The Battle Begins (2 page)

ALPHAS AND OMEGAS

“In Unnatural World, the Invincible Reigns On!”

“Shocking End to Mega Monster Mash-up!”

“Next Season's Mutants:

Vote Now for Your Dream DNA Mix!”

1

A
TERRIBLE, HIGH-PITCHED YELP SLICED THROUGH THE
dream, and Castor scrambled onto four legs, disoriented.

It was the hottest part of the day—which, in Lion's Head, meant hot—and most of the dogs in Castor's pack were still stretched in lazy heaps, trying to grab a bit of shade and some sleep.

Not Alpha, though. Alpha was wide-awake, facing the far side of the pack, where the scrawniest dog slept, away from the others. Castor's brother, Runt, was lying
on his back in full sun with the soft part of his stomach exposed. The pavement beneath him had to be scalding.

“You bit me,” Alpha said in disbelief. He stepped forward, casting a menacing shadow over the sleeping dog. Runt's front paws, drawn up to his chest, gave the slightest twitch, but he didn't wake.

Bit. Castor licked his chops. Hadn't he just been biting into something? He could almost taste the meat, and a faint metallic tang of blood was on his tongue and in the air. He followed the scent, his nose twitching with the awful realization that it wasn't a deer's leg he'd sunk his teeth into; it was Alpha's.

And Runt was already taking the heat for it. Again. “You. Bit. Me.” Now Alpha's growl was a guttural threat.

Runt's eyes opened, red-rimmed and still cloudy with sleep. Runt didn't seem to grasp the vulnerability of his situation. Instead of jumping to attention, he yawned and stretched his skinny legs in the air.

Alpha was practically foaming at the mouth, and if Castor hadn't lunged forward when he did, the bigger dog would've torn Runt in two.

“It was me,” Castor said quickly, shoving his body between them. He whined a little and wagged his tail to show he meant peace.

Alpha wasn't buying it, though. The boxer's stubby ears lay back against his broad, white head. “Stay out of it,” he snarled at Castor, his lips curling to expose pink gums and sharp canines.

Castor bared his own teeth, but then thought better of it. He was no coward—he'd often held his own in street brawls with other packs of dogs. But with Alpha, power was always an act, and Castor was smart enough to know when to play along. Of course Alpha knew it was Castor who hunted in his sleep—the whole pack knew—but that wasn't the point. Alpha tormented Runt because Runt was the omega, and that's how things worked.

“Didn't mean to interrupt,” Castor apologized, though he didn't budge. “What were you saying, Alpha?” Finally alert, Runt cowered behind his brother, peering through Castor's legs as he waited for his leader to deliver punishment.

Alpha puffed out his muscled chest and jutted his underbite forward. “This pathetic excuse for a canine was about to tell me what happens when you offend Alpha.”

“Scavenge,” Runt panted from the ground, his chest quivering. “No pack.”

Castor's ears pricked up. Despite the risks, he loved solo scavenging missions—for once he could really rely
on his instincts, run fast without hanging back for the group, feel the air rustling his fur and the muscles in his legs working to a sweaty lather. He could help his brother out and get a taste of freedom; he just had to convince Alpha to “punish” him, too.

Humiliating as it was, Castor made himself bow his head and curl his tail under his legs. Then he made a big show of crawling toward Alpha, keeping his belly low to the ground. “I could go with Runt,” he suggested in his meekest bark, casting his eyes down. And before Alpha could growl a refusal, Castor quickly added, “We might even be able to hunt. . . .”

“As if you two morons would know prey from your own legs,” Alpha scoffed. “Or mine,” he added pointedly. But Castor heard the drips splatter on the pavement, and he didn't have to look up to know Alpha was salivating.

The pack had been living on garbage for weeks. It had once been easy to find vermin hiding in the trash mountains on the outskirts of the city, but now that they were crawling with Crusher Slusher machines, grinding down decades worth of the humans' discarded toys, the dogs had to make due with rotten scraps along the edges. The pack was getting restless.

Alpha might not think much of Runt, but despite the omega dog's cowardice and slight build, he was still from
the same litter as Castor. They had the same shaggy fur, same black muzzles of their German shepherd mother, with a dash of boldness she'd insisted came from their Mexican wolf side. And together, even Alpha had to admit, the brothers could hunt.

“Go,” the pack leader finally said with a dismissive toss of his head.

Castor licked Alpha's chin to show respect, but he turned too quickly, betraying his giddiness. He felt a sharp pain as Alpha snapped at his hind leg. “And don't come back without some fresh meat, you hear me?”

2

T
HE BROTHERS RAN TOGETHER, MATCHING STEP FOR STEP,
breath for breath. The farther they went into the city, the taller and more packed together the black glass towers grew. The domed walkways that ran between them crisscrossed until they blocked out every last bit of sun. It was never dark, though—every side of every building flashed dozens of lifelike images each minute: political nonsense and Lion's Head news. Pictures selling things that glittered and things that glowed and things that
promised to change your life. Humans like you never saw them in real life—with faces three stories tall instead of tiny dots, sitting outside, grinning up at the sun with exposed pink and brown flesh, looking like they weren't afraid of all the things crawling up their upturned noses through the air.

Over the years, Castor had taught himself to read by staring at those changing pictures. It was a useless hobby and one he never would've admitted to in front of Alpha, but Runt got a kick out of hearing about the strange human world, and he was constantly bugging Castor for updates.

Or he usually was. Apart from the sound of their panting, Runt was suspiciously quiet. Runt was never quiet.

Castor noticed that Runt's tail was tucked between his legs. “You scared?” he asked his brother.

“I just don't like being separated from the pack this far in.”

“If we run into Chauncy Chow, I've got your back like always,” Castor promised, scanning the narrow alleyways between the factories for their territory rivals.

“I don't care about Chauncy or his wee weenies,” Runt scoffed. “They're just fancy rodents.”

Castor barked a laugh. It was true. Humans had bred
miniature breeds when space was tight, but now that virtual pets were in fashion, the pampered minis were being dumped on the streets, too. The so-called “rival pack” was a whiny group of dachshunds led by an entitled puffball.

“Then what?” Castor asked. “Is it the Crusher Slushers?” They'd seen a street scrubber suck up one of Chauncy's weenies just last week. The mini dog disappeared into the big iron shell, and there was a grind of gears, and then a slurp, and the only thing the Crusher left behind was a slushy liquid that oozed into the gutter. He knew Runt was still pretty shaken up about it.

“No,” Runt said. “I know we can outrun them. But aren't you worried about the humans?” His eyes darted around as if one might pop out at any moment. “The Gray Whiskers always say they're the biggest threat of all.”

“Those old-timers haven't been in the streets since way back before the sun sickness,” Castor said dismissively. When Runt didn't respond, Castor stopped running and turned to his brother. “Runt, have you ever seen a human in your entire life?” he asked seriously.

“There's a bunch of them right up there.” Runt tilted his chin toward the clouds, where boxes suspended on strings zigzagged between the buildings. There were
men inside each one, no doubt, but from here they were little more than shadows.

“Right,” Castor said. “Up there. They spend their lives behind thick glass. They can't handle dust or heat or raw food. Look at them, those tiny things filing across the walkways—they're no bigger than ants!”

Runt nodded, but his tail didn't resume its usual speedy wag. He was still staring up at the building, but an advertisement had materialized on the glass walls, each word several stories high.

“‘Don't miss the Mega Monster Mash-up
tonight
!'” Castor read the scrolling text. “‘Warp in to watch the final face-off between this season's
murderous mutants
!!!'” He looked at Runt. “That's the competition you like, right?” An image showing a cat's huge white-and-black-striped face replaced the text. “Is that one of the gladiators?”

“Not gladiators,” Runt sighed. “Unnaturals. That's the Invincible.”

Pale blue eyes moved inside the big cat's face, like it was tracking them. It was too bright, too animated. It almost seemed like it might jump right out of the glass. A translucent, barbed tail arced over the head. Castor had never seen anything like that tail on the streets, but the sight of it made him shiver.

“I bet he's not afraid of the humans,” Castor said.

“The Invincible? Afraid? No way!” Runt shook his head vigorously. “He wins every single match! He's a
hero
!” Runt was getting animated now. It seemed like he was back to his old self, but then he added quietly, “I bet no one tries to bully him. I bet he doesn't cower from any alpha.”

“Sorry you took the blame back there,” Castor offered guiltily. “I didn't mean to . . . And I tried to tell him . . .”

“It's okay.” Runt cocked his head at Castor, his ears flopping sideways. “Just wish I had the guts to . . . bark back every once in a while, you know?”

Castor raised a furry eyebrow and shouldered against him playfully. “You bark more than any mutt I know, even those yipping minis!”

Runt grinned and nipped at Castor's ear, and soon his tail and his tongue were both going at top speed again. “So you were dreaming about the Greenplains again, huh? What was it like?” The smaller dog circled him excitedly, his eyes bright. He loved hearing about the Greenplains even more than the Unnaturals competitions.

“It's not like I've actually been there any more than you have,” Castor said. “They're just dreams.”

“The Greenplains are real!” Runt insisted. “The

Gray Whiskers say so! Now tell me, tell me, tell me.” He
jumped and nudged. “Were there hills or streams or animals? Were there alphas? What was it like?”

Castor eyed the gray landscape that stretched before him, coated in its fine film of chemical dust. “Different from this. Greener.” When Runt rolled his eyes, he added, “And the hunting was better.”

In Lion's Head, Castor had never even seen a deer, let alone tasted one. He'd only ever heard of deer from the Gray Whiskers. The only prey these littered streets had in abundance were rats—small, sneaky things that would scrunch up their faces to taunt you, their beady eyes glowing red in the shadows. Castor sniffed at a drain—sometimes the more clever rats hid in there—but there was only sludge.

“Much better,” he muttered. “Speaking of hunting, we should get going.”

When he looked up from the drain, something else had caught Runt's attention. His tail was rigid, and his stare was trained on a shuddering pipe.

Castor's tongue darted out to lick his snout. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Raccoooon!” Runt howled, his feet tangling as he tore after it, forgetting all his fears.