Maria Jabez had a temper.
That was, to say, as much of a temper as any citizen of Libria could have without crossing the line to Sense Offense. Among the ranks of the clerics, it marked her as one apart. She never truly felt the fires of her rage; they were dull flickers licking at the bottom of her stomach on the rare occasion that her ire was provoked, but it was more than any one person was normally allowed to feel. It had done her service, though, forcing her to work harder and smarter to avoid provocation, which was why she was allowed to continue. She was well on her way up the ranks, a rising star only eclipsed by the likes of Clerics Preston and Brandt, who were not so hampered by the existence of a temper.
Perhaps Father was not as concerned with Feeling as they had always been told, as long as emotion went into the proper channels. It was something she thought some nights as she lay waiting for sleep, though she would never dare to even speak such a thing. Even thinking it was difficult, a paranoid little secret.
That day held a raid unlike any other she'd been on; normally sense criminals were holed up at the edges of the city, clustered around tiny troves of paintings or books, willingly giving their lives to protect them. This time was different. She and her partner were sent to a dwelling in the city, to an apartment three floors from the top. The soldiers were already waiting, ready to take down the door when they arrived. Branston had gone in first on their previous case; by their own agreement, it was her turn.
The door shredded under fire like so much paper, reduced to splinters. Guns drawn, she strode into the apartment, every sense on the alert for sound or movement that would betray the position of her quarry. The entryway was empty and silent, but she was stopped in her tracks by the smell of the place. Rich and coppery, warm against the back of the tongue. It was a scent she was familiar with, though it was odd to encounter it not mixed with the hot smell of weapons fire.
Blood.
She signaled to Branston to back her up as she walked further into the apartment. Lights flickered, giving everything surreal flashes of shadow, and the floor crunched under foot with broken glass and chunks of plaster. The sterile white walls of the place were no longer clean, painted liberally with slashes of red.
She was used to blood and violence. Every Cleric was. Still, something about the situation brought a burst of adrenalin to her system, making her heart beat faster. All that prevented her hands from shaking was force of will.
The hallway took a ninety-degree turn, toward the apartment's single bedroom. She rounded the corner with unusual caution, fingers tight on the trigger.
It was a charnel house in a single room. Furniture was broken and overturned, sheets ripped, clothes scattered across the floor. All was coated with blood, slowly turning rusty.
In the center of it all knelt a woman, her shift torn and hanging from one shoulder, exposing an expanse of blood spattered breast. She swayed back and forth, humming tunelessly under her breath as she tenderly stroked the object that lay in her lap.
It was a child's head. Or at least had been at some point.
The woman looked up at Maria and smiled, then said in a perfectly conversational tone, "She knows it makes me angry. The little bitch needs to learn to clean her room when I ask her too. It's so frustrating when your ungrateful brats won't listen to a word you say." Then with great deliberation, she picked up the red-slicked knife that lay on the ground nearby, and began to saw off the corpse's ear.
The fire that had been so dull in Maria's belly before finally broke free.
Maria couldn't remember screaming, or emptying both of her guns into the woman. She couldn't remember being wrestled to the ground by Branston as she paused to reload. She couldn't recall him trying to calm her before finally giving up and striking her in the temple, though it certainly explained the bruise. Next she knew, she was waking up in a secure clinic room with a horrendous headache, her supervisor standing over her.
"You have committed a Sense Offense." he said without preamble.
She sat up slowly, ignoring the dizziness that washed over her. It was impossible. "I don't feel."
"In the light of the incident that just took place, that is in serious doubt. As is your sanity."
"What happened?" She shook her head, rubbing her eyes. Monitor wires trailed from arms, chest, and neck. "I don't remember at all."
"Watch." He said, pointing at the wall to her right where there was a flat view screen. The image of Father on it paused mid-word and vanished, replaced with an image of her in the hallway near that bedroom. "This was taken by the cleanup team that followed you in."
Maria watched herself with growing confusion and finally vague horror as she went berserk, charging down the hallway and ripping the woman to shreds with a hail of bullets. Her own face was unrecognizable, twisted with animalistic fury. The clip of video ended as Branston pinned her to the floor and raised one fist.
"I don't understand how this could happen," she said, "I don't feel. I didn't feel then, I don't feel now."
"We now know that. And therein lies the difficulty." He crossed his arms. "We have you wired right now. If you'd Felt anything at all as you watched, I would have been informed and your sentencing would have been immediate. However, with your sterling record under consideration coupled with the fact that it seems you don't feel after all..."
"What's to be done with me?"
"That has been taken out of my hands by Councilor DuPont, and the decision was his to make. Father needs each and every one of his Clerics. You are rare gifts." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You will be put under observation and probation. If you show any signs of Feeling, it will be known immediately. And you will have your dose adjusted until the doctors are satisfied that there will not be a repeat of this."
"Thank you, sir."
"This will be noted in your file. I don't want to see this again, Cleric Jabez. Ever. And I seriously doubt the Councilor will be understanding of a repeat either."
"Understood, sir."
For the next several months she was the guinea pig of the doctors, who fiddled with her dose unceasingly, never quite happy with the results. Her probation came and went without incident, and still she could feel the stirrings of her temper at times. She reported any hint of feeling to the doctors, and would be called back for another dose adjustment. Finally, they put her on a newer version of Prozium, one that was still being clinically tested.
After two doses, she fell so ill that she couldn't crawl, let alone walk. She shook with fever and vomited even water. After missing a day of work, Branston was dispatched to her apartment, where he found her lying in the middle of the floor, half dead.
Once again, Maria woke in the hospital, weak and shaky but at least well. Her calves were cramping from being immobile for so long, so she cautiously walked around the room. Everything felt slightly unreal; something was amiss, deep within her. The walls vibrated with wind and thunder; there was a storm outside, a strong one. Sudden desire to see took her, and she acted without thinking, limping over to the room's window and resting her cheek against it. It was cool on her skin, and she imagined she could almost smell the rain and feel the wild crackle of lightning.
See. She had to see, to know. The wind called her name as the rain beat a primal rhythm into her blood.
Carefully, shielding each movement with her body, she peeled away a corner of the window's milky covering. Barely daring to breathe, she looked out, into the storm where violet lightning danced across the clouds.
Something deep within her snapped and threw her out into the storm, naked and shivering. The whirlwind tore her to pieces and swiftly wove her back together, whole once more but different. The lightning crackled through her mind, the rain was made her blood and filled her with terrifying wildness. The urge to dance, to sing with the voice of the wind shook her to her knees, her face still pressed to the glass. With soft wonder she wept in silence.
By the time her attendant finally came by, she was safely ensconced back in her bed, her eyes red but dry and her face composed. He didn't notice her hands were clenched in her blanket to prevent them from shaking.
"It's good to see you awake again, Cleric Jabez," he said, setting a stainless steel tray down next to her bed. There was a dose on it, prepared and waiting. "I brought your first dose; the doctors didn't want to give you any while you were ill, in case it caused your condition to worsen. Hopefully it hasn't inconvenienced you overmuch."
"Not at all. It's very courteous of you to bring it to me, though." she said. Under his careful watch, she dosed herself. Just looking at the yellow liquid and its pistol-like injector made her feel ill. The next moment was the most difficult of her life, even though she'd learned how to sacrifice to achieve her goals. Her mind knew it was urgent that she take the act back up, at least until the doctors were no longer watching, but the raw knew emotions howled with fear. What if she was never able to escape again?
Watched so closely, there was no choice. There was the swift stinging kiss on her neck, the hiss of the dose administered, and the wild glory of the storm slowly drowned under the cold tide of Prozium until again she felt nothing.
They believed her when she said that her illness, as terrible as it had been, had cured her of her inconvenient temper. There were no more clinic visits, no more adjusted doses, and for her no more Prozium.
[Note: The title of this bit is from Part V of "The Wasteland" by T. S. Eliot.]