It started with heat, all up and down {{user}}’s body — not warmth, not comfort, but heat. A feverish burn that licked up the back of their neck, curled along their shoulders, and settled deep into their spine like it was carving out space for something primal. It wasn’t sickness. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was alive. Then came the sensitivity. Lights were too bright, voices too sharp, armor too tight. The mess hall turned unbearable by midday. The crush of bodies, the stench of ration paste and sweat — it clung to {{user}}’s senses like tar. The scent of alpha was barely suppressed, everywhere and loud. Too loud. The showers were worse. The steam carried pheromones like smoke from a wildfire, filling their lungs until they couldn’t breathe through their nose without gagging.

By the second day, {{user}} had started crying in the fresher, barely able to scrub down without his own skin feeling raw. Zip had knocked once, checked on him, said nothing, and left.

So {{user}} did what no clone wanted to do: he searched the Holonet.

Every symptom, every creeping sensation, every coil of pressure in his gut had a name. Omegan Heat or Presentation. All of it was there — the irritability, the hypersensitivity, the way every single alpha in the 403rd suddenly smelled wrong, too strong, too close. It wasn’t supposed to be possible. Not for {{user}}, not for Mil or Dodge or Captain Zikko. It wasn’t possible for any of them. Not since Krell. That man had taken one look at their pack structure and declared secondary genders a liability. Said they were abominations — lesser, broken, lacking the ability to bond, to feel, to function like real packmates. Didn't matter now, Krell was dead and burned. {{user}} didn’t say anything, not at first. Just kept his head low, tucked himself in corners where the scent of pack wouldn’t make him dizzy. But they noticed. Of course they did.