Madeline Chp 1-3

Furious Murder

Chapter 1:
 
“Get me a basin she’s bleeding!” Shouted Hawthorne. 
  “Ill be right back with it, don’t let her fall unconscious!” Yelled the nurse at waiting.
  “We’ve done this a thousand times Kate, Ill make sure she holds her anger.”
  Hawthorne, a preserver, turned his gaze to the mother, swollen with motherhood, withering beside him. 
  “I know this child pains you.  Channel this pain, we need to turn the pain into anger.  Focus on the anger, let it fill your being.”  He said.
  He’d done this a thousand times he repeated to himself, he never enjoyed delivering babies from the anger born, certainly it was better than dealing with a muse birth, they had to recite poetry, sing songs, all while delivering their children, dancing with death.  But he needed to do this right, and he wouldn’t if he got distracted. The thought brought Hawthorne back from his musings.

  “When an opponent strikes you, the anger repulses the pain Martha.  Use your anger now, it will ease the suffering.”  Hawthorne suggested.
  “I can’t do it!” screamed the woman flinging a hand at Hawthorne; he dodged just to side, quite familiar with how to deal with the women of the fury. 
  “I can’t I can’t, I am so weary of anger, It has been my entire life.  How can I hate that which I have created, that which is bound to me?  She said, tensing and shaking in the bed.  “Try as I might I cannot anger because of him, the portent himself told….he told me that I had a son in me, that a child of my womb is destined for greatness.  My husband is dead and I will never love another.  This child is all that remains of him.  No, I don’t care what the portent has requested of me, I cannot infuse this child with anger.” She said.
  Kate flung open the door and carefully placed the basin, it soon began to fill with the blood spilling from the mother. 
  “She does not have the shade of anger!” said Kate with alarm.  “It is almost time!  She hasn’t a moment to lose, woman you have been ordained to the Order of the Fury, and you have been instructed by the Portent to give this child in anger…” 
  “I am well aware of what I have been asked to do!  Shouted Martha. 
  The preserver paused,
  “I know that is what the Portent has asked of me, but I feel my son inside me, and I know that he will never be the cause of anger to me.  I see his destiny, he will be great, and how can any anger born ever rise to greatness?  We can do nothing but fight the wars, administer death.  No!  I cannot, nay I will not.  God may have given me this gift, but it’s mine now, if He wants it in anger He can give it to another.  My mind has been made, I can do no other,” said the woman calmly yet firm. 
  She clenched her hips, and Hawthorne knew it would be moments before the child immerged.
  Hawthorne was not an idiot, and he could tell there was no purpose in trying to persuade the woman further.  Truth to tell, he didn’t really think the nation needed more anger born.  War already claimed the lives of almost fifty a day.  Had this child lived, perhaps he would merely have been a daily casualty.
  “I see his head” said Kate barely hiding the fire beginning to burn within her.  “Let me help you get him out my lady.” 
The child was born without so much as a murmur, a sign Hawthorne knew was not a good one.
  “It is a boy my lady as the Portent said, but the child is not breathing, bring me aromatic oil immediately,” said Hawthorne quickly. 
  Kate brought the oil and poured it into a vial, and ignited it.  Hawthorne brought the vial to the babies’ nostrils so that the aroma could rise and fill its lungs, reviving it, saving its life.  Hawthorn had done this a thousand times, and he knew from experience this child was not alive.  But how could this be?  He’d done the rituals, the baby was certainly alive before the travails started.  A stillborn would surely be purged from the body within hours, perhaps days at the most.
  “The babe knows not what do in order to live; your conflict within yourself is surely the cause of this child’s confusion.” Kate said with a tone of vengeance. 
  “By God once my strength returns I will surely tear you from your soul!” roared Martha. 
  “Silence the both of you,” shouted Hawthorne. 
  “Look here on the babes’ neck there is a large bruise as if he had been strangled.  Perhaps the cord between the mother and child coiled amiss.  Surely this is what has killed the child,” Hawthorn said with dismay. 
  “God has clearly seen that this woman intends to ignore the council of his servant the Portent!  It is God that has slain the child!” Said Kate undeterred from her wrath, for she too was anger born.
“May you live to wake the day that I offer your corpse to the maggots!” the woman said filling further with anger.  “I may not be able to infuse anger into my child, but I can certainly find reason enough to fume and unleash my wrath at you!” Martha roared

She clenched and then groaned.
  It was then that Hawthorne looked down and saw the shape of a hand immerging from the matrix of the woman and then withdraw. 
  “There is another child within you woman!  We must see if it can be saved!” said Hawthorne.  He couldn’t understand how the rituals had missed a second child, nor why The Portent would have foretold the boy without mentioning the other.
  “May God show you mercy, and cut off your family from existence before I do it myself,” shrieked Martha, “My anger for you surely taints this child!” 
  Hawthorne knew what his assistant would say because the very phrase had flown into his own mind.
  “Kate not another word please, I can handle this.  Perhaps its best you leave, it was never wise of me to have two anger born in the same room, I cannot control you both.”
  “May God have mercy and take this child back, rather than send him to the hell that surely exists under your roof!” retorted Kate. 
  The woman sprung forward with rage, and then stopped as if struck.  The baby was pressed smoothly out.  Hawthorne captured the baby as it immerged, and the woman collapsed back into the bed from exertion.
  “It’s a girl, she looks healthy enough.” said Hawthorne. 
  “Look at the girls arms - does it not also have a bruise on the side, could it be her that strangled the life out of her twin brother from within the womb?” said Kate without a hint of malice.
  “How dare you suggest such a thing?!”
  But even as Martha said it, she could see in Hawthorne’s eyes that he had come to the same conclusion before Kate even suggested it.  The thought seem to press into her reality, becoming true without waiting for admittance.  Martha squint her eyes shut as the pain, grief, and anger surged and pressed the tears out.  She opened her mouth but no sound came out at first.  The last thing heard in the room before Hawthorne cut the cord between the woman and her woman child, was a cry of pure, unadulterated rage.  Martha passed out after offering it.


Chapter 2:

  Martha slept for a day before waking.  When she woke she felt overwhelmed.  Dreaming for such a long time made it hard for her to tell when she had finally woken up.  As she sat up she was not given the luxury of a few ignorant moments, where she could forget what had just transpired.  Her memory flashed back to her upon waking.  Though she had slept for a day, her exhaustion was easily read by the casual observer.  Martha stepped off her bed, and fell to the floor.  Tears gushed out almost as soon as she was aware she had fallen.  Her son, her promised son was gone.  She could bare no more children, the man who she loved; who could give her that gift had departed.  She would never look for another.  Martha stood and sat upon the mattress, Hawthorne flew into the room.

“Martha, you must come with me!  It’s your daughter; I’ve never seen anything like it, even amongst the anger born.”
  “I am too weak to move quickly, please help me, and I will come” Martha weakly responded. 
  Hawthorne and Martha ambled across the hall, towards the room of babes.  There was a crowd of nurses all looking into the room with expression of peculiarity.  Some where shocked, others staring intently interested.  None were smiling as was often the case when watching the children.  Martha and Hawthorne glanced into the room.  The room was full of infants, clasping bottles, sleeping, staring around the room.  Just like all infants their movements were erratic, uncalculated. Graceful robotic arms carried the bottles to the infants that were hungry, and held the bottles while they fed.  As Martha looked to where the nurses were watching, she could see her daughter.  The robotic arm was fixed above the baby, and attempting to place the bottle in her mouth.  As the bottle descended, the baby suddenly raised her hands and covered her mouth blocking the bottle.  The nurses murmured amongst themselves, as the metallic arm once again descended and the babes’ arms shot up to block entry of the bottle.  How could this baby move its arms so quickly, so methodically?  Then the baby yipped.  It took everyone by surprise, and they all gasped.  The baby uttered a noise closer to that of a dog than that of a baby, and pressed almost shoved the arm.  Certainly the baby was unable to move the arm away from where the arm intended to go, but there was no mistaking that the baby was pressing the arm away.  The metal arm twisted away, entangling the babies’ fingers in it.  A small pop, followed by a metallic whirr, and the robot broke free.  For only a flash of a moment there was nothing, and then the shouts of the hospital staff broke the silence like a loud wind.  Hawthorne ran straight to the bed as the robot arm swooshed by overhead.  Martha ambled behind him. 
  “Her fingers are broken, stand back Martha let me work!” Hawthorn snapped. 
  Martha was calmly walking up to the bed much to Hawthorne’s surprise.  As he looked at her that moment he could see a focus in Martha’s eyes.  Suddenly Martha turned pale and fell to her knees.  Hawthorne frowned and quickly composed himself, usually the rage born were stronger than this.  Maybe Martha’s words uttered during labor were truer than even he had supposed.  Hawthorn helped Martha to her feet,

  “Ward!  I need a ward to assist Martha!  Take her back to her bed; carefully please she is very weak.” 
  Two wards placed their arms over the shoulders of Martha, and helped her down the hall, Martha didn’t say anything. 
  Hawthorn looked back at the baby, cursing himself for not focusing on the more serious crisis.  As he snapped his attention to the babe, he was taken aback.  Surely most children let alone babies would be screaming in pain, and yet, this baby was silent.  No wonder Hawthorne’s attention had remained with Martha.  The baby had its eyes wide open.  It was not looking at any of them.  It was exhibiting control most grownups could not be expected to display.  With its’ other infant fingers it was lightly caressing the mangled hand.  On its face Hawthorn saw the same look of focus he had seen on Martha moments ago.  Hawthorn didn’t know whether to observe the baby, or continue with his original plan and restrain the babies’ movements while he wrapped up its hand.  Fractures at this stage could be carried the rest of ones’ life, he needed to do all he could right now.  Hawthorne could tell some of the fingers were broken, and the shoulder was out of joint.  As he reached down, the baby’s expression was unmistakably fierce.  Hawthorne reached down regardless and grasped the babies arm to pop it back into place.  The baby looked like she was going to do things to him babies should not be able to do.  Hawthorne spring into the maneuver and popped the arm back into place.  The baby didn’t flinch but its’ expression of anger returned to what it had been before Hawthorne touched her.  Hawthorn reached for some gauze, and with a determined look began to skillfully wrap between the fingers, trying to put them relatively back to where they should be.  This time the baby simply watched, its’ face nearly expressionless.  The wards to who Hawthorn had been paying no attention suddenly shouted as one of their number collapsed in a faint.  Hawthorn wondered if he himself wasn’t close to passing out, this was such a strange event.  Maybe the babe’s nerves were not working.  But no, the baby had been agitated when Hawthorn had gripped her arm the first time.  Some tests ought to be done, for this girl was different to say the least.  Hawthorn decided he had done all he could, he needed to see to Martha.  He reached for a bottle and placed it next to the baby girl, a ward could feed her if she hated machines so much.  As he walked away, he looked behind him briefly.  As he did, the girl reached and placed the bottle into her own mouth in one fluid motion.  Hawthorn paused not knowing what to think.  The anger born were certainly very focused, but he had never seen a baby exhibit control of this type.  Most babies could grip objects, however weakly, but never had he seen a baby cradle a hand, to say nothing of a broken up hand.  How could a baby cover its mouth with such precision and control?  Hawthorn thought of a time when he fell from a shuttle, and broke his arm when he was six years old.  Hadn’t he cried because the pain had been so sharp? Hadn’t he been restrained because the bone had pierced the skin outward?  Hadn’t he screamed when others handled the arm however gently?  He had certainly mended his fair share of broken bones, and the most he had come to expect from patients was outward manifestations of anxiety.  Put a needle in a baby and the other hand has to be taped up to prevent it from pulling at it.  But not this baby, she had stared at him and studied what he was doing; almost calculating…but no, no baby could do that.  She had refused to be fed by the robot, even breaking her hand in the process, but she was certainly hungry.  She had after all snapped up the bottle Hawthorn had left her.  Imagine that, a baby control freak, Hawthorne needed some sleep…a lot of sleep.

Chapter 3

  She flicked her head left, as his foot nearly made purchase with her cheek.  She had all sorts of options now.  She needed to get him on the ground; she need not hurt him unnecessarily.  She stepped forward and swept her foot into the back of his kneecap.  With one foot in the air and the other leaving the ground the boy only had one way to go, even if he didn’t want to - down.  With a grunt his back slammed onto the mat and Madeline stepped back.  “Cease!  Victory has been performed!”  Madeline suppressed the smile that crept up behind her lips.  The children of the fury didn’t have use of humor, it distracted from the task at hand.  But Madeline could laugh inside, so long as she controlled it.  When you were outside you were your own master, but in here; total control. 
  “Chase, do not get up.”  The instructor looked over at Madeline.  “What course of action would you pursue from here Madeline?”
  “Is he a prisoner, or is he a corpse?” Madeline responded. 
  “Corpse, Chase you will not flinch while Madeline demonstrates.”
  Madeline snapped her foot forward, it was almost elegant how fast her foot met Chase’ stomach and yet Madeline was careful not to hit hard enough to do any permanent damage.  An instant later, Madeline had her foot snuggly placed upon Chase’s neck.  She need only press. 
 
  “He is dead now” Madeline said sternly. 
  “He is indeed, well planned, well executed.  You are both dismissed, Chase I think you have some thinking to do about how to disguise such an obvious high roundhouse kick.
  Madeline was relieved she was done for the day.  She changed out of her fighting garments, and checked out at the weapons desk.  She walked down to the shuttle terminal, and punched in her destination; home.  The display began calculating and finally stated,
  “The next available shuttle arrives in 15 minutes, with four passengers.  Is this acceptable?” 
  Madeline selected yes, and registered her seat. 
  “Good thing you ride alone Madeline” Chase said from behind her.  Chase curved the sides of his mouth in a smile.  “I have to register seats with my brothers and sister, I’m lucky if I only have to wait one hour for a shuttle that empty,” he said glumly. 
“You’ve got to stop smiling Chase; you know the rules of conduct.  Absolute control!  If they see you, you could be treated.” Madeline said, turning to him. 
  Chase frowned and raised his eyes to his lowered brow.  Madeline sensed anger within him rising.
  “Getting mad at me for telling you so only makes me more right you know,” Madeline quipped.  “I didn’t crack a rib back there Chase.” 
  Chase looked at her, closed his eyes, and slowly his complexion soothed to serenity.  But his mouth retained some of the frown.  Madeline reached out and touched Chases’ cheek; she focused on serenity, aiding Chase’s efforts to calm himself.  After a few moments Chase opened his eyes.
  “I’m sorry Madeline, I can shut out the pain if I try, I really can!  But I can’t make my mouth do what I want it to.”  Chase looked at her almost pleading.
  “Chase we are in our second year, we can’t be weak anymore,” Madeline began.  “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow; I need to run to my shuttle.  We’ll practice sometime ok?”
  With that, Madeline started jogging to the shuttle stop.  She jogged through the streets, her heart eventually keeping rhythm with her feet.  She reached the main road adjacent to the fury house.  She was used to it being packed with people.  People often came to watch the anger born in their training; it wasn’t something Madeline much approved of.  She caught the eyes of many of the people as she jogged by; she was used to being stared at.  She knew why the crowds in the viewing room were larger when she was training.  Weaving through the crowd as she jogged had become a game of sorts for her.  She liked to whisk out of the way at the last second just before smacking into the person in front of her.  Left, and right, she danced down the street.  Madeline veered into a dimly lit alley between buildings.  This way was faster, and she wouldn’t have to deal with people staring at her, however much they admired her.  A black mass rushed at her face, a club.  She only had time to get her hand up, palm outward, as the club met her flesh.  She felt the sickening crunch of broken fingers reverberate throughout her body.  She felt it, but she pushed the pain out of the front of her mind.  The blow nearly knocked her over, but she turned her feet, curled her fingers around the club, and skidded to a halt.  She held that position for the spark of a moment.  She plunged into herself and found the anger ready to rise; her feet dug into the ground.  She brought it with her to the surface.  She launched off her feet, into the assailant still off balance from his stroke.  She smashed into his body, pressing him firmly against the wall he had hidden by.  This man wasn’t Chase; necessity required she make this man hurt.  Not only that, she would make sure he could never hurt again.  She smelled his putrid breath as he gasped, her knee finding his groin.  He slumped to his knees, as Madeline took a step back.  A scar where his nose met his forehead was as good a target as any.  She wanted this to end quickly.  With a surge of anger, she hurled her foot into the man’s face.  She watched the nose break apart with a satisfying squish.  His blood spattered onto her face and neck.  He fell into a sort of reverse prostrated position.  Madeline ripped one of the sleeves off his shirt, and carefully wrapped her broken fingers with the fabric.  She tied it off, and picked up the club. 
  “I am taking this, if you ever touch me again, we shall see how your face fares when I swing it,” Madeline said forcefully.
  Madeline didn’t watch to see if the man heard her, she ran out of the alley.  She was going to be late, she just knew it, and Madeline began to sprint.  As she ran she began to calm herself. 
“Drain the anger; flush it down, drain the anger.”
  She didn’t want to abuse the next person who inadvertently ran into her.  After a few moments she was calm.  Running had always helped her gain control; her mother had encouraged her to run.  It was shocking to most to see her when she was only a year old calmly running, sometimes even sprinting for a few seconds.  Before she learned control she had relied on running to slow her anger.  Nobody her age understood the anger inside her. The Anger Born just didn’t exhibit the signs until they were juveniles.  Only in rare instances did the fury show signs of its presence early, and even then the youngest case had been around eight years old.  Traumatic events were said to be the cause of this.  The other children thought it was cowardice at first.  They didn’t single her out; they just noticed that when you taunted Madeline enough, she would sprint away.  A group of boys decided to try and catch her one day as she ran.  The boy came from behind.  ‘Murdaline’ he had called her.  She saw the shuttle pulling up and opening its doors just as she reached the platform.  She was in a corner, she always avoided corners, you always needed space to run. 
  “You can’t get away this time, there are four of us down the way, you can’t get by all of us, Murdaline,” he had said with a devilish grin. 
  She hoped into the shuttle and found the remaining seat, she was shaking.  The anger was rising, it always did, feeding off its’ own memory.  She needed to stop thinking about this.  She was a murderer, she knew it was true.  She could remember the dark room, deliciously warm.  She could have spent eternity inside it, her and James.  He had been in that room with her, they spent days embracing.  The room was small, it could have been large it wouldn’t have made a difference.  James spoke with her and she loved him.  She didn’t know how they talked, but she knew they did, she could remember it, she had dreamed of it.  The warmness crashed like a window and a cold sensation had engulfed her.  The walls of the room convulsed and squeezed her.  A small shard of light had appeared above her and James.  James was scared and began to move towards the light,
  “Let us go together James, help me come with you” she had said. 
  She reached up and clasped James by the waist.  Suddenly her ears hurt; something loud and meaningless assaulted their ears, over and over.  It sounded like voices...  James was terrified and he kicked her.  She felt the blow to her face burn.  The fire rippled down her neck and into her belly.  She saw James differently now, she would die in this room if she did not leave.  Madeline stood upon her feet and faced the boy.  The anger inside tasted different, it felt tainted.  She hated him, this mere boy, meddling in her life.  She wouldn’t talk her way out of this, truth to tell talking at all was difficult once the anger had set in.  This anger was different, it seemed to black out all the other courses of action, save one.  No, she was sizing the boy up the moment she heard his footsteps approach.  He was older than her, considerably bigger, he hadn’t even decided what he would do with a captured Madeline.  She knew; she had concluded her move and the boy still had no idea what was coming.  He probably expected her to submit with her voice before he made her submit her body.  It was almost right that she show him the inevitable results of their back and forth.  Madeline released some of the anger through her face.  Madeline’s was a mask contorted with anger, the rage partially released took hold of her muscles, it made her strong.  The boy’s bravado melted away, and Madeline seized the opportunity.  Fear was weakness and she would show him why.  She exploded forward, and thrust her fist into his solar plexus, she could hear his chest cracking, his knees bending.  She gripped and pull his head down, thrusting her knee into his lowered head, sending him to the ground.  She stepped upon then jumped off his chest, going into a full sprint.  The very next boy had little time to react before she reached him. The other two down the way hadn’t seen what she had just done, what she was going to do again.  She eagerly repeated the dance with these unwitting partners, until all four lay still.  They all went to the hospital; the preservers nearly lost one of them.  She screamed inside of herself with rage and reached up with her arm latching onto James by the neck.  If he couldn’t get out, he would not kill the both of them.  James’ fear increased, fueling her resolve.  The fear in James stifled like a wet blanket, and slowly got weaker.  It became a faint glimmer, and then she felt something within James; remorse.  He hadn’t meant to kick her; he had lost control in his fear.  Madeline tried to let go that instant, but the anger held her arms.  And then James stopped moving.  She finally let go of him, and his body disappeared into the light, she never saw him again.  All she could do was reach her arm again after him.  Madeline lost control tears running over spots of blood on her face, blurring them.  After sobbing for a few moments she opened her eyes, looking in spite of her embarrassment.  The other passengers were staring at her, but not for the same reason most did.