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“Bloody hell. Sixteen political parties vying for Prime Minister, and all of them trying to elect betas. I mean, I get it, I do. You can’t have terrorist organizations messing about with an omega’s heat suppressants, nor do you want an alpha coerced by a foreign country’s omega in heat. But still. You realize we haven’t had a Designated Prime Minister in over two hundred years?” John flicked the newspaper closed, annoyed with his options.
“Of course, John. Since composure became valued over strength, betas have always ruled the more civilized countries. It’s why you only see alphas in charge of countries torn apart by civil wars and coup d’états.”
“I know. But betas always diminish the instincts of the Designated. They less likely to vote for anti-rape laws for omegas, and less likely to understand defensive homicide in alphas. The only candidate here I’d even consider voting for is Harriet Jones, and she’s-“
“I know who she is.”
“Right, then. I imagine you don’t bother voting, do you? How can you ignore issues that pertain to Designated rights?”
“You’ve met my brother.”
“Sure, but what does that matter? He’s influential, but-“
Sherlock cut him off, “He’s not just influential. He controls the public perception. If he needs a fall man, he frames one. If he needs a national hero, he finds one. I don’t need to vote. Mycroft takes care of it for me.”
“But that’s what I mean, Sherlock. He’s a beta; it’s probably why he’s so influential. How can he possibly understand our needs?”
“It doesn’t matter. He elects who he needs to.”
“What do you mean, he elects?”
“Don’t you see, John? Your vote, hell, any vote, is a vote for Mycroft.”