Chapter Text
As far as backdrops go, Rey was hoping for something a little more exciting to set the stage for her mission to reinvigorate Skywalker Biotech's image.
The shelter is about as visually stimulating as a can of scent-neutralizing body spray. It is the blandest building on the block, all inoffensive angles and tinted glass—the glass being a particular nuisance, since Rey must position herself at exactly the right angle to avoid capturing herself in its reflection.
She understands the need for discretion, at least, even if it makes an uninspiring setting for a photograph.
The last thing any Omega wants to do is broadcast the arrival of an unplanned heat to the entire neighborhood by walking into an emergency heat shelter.
The second-to-last thing, apparently, is to revisit the very same shelter several months later for an hour-long photo shoot, the evidence of which will be plastered across subway stations and grocery basket-bottoms city-wide during the upcoming Skywalker promotional blitz (roughly eight to ten weeks, depending on the train line and the grocery store).
This is a surprise to no one, least of all Rey. She's got a pretty good handle on the typical hard-no dealbreakers for her own designation. It was always going to be a tough sell, convincing former shelter patients to volunteer a morning for a poorly disguised public relations crusade that would force them to relive what is very likely to be, for any Omega, the most miserable week they've had all year.
But after her first four proposals received seals of disapproval personally penned by Lord Lucifer himself, Rey was left with few other options.
It wasn't until she slogged through hundreds of unreturned voicemails and half as many abrasive dial tones that she discovered the key to her persuasion was hiding in plain sight all along, right in Satan's very own corner office.
"That shelter is part of Skywalker?" a woman asked, after lingering on the line a full ten seconds longer than the point at which most other Omegas had already told Rey to shove off. "Isn't that the place with the new CEO? You know... the Alpha?"
The Alpha.
After making this connection, it only took Rey exactly five more phone calls and roughly as many rounds of C-suite scheduling Tetris to arrive here: armed with her camera, her tape recorder, and half a dozen Omegas arranged in a perfect semi-circle before the architectural equivalent of a yawn.
The group story-time portion of the afternoon went smoothly enough—not counting, of course, their abrupt ejection from the waiting room; as it turns out, an emergency heat shelter is a rather disruptive setting for an interview that involves an audio recording.
But now, as the photo shoot draws to a close, the conspicuous absence of a seventh figure has begun to spark signs of unrest among the other six.
"Is he still coming?"
Rey lowers her camera and grabs the phone from her jacket pocket. Her text message thread with Mr. Egomaniac still only contains a screen stuffed bezel-to-bezel with escalating variations on the theme of "WHERE ARE YOU???" Her latest effort simply contains a message-bubble-defying string of 18 question marks.
Rey plasters a smile onto her face. "Of course." She hits send and pockets her phone. "Just running a little late."
"Hopefully not too late," says Tabitha, a tall, dark-haired woman who Rey stationed in the center of the group. Tabitha has two toddlers, works as a dance teacher, and was struck with an unplanned heat in the dairy aisle at her local Food Palace. It could happen to you, too, Food Palace shopper.
Rey clicks another photo.
"Yes, I can't miss my bus," adds an Omega named Nell, who apparently traveled three hours for the opportunity to recite Rey's suggested phrases in front of Skywalker's new tyrannical overlord. "What's he like in person, anyway?"
"If I'm being honest?" All six Omegas sway toward Rey with wide eyes, waiting on her assessment. "Pretty underwhelming."
A collective gasp. "No way!"
"Yes, way." Rey injects a great deal of confidence into this, considering she has never actually met the man in the flesh. Not many Skywalker employees have. Their corporate deity is usually too busy playing god in his executive sanctuary to grace the peasants on the lower floors with his presence.
But ten weeks worth of highly antagonistic email exchanges have provided Rey with more than enough exposure to speak with authority on this point. It's in every Omega's best interest to steer clear of Skywalker's controversial new CEO—her own included. Rey was rather dreading today's photo shoot for this exact reason.
Turns out she had nothing to worry about. The only thing more difficult than herding a group of Omegas back to an emergency heat shelter, it seems, is getting Benjamin Pain-In-The-Ass Solo to put a single ounce of effort into rebuilding his public image.
"But he's so dreamy on television," says Nell. "Always the tallest Alpha in the room."
"Camera tricks," Rey says, and snaps a photo from a squat to prove her point. "He's pretty below average, by Alpha standards. Rumor has it he shows up to press conferences in platform shoes."
"No!" From the expression on poor Nellie's face, Rey might have just told her that a beloved family pet was being sent to the farm. The other Omegas exchange similar murmurs of pity.
"I know, I know. Very sad. Though... not as sad as the real reason he took over Skywalker." The group ripples with interest. Lowering her camera, Rey walks closer to deliver this piece of information in a conspiratorial whisper, for maximum effect. "It turns out our new CEO has a personal stake in the success of those new performance pills. Very personal, if you catch my drift. Practically sleeps in the lab, desperate for updates."
She supposes it might be self-sabotaging, to shit-talk her own client in front of members of the general public. But Leia specifically instructed her to humanize him, didn't she? And if Solo can't lift a single stupidly giant finger to help (because the man really is quite large; Rey is only an Omega, after all, and has spent as many late nights zooming in on those press conference stills as the rest of them)—if he can't even put in the bare minimum to convince the world he's not a raging megalomaniac hell-bent on torching his uncle's legacy—well, Rey will simply have to make do with what he gives her. Which hasn't been a whole lot. Her imagination will just need to fill in the rest.
Lucky for Solo, Rey's got a fairly vivid imagination, as far as he's concerned.
"Sounds like he's committed to his work," says Penny, whose unplanned heat episode in the middle of an emotional divorce hearing makes her a particularly compelling candidate for this campaign. Rey plans to lead with her story on Skywalker's more career-focused audience platforms.
"He sure is," Rey says, her tone painfully bright. "We all are at Skywalker Biotech." All right, so Rey may not technically be a Skywalker employee, as a consultant—but she's not about to waste an opportunity to workshop the rest of her message. "Despite what our fearless leader might lead you to believe, Skywalker is not just another transnational biopharmaceutical conglomerate. In fact, our success in revolutionizing Alpha-Omega healthcare is precisely what allows us to invest in grassroots community initiatives, just like this one." A grand gesture toward the soulless black glass of the shelter's facade. "And hearing the experiences of our courageous patients is what drives our company's relentless quest toward a healthier, happier future for the entire designated community."
The Omegas all nod along in eager agreement. A good sign, she thinks—though this may simply be a residual effect from the group's recent communal swooning over an Alpha as uncompromising as Benjamin My-Way-Or-The-Stygian-River Solo.
Rey will have to find a more critical focus group before she sends that one to print.
Ten minutes later, when it's abundantly clear that these Omegas will not be getting their promised celebrity sighting, Rey digs out six Skywalker-branded totes from the chaos in her hatchback. At the last minute, she throws a few extra scent enhancers in each bag to ease their disappointment. "Mr. Solo is deeply sorry he couldn't make it," Rey says, to the crestfallen coos of the Omegas. "You can expect a personal thank-you letter from him in seven to ten business days."
Only when the last Omega disappears from sight does Rey march back to her car. The moment the door slams shut behind her, she mashes the microphone button on her steering wheel.
"Hey Skyphone, call Mr. Egomaniac."
Rey pulls away from the curb a little too sharply. As the phone rings, she cycles rapidly through her litany of complaints for this morning's voicemail. He better have emptied his mailbox by now; she finds she has quite a lot of them today.
After the fourth ring, Rey takes a deep breath, preparing for her cue. Out of all the short-sighted, inconsiderate, myopic decisions you've made this month—
"Miss Niima."
The voice floods her car. Deep and commanding. It is nothing like the now-familiar monotonous tone of his voicemail robot, listing the digits of his phone number. It is not even Mitaka, whose appearance, while ultimately a dismissal, might still be counted as a small victory of acknowledgment.
No. This voice is unmistakable. Nine out of ten households in America would recognize it, according to their most recent consumer sentiment analysis—and not for good reasons.
It's his voice.
Rey's mind goes about as blank as the heat shelter's bland exterior. Her car nearly veers into a street sign. She wrenches it back into the lane and attempts to dredge up her typically overflowing capacity for speech.
"Mr. Solo," she says, and is immediately disgusted by the startled squeak of his name. At least it didn't come out as Mr. Egomaniac, the way it did the last time he actually bothered to pick up his phone. "I didn't expect you to answer."
"How many times do I need to tell you to delete this number?"
The shitty speakers in her hatchback vibrate with the subsonic frequency of his words. Rey nearly knocks the NutriCycle thermos from her cupholder as she throws out an arm to turn down the volume. "Hmm, let me think. How many times will it take you to respond to my emails?"
"We've been over this, Miss Niima. Repeatedly. All correspondence goes through my assistant."
"Oh, you mean Dopheld?" Rey says, following the route back to her office on auto-pilot. "We're well acquainted. Did you know how much he likes gluten-free eclairs? I bring him some every morning."
"The only piece of information you need to know about Mr. Mitaka," Solo says, "is that you should be bothering him. Not me. He is in charge of all executive communications."
"Wow, thanks for the tip! Fun fact—he also arranges your schedule. You know... that pesky list of obligations you have every day? The one everyone else bends over backwards to accommodate, just for the chance to speak with you?"
An ominous pause. "Is my time a joke to you, Miss Niima?"
"If your time is so precious, Mr. Solo, perhaps you should lead by example for once and try taking your own calendar seriously."
The line goes deadly silent. It lasts so long, Rey rips her eyes from the road to make sure the call has not ended.
It has not ended.
"You flood my phone with nonsensical text messages," he says, his contempt filling her car like a tangible force. "You interrupt my eleven-thirty with an unscheduled call. And then you presume to lecture me on the importance of calendars?"
Rey's brain takes this opportunity to remind her of an article published shortly after the acquisition, vividly describing the way in which Skywalker's previous board chairman literally pissed his own pants after challenging Ben Solo during the first post-takeover board meeting. The only post-takeover board meeting. Two days later, Solo dissolved the board right out of existence altogether—along with the company's communications department, its ethics and safety teams, and more than half the positions of its employees.
In the background, the muffled noises of frantic speech interrupt his rant. Before Rey can unleash the laundry list of her own morning's derailments—each and every single one of which can be traced directly back to him—Mitaka's high, panicky voice replaces Solo's slow-building fury.
"Hey, hey—Rey? It's me. Listen—so sorry we couldn't make it this morning. Something important came up—"
"Something important?" An unexpected stab of hurt slices through her. "Dopheld, we've been planning this for weeks. Two of those women traveled across state lines for this interview!"
"I know, I know—terrible timing—but we'll reschedule as soon as we're back in town, I'll make sure of—oh!"
Solo cuts off Mitaka's apology like a guillotine. "We're done here, Miss Niima. Delete this number from your contacts as soon as this call has ended."
"But—" Rey directs her outraged scowl at the stopped car in front of her. "This number is the only way to actually reach you."
"Yes. Exactly. This is my personal cell phone. For personal matters."
"Don't you think the stewardship of your reputation is a personal matter?"
"You are not personal, Miss Niima. Do not contact me here again."
"Then why did your mother give me this number and say, 'Call him on this phone, Rey. This is the only way my stubborn son will actually speak to you, Rey.'"
"Do you work for Leia Organa?" Solo asks, dangerously low. "Or do you work for me?"
Rey swallows thickly. "Well, technically, as an independent contractor—"
"Answer the question."
The authority in his command is as harsh as the crack of a whip. Rey hears herself speaking before the shiver racing down her spine has even reached her tailbone. "You, sir," she says, very softly. "I work for you."
Goddamn fucking Alphas. Rey can't stand them.
"Very good." He sounds slightly appeased—and oh, Rey despises how this appeases something in her too. She absolutely loathes it. "Remember that next time you feel compelled to contradict my orders."
The line disconnects with a click.
Rey checks to make sure the call actually has ended before she tells her silent car exactly where Benjamin Burn-In-Hell Solo can put his goddamn orders.
When she's finished, she releases a long, furious breath through her nostrils.
Well. She supposes that went better than last time.
At least she didn't greet him as Mr. Egomaniac today.
"Tell me there's more coffee."
The familiar slam of the office door jolts her from her laptop, but only just. "Enough for a whole week of all-nighters," Rey says, eyes still skimming her email draft. "The NutriCycle gods blessed us with more samples this morning."
"Oh, sweet, sweet caffeine." Rose's heels click on the wooden floor as she makes a beeline for the coffee machine beside the window. A sigh of relief accompanies the ripping of NutriCycle's easy-open cardboard packaging—recently redesigned for clumsy, impatient fingers during that time of the year, thanks to Rose's latest round of customer satisfaction surveys. "Gee, you weren't kidding. We could open our own cafe."
"It'd be a pretty slow cafe, if it's running on single-serve coffee pods."
"Dream crusher." The aroma of high-protein soothe-brew fills the air. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Even NutriCycle can't compete with Poe's dark roast."
"You didn't stop there on your way this morning?" It's not like Rose to show up anywhere without the signature coffee cozy from Poe's bakery clutched in her hand.
"No time." The thump of Rose's bag hits the floor. A roll of the desk chair, and Rose plops down beside her at the wooden counter that serves as the shared workstation for their two-person public relations firm. "A week of all-nighters is not so far off, at this point."
"That kind of Monday already, huh?" Rey says, as she highlights another question in bold. And then turns the text red. And then adds several asterisks. It's unlikely Solo will even open this email before his Alpha Deal Watch appearance this week; but on the slim chance that he does, Rey will make damn sure his thirty-second attention span can quickly assess which of his latest and greatest public fuck-ups are the most important to prepare for.
"You have no idea." Rose puts down her mug so she can rummage through her bag. "The good news is that the new MateSync devices have finally finished beta testing." She slaps a thick folder on the desk. "The bad news is that they're delivering Alphas emergency alerts every time their partner sneezes. Or coughs. Or... well, I'm pretty sure this report is keeping things PG, but I'll let you imagine all the activities that can make an Omega's body clench."
Rey can't contain her snicker. "I can see it now. Honey, was that the jalapeño poppers, or are you just happy to see me?"
Rose snorts. "If only the Alphas in the trial were so relaxed. One tester actually called the damn cops after a notification. The police kicked down his Omega's apartment door. Turns out she was just getting a little excited watching—are you ready?—an interview with your favorite CEO."
"Eurgh, that does sound like a medical emergency." Rey pulls a face at her laptop. "I hope she got some serious help."
"The medical emergency is going to be in Lando's office later when I tell him we need to scrap the demo. The expo is next week, Rey. There's no way we can present these in front of a live audience."
"Shit." Rey tears herself away from the interview prep sheet she's been drafting and turns to face her friend. "What will he fill the stage time with?"
"Not a freaking clue," Rose chirps. "And that only brings us to 9 a.m. After that delightful Monday-morning panic attack, the vineyard called to say they apparently double-booked NutriCycle with another client for Friday's farm-to-table investor dinner. I already left messages with every partner venue within a 25-mile radius to see if someone else can take us. And"—she continues, without taking a breath—"it turns out that O-Fit sent the wrong color samples to the fashion bloggers. Neon green instead of black. Neon green, Rey! What Omega wants a slickguard the color of a radioactive lime?"
"Your single-serve cafe idea is sounding better by the minute."
"At least we'd have a place to host the investor dinner," Rose says, deflating.
Rey's chest tightens at the look of exhaustion on her best friend's face. This is all just too much work for one person—even if that person is queen of crisis management Rose Tico. Rey's mind begins to race. She's only got four days to put together the content calendar for the shelter interviews. If she can't edit the photos now, she'll have to find time later—which might work, since she has no Skywalker events on her schedule tonight. Maybe she can still find a few minutes this afternoon to call some venues herself?
"Stop that." Rose's sharp tone jerks her out of her thoughts.
"Stop what?" Rey says innocently.
"I know your guilty face, Rey Niima. You are not allowed to feel guilty."
"The only thing I feel guilty about is not capitalizing on the untapped market of glow-in-the-dark slickguards."
"I'm serious, Rey. You've got enough on your own plate over there. No sneaking bites off mine."
"Not even a nibble?"
"Not a single crumb."
"All right. Fine." Rey huffs a breath out through her nose. "It's just—you've taken on so much extra work these past few months, you know? The least I can do is help you put out some fires."
"You are helping." Rose softens her tone. "The Skywalker account is paying more than all the others combined. And you definitely have no shortage of flames to put out yourself, with Lord Lucifer pelting you with daily firebombs over there."
Spending all her time wrangling the Alpha equivalent of a corporate dumpster fire wasn't exactly what Rey envisioned when they started this firm together two years ago. But it doesn't feel right to complain when Rose is juggling the rest of their client portfolio with only two hands.
Rose, however, seems to notice Rey's shift in mood anyway. "I can't believe I didn't ask you yet. How did it go?"
"The interviews?" Rey turns back to her laptop. "Considering Plans A, B, C and D were all shot down on sight... They were fine. Great, even. Nice to highlight some of the good things Skywalker does, for once."
"Yeah, yeah. Save it for the press release. You know that's not what I'm asking." Rose looks at her carefully over her coffee mug. "I want the dirt, Rey. What's he like? Does he smell as good as he looks?"
The very concept of Solo's scent contorts Rey's face into a full-on scowl. "If Solo smells like anything, it's got to be sulfur."
"If? What do you mean, if? Was he wearing blockers? I'll bet he takes enough to tranquilize a horse, to smother an Alpha like that."
Rey keeps her eyes carefully glued to her laptop. "He didn't show up."
Even from the corner of her eye, she can still see Rose's jaw drop. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
"But—you made this appointment two weeks ago!"
"That's what I told him."
"You told him?" A beat. "As in, you spoke to him?"
"I... might have called the number Leia gave me." A few times, she doesn't add. More than a few times, if they're counting beyond this week. Honestly, Rose doesn't need to know Rey has been clogging up the man's voicemail with heated tirades just about every morning over the past month.
"Well, good for you," Rose says, with great enthusiasm. "What did he say?"
"Oh, he was practically tripping over himself to apologize. Said we could expect a bouquet this afternoon."
"Wait—really?"
"No, Rose. He hung up on me. Obviously. "
"Of course he did. Insufferable jackass." Rose takes a long, thoughtful sip of her coffee. "You know, I had a favor to ask you, then decided against it—but now I see it's really a favor for you."
Rey spins slowly in her chair to face her friend. "Why does that sound like a trap?"
"Not a trap," Rose says, far too casually. "A favor."
"What kind of favor?"
Rose studies her over the rim of her mug, then places it on the desk. "Remember that account from last year? Primal Encounters?"
"You mean the kink club?"
"The matched Alpha encounter service."
"So... the kink club."
"Okay, sure, there are usually kinks involved, but—"
Rey swivels back to her laptop. "Not interested."
"Girl. Listen to me. You've been so stressed lately. All the melodrama with Mr. CEO-From-Hell is pushing you to the brink. And Primal's algorithm is seriously top-notch! If you're worried about the kink part, you should know that they get to know your preferences first—there's bound to be someone else in their database who also isn't into—"
"It's not the kink part." In fact, she considers herself pretty wide open in that department, limited though her personal experience with it may be. "And I remember all the voodoo with the algorithm, Rose—I helped edit the product descriptions, remember?" Rey adds an extra few asterisks to the first question in her email. "I just have no interest in doing any of that... with an Alpha."
"Oh, come on. Not even a little?"
"Rose. I haven't even met a single Alpha that I could stand as a person. Never mind one that I want to jump into bed with."
"You know, I thought the same thing," Rose begins, and Rey resists the urge to roll her eyes. Here we go. "But when they first brought me Armitage's scent, it's like they just knew. Out of the thousands of Alphas in that database, he was the one." That vaguely nauseating glaze of Omega-adoration enters Rose's eyes. "It was a little scary."
"Thanks, but if I want to be scared, I'll rent a horror movie," Rey says. Or ask you to talk about your Alpha, she doesn't add. "A lot less clean-up afterward."
Rose makes a frustrated sound. "Fine. Let me start over. I'm asking you this as a work favor."
"Nice try, missy. Primal's contract ended months ago. Their IPO was in... when was it? June? May?"
"June. But they want our help again to promote their new location in the village." Rose definitely has that glint in her eye now. She leans forward, putting her elbows on her knees. "I was supposed to meet with their comms director this afternoon. You'll remember her—Maz? Round glasses? Skywalker refugee?" Rose smirks. "I think you should go instead."
So it is a trap. Rey turns slowly back to face her. "What does your afternoon look like otherwise?"
"Honestly?" Rose's smile wavers. "A disaster. I need to schedule a call with Lando to discuss the expo. And I need to spin up a new pitch for his demo before I speak with him. And I need to reach out to those bloggers to see if they're still willing to do their O-Fit reviews—maybe if we get the original colors to them at a later date..." She trails off, attention drifting back to Rey. "I know I said no nibbles, but this would just be an hour or two for the initial tour. Seriously, Rey. It would be a huge help."
"And you're sure this has nothing to do with me trying out Primal's algorithm?"
Rose sighs. "Okay, fine. Maz might have mentioned they'd give a complimentary pairing session to our representative as a token of their appreciation. But it's entirely up to you whether you use it or not."
"I won't use it," Rey says quickly.
"Sure you won't." Rose winks. "Does that mean you'll do it?"
Groaning, Rey leans back in her chair. "Yes. Fine. But only if you give me one of those glow-in-the-dark slickguards."
"You can have the entire box," Rose says, with a devilish grin.
When she turns back to her laptop, Rey rearranges the questions on her screen a final time. She'll be lucky if Solo even gets past the first one. Far more likely, Mitaka will be forced to distill her meticulous work into quickly muttered bullet points on the ten-minute drive to the studio.
Even more likely than that, Solo will set fire to the entire script and throw a live grenade mid-interview, leaving Rey scrambling after him to sift through the flaming debris.
Maybe it will be nice to spend an hour or two with a client that isn't intent on blowing up his entire company.
With an unexpected twinge of optimism, she hits the send button.