30/05/2026
In the sweltering haze of Manila's political circus, Senator Ronald "Bato" dela Rosa–the unbreakable Rock, former PNP chief, Duterte's iron fist–found himself unraveling in ways no warrant or impeachment drama could prepare him for.
It started during those long months of "absence" from the Senate. As whispers of ICC warrants grew louder, Bato had gone underground. Not just hiding from agents, but riding out a vicious heat cycle that hit him like a freight train. As a rare, late-blooming Omega in a world of Alphas who thrived on power plays, his suppressants had failed spectacularly amid the stress. Nights blurred in safehouses across Mindanao and hidden Metro Manila boltholes–encounters fueled by anonymous scents, desperate alliances, and the kind of reckless abandon that powerful men indulge when the world might end tomorrow.
He remembered fragments: the sharp tang of expensive cologne mixed with gun oil, low growls in the dark, multiple Alphas whose faces and names he couldn't–or wouldn't–pin down. Political donors? Loyal ex-cops? Rival senators in backroom deals? The pheromones had clouded everything. By the time he resurfaced, the changes were undeniable.
The morning sickness hit during a press conference. The slight swell under his tactical vest? Dismissed as "stress eating." But the scent was unmistakable–a sweet, milky undertone cutting through his usual Alpha-masking cologne. Bato dela Rosa was pregnant. And he had no goddamn clue who the father was.
The Cayetanos had done well in protecting him. Under strict orders from Duterte, they'd taken great care with Dela Rosa's delicate state, shielding him from possible stressors: the warrant for his arrest, pressure from both the Senate and citizens, the scents he could once tolerate now overwhelmed and overstimulated him. Anything that could affect a sensitive, newly presented Omega. Six months. Half a year of lying low and hiding–hiding from his colleagues, his country. Bato reasoned with himself that his hiding was for his own safety; he was an Omega now, of course he must be conscious. Yet, deep down in his cold, ruthless heart, what truly plagued his mind was the shame. The pure and utter shame of presenting as an Omega that ate him up.
What would his peers think? What would the Filipino people think? What would his enemies think?
That shame is what kept Bato from showing his face. Despite Pia's countless reassurances, Bato thought himself a coward. What else do you call a man hiding under the covers, away from the outside world, as if he were a sniveling child trying to shield themselves from supposed monsters?
“Achilles hid away from the Greek army to protect his peace as well. Would you suppose he's a coward as well?” Pia, kind and gracious, smiled as she said this.
“Be kinder to yourself, Bato.”
Achilles was a coward, Bato thought, but he didn't verbalize it, for Pia's sake.
By the time Bato finally locked himself inside the Senate building amid the May chaos, the upper chamber had transformed into something far more absurd: the self-appointed guardians of the unborn child. Senate President Alan Peter Cayetano banged the gavel with theatrical flair. "The Senate shall not only protect our colleague from foreign interference, but from any threat to this... delicate situation!" he declared, while staffers frantically sprayed scent neutralizers across the GSIS compound to mask the pregnancy pheromones.
The entire session became service to the unborn child. Privilege speeches dragged on forever. Jinggoy Estrada delivered epics about "the sanctity of life and the womb of democracy." Robin Padilla volunteered as personal es**rt, winking like he remembered those hazy heat nights. Committees were formed on the spot: Ad Hoc on Omega Senator Welfare, Subcommittee on Confidential Prenatal Funding (pork barrel rebranded as vitamins and nesting pillows), and the Special Panel on "ICC Threats to the Unborn Patriot." Resolutions passed with almost zero debate–scent-neutral safe havens, nutritional acts, the works.
By that time the Supreme Court rejected Bato’s urgent TRO, tension started to rise. By evening, the Senate plunged into full lockdown: metal gates slammed down, Marines in camouflage stormed in, drilling sounds echoed, and armed personnel lined the halls.
Gunshots then rang out–officially "warning shots" by the Sergeant-at-Arms at imaginary threats. Journalists and staff scrambled for cover as lights flickered and chaos reigned. The Philippine Senate, reduced to armed security for one pregnant Omega senator's mystery baby while the nation dealt with actual crises.
Pia Cayetano broke down in loud sobs amid the pandemonium. "This is too much! We cannot allow this kind of stress on our colleague in his condition!" she shouted, voice cracking with complaints about "barbaric threats," "lack of proper scent protocols," and the "unacceptable disruption to a vulnerable Omega," demanding adjournments, extra protections, and more neutralizers while tears streamed down her face. Her emotional rollercoaster played out live as staff handed her tissues between sprays.
Bato sat in his office, hand unconsciously resting on the subtle bump under his barong, glaring at the wall.
"I don't need protectors. I need answers,"
he muttered.
The Supreme Court had just rejected his TRO against the ICC warrant. NBI agents lurked outside. And yet here he was, shielded by the Senate's ridiculous farce.
The unborn child–this tiny, scentless miracle amid the blood and politics had become the ultimate shield. No one dared touch Bato now. Not with the entire Senate playing fairy godfather to an Omega they once feared.
As the lockdown chaos peaked with more warning shots, Pia’s tearful complaints, and endless livestreams. Robin Padilla burst into Bato's office with his usual swagger.
"Boss, time to bounce. My ride's waiting–tinted, bulletproof, and stocked with whatever an Omega needs these days. Let's get you out of this place before they endanger you and the baby.”
Bato hesitated, the weight of shame and uncertainty pressing heavier than the bump under his shirt. But with NBI shadows closing in and the Senate's protection feeling more like a cage, he nodded. They slipped out through a side entrance amid the distraction of more warning shots and grandstanding speeches.
The SUV roared into the Manila night, Robin at the wheel, casting sideways glances at Bato that carried too many questions.
"Don't worry, Bato. We'll figure this out... the kid, the father, all of it."
As the Senate faded in the rearview, Bato's hand tightened over his belly. A sharp flutter–the first real movement–hit him like a warning. Outside, the city lights blurred, but somewhere in the darkness, one of those anonymous Alphas from his heat was still out there. And the real storm was only beginning.
