The Unconventional Omega

Carrie tapped her finger on the table of the small office on the test floor, her nail creating a stable staccato against the wood. 

An intimidation tactic. She had learned the unspoken rules early: Speak up, but not too much. Be assertive, but not aggressive. 

Despite her position in the company, receiving the ugly end of disrespect as an Omega wasn’t new to Carrie.

She sat, spine straight and chin slightly up so Jordan Jimenez, the Quality Manager wouldn’t have to look down while talking to her. 

But he wasn’t talking anymore. 

Armed with a complaint, Carrie diligently marched down to the testing facility attached to Blackbird Industry’s main building. Jordan was more than willing to let her take his comfortable high back instead of letting her sit on the mini couch.

Last week, a report landed on her table courtesy of a clueless employee who received a change of material request from the assembly line for a prototype they wanted to build, as advised by the quality check department.

Carrie decided to deal with it first thing Monday. They couldn’t afford unnecessary delays or any delay at all. Carrie planned to give them a piece of her mind and what was a better way than a surprise visit, right? Their manager was definitely surprised. As it turned out, he wasn’t aware of the report being made, but according to him, he might have an idea who the culprit was. 

Jordan only moved from his ramrod stance at the door when a young man in overalls came in. A hushed conversation commenced before the newcomer successfully entered. Carrie listened to the bits and pieces she could catch. 

The man was tall and lean, obvious even in his overalls. There was a commanding air around him, clearly an Alpha, but he bowed his head while talking to Jordan, nodding and respectfully replying to his Beta superior. 

“Chief Carson, this is Greg Moir, one of our technicians,” Jordan gestured at her and then at the newcomer.

Greg extended his hand and Carrie shook it without rising from her seat. She wasn’t here for pleasantries.

She opened the folder, sliding it in front of the technician and his manager. “I’m assuming you know about this?”

Greg Moir skimmed the page and nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” he admitted. Jordan tensed behind him. “The compressor blades are critical for maintaining smooth airflow and optimal pressure ratios. Even minor surface defects can disrupt the aerodynamics, leading to efficiency losses, overheating, or even blade failure—”

“Two minutes,” Carrie warned.

“Regal Aeronautical used the same titanium alloy as our new prototype for their Engine X-30 experiment. It crashed due to microcracks along the leading edge of three compressor blades that grew by 30% over just 50 test cycles and eventually exceeded safe operational limits. Our new prototype is smaller and thinner compared to that but they have similar proportions and may experience the same stress levels. We might need to redesign the blade geometry or consider an alternative alloy. Both would be better to do before the manufacturing to save cost. Prevention is better than cure, Ma’am.” By the time he was over, Greg Moir was almost out of breath. 

Carrie studied the design attached to the report. She tapped the table, something she liked to do when thinking or filing in silence. For a few minutes, the room was in pure silence.

“Are you certain of this? A delay is hardly cost-effective too.” 

The technician straightened. Carrie watched him carefully. Something about him was different. She was sure he was an Alpha, he stank of one, yet he hadn’t raised his voice or sneered or shown any signs of imposition despite Carrie’s prodding. 

“The documentation for Regal’s prototype is available to read, Ma’am, I can forward you the source so we can be certain, Ma’am. Of course, my knowledge is only within my expertise, but I think this is something worth considering,” he said confidently but devoid of arrogance. 

Carrie skimmed the report once more then closed the folder and stood. 

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll have someone check on it. We’re done.” With that, she exited the office without waiting for their response.

Carrie had worked hard enough to leave rooms without waiting for anyone’s response. 

As she walked back to the main building, Carrie couldn’t help but think of the young technician. The way he interacted with his superiors was peculiar considering his nature. Carrie admired that a bit. She too presented herself differently as an Omega. 

At the lobby, the guard didn’t ask for her ID anymore. Carrie smiled to herself. She swiped her pass to enter the elevator because Gods forbid the thieves would use stairs to steal spacecraft data.

Greg Moir, she recalled his name. What a peculiar individual. One thing was for sure; he certainly knew his engines. 

-----

What the hell was that? 

Greg stumbled out of Mr. Jimenez’s office and went straight to the men’s room. He got in the last cubicle, locked the door, sat on the toilet, and clutched his head in his hands. 

An image of Ms. Carrie Carson, Chief of R&D, flashed behind his closed eyes. 

The most beautiful woman in the world sitting on the ratty high back of his boss, in his cramped office. That office had never been more vibrant. Chief Carson in her gray and white outfit, a midi skirt accompanied by a length of dark stocking, ending with a pair of kitten heels. Everything fit her like a second skin, an armor. And everyone else felt like a wet rat in comparison.

Instinctively, Greg sniffed himself. He had been working on the test floor before he got called in. Sweat stained his forehead and back. Gods, he stunk. 

But it was her face that was truly overwhelming. Her expression, a picture of control, power, and confidence. Her face, symmetrical, cheekbones cutting into the smooth fair skin of hers. Then there was the glasses. Greg had no particular type, but damn those glasses.

Why hadn’t he seen her before? 

He barely sensed her when he approached the office, her scent effectively muted. Greg would have pegged her as a Beta if not for a sudden but subtle spike of pheromones while he reasoned his way out of losing his job.

Greg was losing his job. He was sure of it. 

The earful he got from Mr. Jimenez was enough proof. If not, there was always Chief Carson who he somehow hassled. Yet, he wondered what Chief Carson would look like without the mask of power and her pair of eyeglasses.

Truth be told, he wasn’t aware a report had been made. Greg had shared a table with Roger, one of the mechanics, one day during lunch and made a comment on the blueprint he was studying. If his words were translated into a report then surely Roger had seen the issue too.

He was confident with that suggestion. Engines were his first love and Greg did his fair share of reading and researching about his passion. 

If he was wrong, then this was a learning mistake and he would willingly accept the appropriate consequences. Right now, he firmly stood his ground. A material change was significantly cheaper than a failed prototype, especially if bids had been made.

Chief Carson agreed as well, at least at a certain level, otherwise, he would be fired on the spot. 

She was something else. Even Mr. Jimenez had his tail between his legs around her. 

Greg respected strong women. His mother was one. Growing up under her care, he had a good glimpse of the struggles women experience even in the modern world. 

So, naturally, he was drawn to the gorgeous and composed Chief Carson. Right. He reminded him of his mother. 

Greg groaned in his hands. 

No, not at all. 

Greg wanted to hit his head. If his mother could see him, she would be laughing right now. Perhaps hit him on the head too. 

Greg ran his fingers through his hair. Was it normal to have a crush at the ripe age of twenty-seven? Gods, Mandy and Lester would love to hear about his.