AN: This is kind of like an unnecessary prologue to a longer oneshot I'm working on. The follow up oneshot is written very differently, so I just separated them. If all goes accordingly, the next oneshot is titled "Micro Conscience".

Disclaimer: Characters © James Patterson

He sees red everywhere. Bright, uneven spots against the walls, patches of black and peach litters the smooth white tiles of the floor. If he takes the time to stop and focus on the images, maybe he would've seen that the red is freshly dripping blood and the patches of black are actually patches of wet fur. The lighter colors of peach are raw flesh, ripped into crude slabs of meat.

But he doesn't. Omega keeps on killing because it is the only thing he's good at. It's the only thing he knows how to do.

Soon, the room has no more living bodies other than himself. Omega turns around in a circle, just to make sure. He sees nothing alive.

The door hisses open and a man in a white coat comes in. He looks around, not looking happy at all but Omega can't assess unhappiness. He doesn't know why the man's brows are drawn into a 'V' or why his lips peel back to show white teeth.

The man looks down at Omega. Something flashes in his eyes. Omega can't tell what it is, but he does not see it as a threat. The man is a whitecoat, someone to give him orders.

That's another thing Omega is good at. Following orders.

Terminate the Eraser pack. That had been his order. Omega complied.

The man finally looks at Omega and his face twists as if he is one of the Erasers Omega had terminated. It is the same pained expression, but Omega wasn't doing anything to kill the man. Obediently, Omega reaches out a hand to the man. He is not allowed to go anywhere by himself. He has to be lead by a whitecoat.

The whitecoat doesn't take his hand. Instead, he suddenly lets out a sharp breath multiple times. The sound is soft and harsh. The man is still wearing the same pained expression. Omega learns that the man is only laughing. Laughing, Omega knows, is an emotional reaction. For which emotion, he did not know.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," laughs Dr. Batchelder. His voice is quiet and his shoulders tremble momentarily. "You're a fuckin' slaughter house."

Omega does not understand. He wonders why the scientist is looking away yet still addresses him. Omega thinks he's curious, but the man finally takes his small hand and Omega stops wondering. They leave the room together.

His hand is sticky with blood, but the man doesn't seem to mind. Omega thinks he should have.

And then he wonders why he even thinks at all.