontational almost to a fault. Even before Mount Massive, he willingly investigates dangerous institutions for a story. Once inside, he keeps moving and pushing through impossible situations. An Alpha interpretation doesn't mean he's physically dominant. Instead, the Engine could have very little time to reshape him before the Walrider becomes the bigger issue.

Chris Walker is an Alpha. He served in the military and his patroling can easily be compared to an Alpha's protective instinct, which The Engine amplifies until it becomes murderous.

Trager too, is an Alpha and a misogynistic one at that. I think he works better if his hatred is because they represent vulnerability and bodily autonomy in ways he despises. He'd likely mock Omega men even more viciously than women because, in his worldview, they fail both categories. Something like: Trager dismisses Omega men as defective specimens—too "feminine" to deserve the respect of a man, yet capable of fulfilling what he considers a woman's biological purpose. To him, they are failed experiments rather than people, making them ideal candidates for increasingly invasive procedures. (not like there are Omegas in the sylum though) That feels like Trager to me lol.

Father Martin is a Beta, the only gender that suits his devotion.

I think that most twin pairs consist of one higher-ranking secondary gender (Alpha or Beta) and one lower-ranking secondary gender (Beta or Omega). Identical secondary-gender twins are possible but exceptionally rare. Hence, The Twins consist of one Alpha(The shorter twin) and a Beta (The taller one).

Jeremy Blaire is also a Beta, one that I think is still somewhat bitter about his secondary gender, but has accepted it (kind of)...

William "Billy" Hope is an Alpha, while Doctor Wernicke is a Beta, giving their "parental connection" some breathing room to say. The Walrider is just some artificial entity so I don't think he'd have a secondary gender, nothing really changes about it, he still hates everyone and everything.

Waylon Park (as much as I want to make him an Omega, I actually want him to survive and him being an Omega just does not make that a possibility, phantom fatal pregnancies and all...) is a Beta. Unlike Miles, Waylon isn't looking for danger. He's an IT consultant who realizes something is terribly wrong, is haunted by that fact, reports it, gets punished for doing the right thing, and then spends the game trying to survive and get back to his family. A Beta interpretation makes it so that the Morphogenic Engine has less of an obvious "instinct" to amplify in him. He still experiences psychological strain, but not through the intense territorial instincts of an Alpha or the reproductive distortions of Omegas. However I do think that his wife, Lisa is an Alpha! We know very little about her, but what we do know paints a picture of someone capable of holding her family together while Waylon disappears. the 2 boys have not yet presented.

Frank "The cannibal" Manera is an Alpha whose prolonged starvation has fundamentally altered how the Morphogenic Engine expresses his instincts. Instead of amplifying protection or leadership, the Engine fixates on survival. Hunger becomes his defining drive, overriding nearly every other instinct.

Regarding The Groom, he's obviously an Alpha, I just think that Eddie's father and uncle had forcing him into a role defined by submission, objectification, and sexual violence. Whether or not he was actually an Omega became irrelevant in his childhood. The abuse taught Eddie to associate anything Omegan—or anything he perceived as vulnerable—with humiliation and violation. His hatred is directed primarily toward Omega women because they most closely embody the image of his mother. Omega men provoke a different kind of disgust. To Eddie, they exist in an intolerable middle ground: they're neither "real men" nor women worthy of becoming his idealized brides. He often views them as reminders of his own victimization, making them equally suitable targets for violence. Alpha men/women are also the gender he holds some anger towards. the most "safe" to be in his presence are Beta men.

The thought comes uninvited, absurdly mundane compared to everything else, and yet it anchors you as your fingers tighten around the handle of the metal bucket. It's not the smell that's causing discomfort though, after staying at sea for longer stretches of time, you've come to know the essence of fish far too intimately than you'd like.

The cold bites into your skin as you step up to the edge of the tank, boots stopping just shy of the slick line where water has splashed over and dried in uneven streaks. You should’ve said no.

Even now, you can still hear the echo of your own better judgment, buried under layers of curiosity and something far more reckless. But it’s too late for that.

You’re here. Your eyes glance back to the men now armed wih tranquilizers. They're here. their fingers probably already resting too comfortably near triggers. A safe procedure made of sedation and bad decisions.

He's here. And he’s watching you.

The slow circle Mark had been tracing tightens the moment you appear above him. It’s subtle at first—a slight adjustment in his path, a shallower arc—but then it becomes unmistakable. His movements sharpen with purpose, the lazy drift replaced by something more focused, more… aware.

Anticipation.

You exhale slowly through your nose, lowering yourself into a crouch at the tank’s edge. The metal bucket follows, dipping just enough that its shadow ripples across the water’s surface.

“Easy…” You mutter, though your pulse is anything but.

You hate it.

Mark surfaces in a slow glide, far smoother than anything his size should manage in such a confined space. The water parts around him with barely a sound, his pale sides ghosting into view beneath the darker surface before his head breaks through.

Up close like this, the damage is harder to ignore.

The bandaging. The stiffness in the way he holds himself. The faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing. The poor thing.

Your grip tightens on the bucket handle.

“Hey,” you say, quieter now.

His eyes find you immediately.

Not the bucket. Not your hands.

You.

There’s a pause—longer than it should be. Long enough for doubt to creep in, cold and unwelcome as it pulls on your composure.

Then his tail flicks. A small motion. Careful. Controlled.

Closer.

You swallow, shifting your weight as you finally reach into the bucket. The fish is slick in your hand, cold and pliant, and for a fleeting second, the thought hits hard—

You could still walk away.

Climb down. Hand the bucket off. Let the staff handle it the way they always do—distant, detached, safe. Clinical.

Isn’t this enough already?

He didn’t lunge. Didn’t thrash. Didn’t show even a flicker of the violence carved into his bloodline. For a creature born of an apex predator, raised under one, that restraint alone should be proof enough of something extraordinary.

You’ve documented less and called it groundbreaking.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fish.

This could be where you stop.

Where you keep the boundary intact. Researcher and subject. Human and mer. Safe lines, clearly drawn.

Because the next step—

The next step is different.

It’s not really observation anymore.

You lift it slowly, deliberately, keeping your movements measured. No sudden jerks. No looming. Just… present with food in your hand.

Mark’s gaze drops this time.

Tracks the fish.

Then flicks back up to your face.

You huff out a shaky breath. “Polite, huh?”

Another inch closer. He’s right beneath you now, close enough that you can see the subtle tension along his jaw, the way his body holds just a fraction too still—like he’s ready to bolt if something goes wrong.

Good.

Stay like that.

“Alright,” You murmur, lowering your hand toward the water. “Same rules as before. No headbutting my—”

The tip of his snout breaches the surface.

Your spine stiffens instantly, every muscle locking as the reality snaps back into focus and into precision.

There's mechanical sounds behind you.

Water laps gently against your fingers as you hover just above him, the fish dangling between you. For a split second, neither of you moves. The world narrows to the space between your hand and his mouth, to the faint sound of water shifting against reinforced glass, to the distant, almost imperceptible hum of equipment behind you.

Then—

A soft nudge.

Not your hand.

The fish.

He takes it carefully.

No snap. No rush. Just a slow, deliberate motion, lips brushing your fingers for the briefest second as he pulls it from your grip.

You don’t breathe until he’s already sinking back under.

The tension in your shoulders releases all at once, leaving behind a strange, hollow lightness. “...Okay,” You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.

Behind you, there’s movement, someone shifting, exhaling, but no one interrupts.

Good.

Because you’re not done.

Mark circles again, tighter this time. Faster, but not erratic. There’s something different in it now—less hesitation, more certainty. When he surfaces again, it’s closer. Closer than before.

Too close, maybe.

You reach into the bucket again, slower this time—not because you’re afraid, but because you’re thinking.

This is the line.

You can feel it now, clearer than ever.

The space between observer and participant.

Between researcher… and something else.

As you lift the second fish, water dripping from your fingers, Mark is already there—watching, waiting, that same sharp awareness locked onto you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

And this time—

He doesn’t hesitate.

Chirps, whistles, and trembling trills drift up from the water beneath you, sounds so unfamiliar you can’t decipher whether they’re warnings or songs.

You veer left; he mirrors you. You slow; he slows more. A long, warbling whistle rises from below—too soft for an orca, too deep for a beluga. He emits clicking patterns that mimic your calls and mess with your instincts. If you rest, he stops moving entirely, hovering like a guard.

He tends to vanish after your failed hunts, slipping away when your fear is at its peak and your morale is at its lowest, only to return moments later with the very prey you were chasing clenched between his sharp, webbed claws. Pushing the food towards your direction with too much enthusiasm.

Your acceptance of his offering ignites something inside him, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. He rolls onto his back, pectoral fins stretching open in a bold display, hands laced behind his head like he owns the entire sea, satisfaction blatant on his face. Cocky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Not even an hour after he fed you, he’s already chipping away at your nerves, steadily working to narrow the distance between you and him despite all your careful attempts to keep it wide.

He drifts too close to your tail fin, and you feel the graze of his sharp fingers along your spotted skin—light enough not to pierce, but enough for you to throw him a glance, to which he gets the hint and slightly backs away.

Not for long though, never for long.

He moves nearer, hesitating for a moment before letting the length of his tail brush softly against yours, skin gliding across skin. It’s almost awkward, like he’s unsure how much pressure to use, unsure if you’ll pull away. But he tries anyway. His inverted orca patterns trace your spotted length with a warm, unhurried stroke. It’s not forceful. Not aggressive. Just… close. Too close. A gesture meant for someone who understands what it signifies—and you definitely don’t. Still, when his soft touch drifts along your tail again, followed by a deep orca rumble that melts into a high, soothing beluga whisper, you catch the unmistakable shape of his name echoing through the water.

Your lips struggle to repeat it, forming the faintest imitation of his name—barely a breath—right as he pulls back from you.

Mark. Call me Mark.

It takes you far too long to realize that he wasn't stalking you.

He has been trying to court you.

🐳🐬🐳

You don’t like it, actually, you can’t stand it. Every extra word you have to force out of Cecil about their choice of facility grates on your nerves. But arguing won’t change anything, and it still beats the alternative, which is Mark bleeding out in a tiny tank after taking the beating of a lifetime from his own sire.

In the end, the old man gives in, allowing you to tag along to the facility and document your account of the incident with a wrinkle between his eyebrows that never fades despite his mood.

"Attached" He called you, trying to make sense of your worry. And you couldn't help but agree with him, answering the comment with a shrug of your shoulders and a roll of your eyes, because the last thing you'll do is agree with Cecil. Vocally, at least.

The first couple of days in the sanctuary were tough on the injured mer, who slowly drifted from one corner of the bare tank to the other, almost like a manatee—he was either saving energy or was in too much pain to move any of his fins after the surgeries. Not to mention that the bandages wrapped around him from tail to head kept him tightly restricted.

So far from the energetic creature you'd known him to be.

@weponxwrites

Thankfully, his condition stabilized after two weeks, and he seemed lucid, reactive to humans, as well as the bareness of the tank.

You couldn’t stay with him for more than a day at a time—you still had to work. Debbie needed monitoring now more than ever, anxiously circling the same stretch of territory Nolan had once claimed. The worried mer kept calling for her son, for her mate, her voice echoing through the water only to be met with silence each time. She even came up to your research boat at one point, circling just beneath the surface as if trying to catch the scent of her pup. When her head broke the water and she saw only you standing there, her hopeful posture collapsed into something defeated. Without a sound, she slipped back into the depths.

Debbie wasn’t the only one struggling with the absence of the other, though.

Mark has been keeping his distance, hovering in the far corner like he expected the walls to close in on him. His tail flicked slowly and uneasily, never fully relaxed. Every human movement was met with caution. He too, kept making noise, whistles and moos that went unanswered.

But the moment he noticed you, standing just behind the medical staff, holding some papers, something shifted in his expression. His posture straightened, pupils widening with a faint spark of recognition. Hard to tell. His species mix made reading expressions almost impossible, yet you knew he wasn’t indifferent to you.

His family had always been aware of you, but once they realized you meant no harm, Nolan left your little boat alone, showing a bit of mercy—after hounding you relentlessly, circling the hull, and nearly giving you a heart attack the first dozen times. Before his aggressive episode, they even left gifts—penguin carcasses, half-eaten dolphins, which you hesitantly swam away from.

The adults kept to themselves. Mark, however, was overcome with curiosity and a streak of disobedience. You’d known for a long time that the little bumps against your boat weren’t drifting ice, or a stray wave, or even Nolan checking in to make sure you were still as harmless as the last time he’d inspected you.

They were him. The inquisitive pup who couldn’t resist poking at the strange creature floating on the surface.

Sometimes he’d nudge the hull so gently you barely felt it. Other times he’d ram it with enough enthusiasm to jolt you forward in your seat. And on the rare days when he was feeling bold, you’d catch a flash of white just under the waterline—his tail, his grin, his whole body tilting like he wanted you to chase him.

Even then, he’d risked his father’s wrath just to get a closer look at what you were.

Perhaps he’d heard you speak through the glass, recognized your voice—the same one that had called out from the strange platform—and connected the dots. It wouldn’t be strange; after all, he was a hybrid of two highly intelligent mer species.

"Think he knows?” Cecil’s voice was low as he stepped beside you, his gaze flicking to Mark’s sharp eyes.

“About what?” You asked, keeping your tone casual.

“About you,” He said, almost under his breath, “I mean… does he know who you are?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed locked on Mark, trying to read the hybrid, but his expression gave nothing away. The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, and the way Mark stared blankly in your direction only seemed to spike Cecil’s interest. His gaze flicked between you and the tank, curiosity written in every line of his face. The old man wanted to tell you something, and you found yourself praying he wouldn’t. Every flick of Mark's tail, the unblinking glance, felt like a recognition—and the last thing you wanted was whatever Cecil had to say.

You sighed, feeling pinned under the man’s sharp gaze, as if there were no other choice. The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

“What is it?”

Cecil’s eyes flicked to the tank for a fraction of a second, then back at you.

Everything was going well,

Until something set him off. Maybe his son’s instincts which he was still getting the hang of, triggered something in the fully grown orca, or a hunting attempt to which he let Mark tag along had fallen through, making the father snap and bare his fangs more often than not, even his mate's calls weren't enough to calm him down. The longer you observed, the more his nature as a killer whale became visible.

One moment, he and his son were following a whale, and the next, his massive tail whipped through the water’s surface like a lash, sending a wave that rattled your observation kat. Your antennae picked up Mark’s squeaks of alarm—he had probably instinctively dove low—while the father circled above. You could only see Nolan's elongated dorsal fin cut through the water in tight, deliberate arcs, sometimes vanishing into the depths only to resurface with a shocking spray of blood trailing behind him. Was it the whale's? Mark's? You could only watch in horror as he tore through something beyond the water.

Even when the orca dove down for the final time, your boat stayed far, far from the scuffle, anchored by caution and the weight of unspoken rules. Yet your heart thumped with a persistent, gnawing unease—something was wrong, off. The discolored water wasn’t dissipating as it should; the dark streaks kept spreading, widening into a stain that refused to blend with the surrounding ocean.

Deciding you’d given enough time, you guided your small observation boat closer, antennae twitching as you triangulated Mark’s position. The closer you got, the more your stomach sank—the swirling water was dark with blood. There he was, barely conscious, lying in a cratered rock as if it had been formed by the force of his beating. His limbs hung weakly at his sides, his beluga-white tail streaked crimson. Even through the water, his face looked battered, worse than you could have imagined.

He couldn’t recover here. Injured beyond recognition, exhausted, and without food, he didn’t stand a chance—and you couldn’t stay frozen anymore, not with a mer struggling to breathe in the water. You couldn’t let him die. Not like this. Not someone so precious, so small, so alive with potential.

Fumbling in your pocket, you dialed the number you knew could get him help—your hands shaking as every second stretched too long.

Unlike in Clemens Point, there was no one to side-eye when he woke up in Beaver Hollow, sweating from the heat and disturbed by the sight of a thick blanket over your shoulders—still draped over you as if you were trapped in a snowy hellscape called Colter. Only the empty fabric of that blanket, neatly folded under the tiny table, met his gaze in the morning. Untouched. Unused. He remembered overhearing your justification to Susan. He had been busy skinning a pronghorn Arthur had dragged in when the elder lady decided she had a bone to pick with you about the heavy blanket being too difficult to wash in this swamp. Your answer was an odd one—something about the pressure and warmth helping you sleep. It didn’t matter that you were in Clements Point, where the heat made everyone just a tad more prone to violence.

At least it kept the mosquitoes away. He reckoned you a self-inflicted masochist—someone who’d take the hard way out simply because you could. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

There were no shuffling sounds coming from your tent late at night to signal that you were wide awake—no unbuttoning of the flap, no soft steps to count on your way to the fireplace, feeding the flames with the wood he’d chopped. He never managed to stay awake long enough to witness your return to the tent. Embarrassingly lulled to sleep by your quiet humming.

And there was no one to accompany him late at night, when everyone else was asleep—him alone, sitting around the fire with a sharpened knife in one hand and a lump of wood in the other, slicing away into a shape he couldn’t even recognize. Sometimes, the restless shuffling from your tent would pause, giving him the false impression that you’d finally fallen into unconsciousness—but then you’d emerge, and he’d return to his sculpting, keeping an ear out for any tune you might hum under your breath. Charles wasted away the nights in conversations whose topics he couldn’t even remember. It helped him get to know you—to realize that you were a decent person, the kind he could respect and trust to have his back, if not in battle, then outside of it because despite sticking close to the gang, you didn’t seem to care much for murder—a notion further reinforced by the fact that you were a poor shot.

No wonder you were permanently banned from guard duty.

Charles missed those times, although deep inside he knew they wouldn't last.

You left sometime after Uncle did. It was a miracle he was still in the camp. You only bothered to inform Charles of your departure, making sure to slip in an apology to Arthur and asking Charles to deliver those words for you.

Of course, he wished you well, just as he did Uncle. You might've been a masochist but you were clever.

He didn't think too much about you after that. Too caught up in doubting Dutch and dealing with the consequences of it all. His mind felt heavy, but Arthur's rotting body felt heavier in his hands.

Helping the tribe was good for him. Even with the stares he got after the whole gang fell apart, it kept his mind and body occupied with something other than anger and violence. He still needed to pull his weight, and for that, he was desperate for money—money for the tribe and a selfish outlet for himself.

He found work in the city, where there’s always someone in need of an extra pair of hands. He wiped tables, hauled cargo, broke horses—and took his time indulging himself away from Rains Fall’s heavy yet caring, almost concerned gaze. But none of the honest work satisfied him. The pay was meager, the effort endless, and it all made his hands itch, even though he hates to admit it.

Violence has a way of finding him, no matter where he runs. It found him young, surrounded by his people. It found him again in the slums of Saint Denis. And this time, Charles welcomes it.

There’s always money to be made, and someone’s face to be pummeled.

He hones his hand-to-hand combat skills—not that he was ever bad at it, but there’s no harm in improving. He pushes himself harder and harder, until a coach finally takes him under his wing. He remained occupied after that. No longer did he have the time to think about the past, not Mary-Beth or Sadie or Pearson or John. Although he had learned that Tilly was somewhere in Saint Denis, the last he’d heard, John had killed a man. Maybe it was a good thing—actually lying low for once.

When his knuckles were scarred beyond recognition and calluses bloomed on nearly every inch of his hands, he came across—or was discovered by a familiar, scarred face. John pleasantly surprised him, not only with news about setting himself straight, but also that Uncle and you, of all people, were sharing the property. Abigail and Jack nowhere in sight. One match and a shootout later, he was riding with him to the sad shack Marston called home.

Despite what he’d thought about reunions years ago—when the wound was fresh and the anger was raw—he’d never imagined it would feel as oddly soothing as it did. Uncle—well, he was Uncle, always keeping his wits about him closer than his bottle of booze. John—alone now, taller, with an air of sourness around him. Charles likes to think he hasn’t changed much, aside from growing his hair out the same way it was seven years ago. He might seem rougher, tougher, and more reclusive to strangers, but never to you, John, or Uncle. He was the same quiet man.

Although you. You seemed grown, healthy in a way you couldn't be with the gang. Hair styled in an unfamiliar, put-together style. It's a change and a nice one at that. Even your voice sounds lively as you welcome him, standing next to the run-down shack, so unlike the memories he recalls. No longer is he staring at a person weighed down with hollow promises and vile mood of the camp, forced to guard themselves from people they'd considered family not too long ago. Instead, you're open than ever and more notably—happy to see him alive.

It remains as a reminder of how good it was, even though he'd spent less time with the gang than most.

But it's over now, that time is long buried with the casualties, and for once, sitting around the campfire, with Uncle's banjo accompanying the cheap booze in his hand, the memories don't tighten the wires around his throat.

John’s somewhere behind him, occupied with something or other while you sit directly across from him—hair mussed from the day’s work, despite the men insisting you should step aside and leave the heavy lifting to them, you keep at your quiet organizing throughout the day, putting nails where they belong and explaining the blueprint to the men. Trading glances his way in the process.

Charles' cheeks are faintly flushed, but the spark that leaps between you whenever your eyes meet, cuts straight through the haze.

Amidst Uncle's singing, he hears that familiar hum return.

Taking another gulp of booze, he can feel your eyes flicker between him and the fire—observing, waiting for him to join. In return, his gaze wanders to you, admiring your features now painted in the oranges and yellows of the flame.

And for the first time in seven years, with the last few people who still know the man he used to be, Charles stirs, voice emitting from somewhere deep inside his heart.