Cradle of Chains - Chapter 1: Womb of Vengeance

Time had dissolved into a meaningless haze as Elia gazed up at yet another nurse. Or was it the same one? She couldn’t tell anymore. The endless rotation of blue uniforms and masked faces blurred together, each figure indistinguishable from the last. They spoke to her only when she resisted, a futile endeavor now, each attempt sapping away with every bottle forced between her unwilling lips. Resistance had become a memory, a luxury stripped from her like everything else.

Elia knew their methods, their insidious tricks. She knew about the nanites coursing through her veins, robbing her of strength, transforming her into something weaker, smaller, helpless. She didn’t need a mirror to see it. She could feel it in the way her limbs grew delicate, her fists and feet dwindling with every restless nap. Was it hours? Days? Weeks? Time had melted away her sense of self, slipping further from her grasp with every forced feeding. How many times had she woken to a changed diaper, a nurse hovering over her with mechanical precision? Dozens? Hundreds? The number no longer mattered, only the suffocating certainty that each moment dragged her close to complete surrender.

The cold, unyielding teat of the bottle pressed against her lips, leaving no room for defiance. Her mouth, now barren and toothless, closed around it instinctively, gumming the rubber as her body betrayed her yet again. Pacifiers, bottles, this was all she could manage now; her once powerful resolve was reduced to soft, infantile submission. Whatever they were doing to her, it was working, and it was relentless.

Elia’s eyes fluttered open as she was carried down the hallway, her limp body cradled in the arms that held her as if she truly were the helpless infant they had molded her into. The long, sterile corridor stretched endlessly before her, lit by cold, artificial lights that hummed faintly, amplifying the oppressive silence. The walls, pristine and unyielding, offer no comfort, only the stench of antiseptic and despair.

She wanted to scream, to thrash against the arms that held her, but her body refused to obey. Every ounce of strength had been drained, her limbs like lead. The sedatives worked their way through her system, dulling her senses and pulling her into their suffocating embrace. Panic clawed at her chest as her mind, still sharp despite her helpless state, grasped at the horror unfolding around her.

The ward she was leaving behind loomed in her mind, its rows of plastic boxes and the faint cries of other Littles echoing in her ears, a symphony of misery. She was one of them now, a shadow of who she had been reduced to this… this nothingness. As they passed, doctors and nurses moved with chilling indifference, their masked faces devoid of humanity. Each one glanced at her briefly before returning to their tasks, as if her fate was as inconsequential as the routine flick of a switch.

Elia’s vision swam as they entered a new room. The air here was heavier, colder, filled with the faint hum of machinery and the sharp scent of chemicals. Her gaze locked on the table in the center of the operating room, and her breath caught in her throat. A woman lay strapped to it, motionless, her body prepared like some grotesque offering. The surgical lights cast an unholy glow on her exposed womb, its readiness for its new occupant horrifyingly clear.

Elia’s mind screamed, but her body remained silent, unmoving. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a frantic drumbeat of resistance that her muscles refused to echo. The sheer terror of understanding what was to come, of her becoming part of this monstrous cycle, overwhelmed her. The sedatives dragged her deeper, turning her panic into a sluggish, suffocating fog, but they could not erase the visceral dread sinking its claws into her soul.

Her eyelids grew heavy, her vision dimming as the drugs claimed her. The image of the woman, helpless and violated by the sterile machinery of their oppressors, burned itself into her mind as the surgeons prepared Elia to be inserted into her womb. Elia’s last conscious thought before the darkness swallowed her was one of pure, unrelenting horror.

Venli stared at the flickering monitor in the Resistance’s hidden base, her heart pounding as the security footage played out before her. The camera’s cold, detached lens captured the long, sterile hallway of the hospital, its walls devoid of life, its harsh lighting almost clinical in its cruelty. Nurses moved with mechanical precision, and in the arms of one of them, cradled like an infant, was Elia.

The sight turned Venl’s stomach. Her friend, their leader, was reduced to this frail, shrunken form, limp and powerless. Venli gritted her teeth as the nurse adjusted her hold, Elia’s head lolling slightly, her body too weak to resist. The once commanding figure of Elia, whose voice could rally entire factions, was now no more than a wisp of her former self, shrinking into obliviousness with each passing moment.

Venli’s hands clenched the edge of the desk, her knuckles white as rage and sorrow twisted in her chest. She had fought tooth and nail to track down her friend, combing through endless scraps of intel, hacking into surveillance networks, and pushing the Resistance’s resources to their limits. But it wasn’t enough. By the time she found this footage, it was too late.

She couldn’t look away as the nurse carried Elia further down the hallway, her body swaying slightly with the nurse’s steps. Venli’s breath hitched when she saw Elia’s head lift weakly, her wide, fearful eyes taking in the sterile corridor. The defiance that Venli had always admired in her was still there, just a flicker buried beneath the haze of sedatives. But it wasn’t enough to stop the inevitable.

The nurse turned into an operating room, and Venli’s stomach dropped as she glimpsed the table prepared for Elia’s next transformation. It was too much. She slammed her fist against the desk, forcing the feed to pause; the frozen image of the nurse laying Elia into the woman’s open womb seared into Venli’s mind.

Venli’s thoughts spiraled, unbidden, to the moment Elia was taken. The ambush had been sudden and brutal. A high-priority mission that had gone terribly wrong. Elia had insisted on being at the forefront, as always, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the risk. Venli had been at her side, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance. Then came the trap: Amazon soldiers converging with an efficiency that spoke of careful planning.

Elia had ordered Venli and the others to retreat, her voice sharp and commanding despite the chaos. Venli had hesitated, torn between her duty and her bond with Elia. She remembered the look on Elia’s face, a mixture of determination and resignation, as she shoved Venli toward safety. It was the last time Venli saw her friend before the soldiers closed in.

Now, watching the footage, guilt coiled around Venli’s chest like a vice. She could have fought harder and done more. She had scoured every lead, convinced she could save her. But her colleagues had been right; they had warned her that even if she found Elia, the Amazon’s hold on her would be absolute. They had begged her not to risk the lives of others in what they believed to be a lost cause.

But how could Venli accept that? Elia wasn’t just her comrade; she was her friend, her anchor in the storm of their rebellion. They had shared victories, losses, plans, and dreams. Elia had been the one to pull Venli from despair when the Resistance seemed on the brink of collapse, her unwavering belief in their cause lighting the way forward. To see her now, stripped of her power and dignity, was a wound that Venli didn’t know how to heal.

As the footage resumed, Venli watched helplessly as the umbilical cord was attached and the woman sewn up. Venli watched Elia’s chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths until the moment she disappeared. The screen went dark as the doors to the operating room closed, Venli’s finger trembling as she firmly pressed the stop button, her body filled with rage and sorrow that threatened to pour from Venli like an unbridled waterfall. Venli had seen everything she needed to.

“I’ll get you back,” she whispered to the empty room, her fingers grazing the monitor where her friend had been, her voice breaking. “I don’t care what it takes, Elia. I’ll bring you home.”

Several days later, Patricia Halvane sat at the edge of the council chamber, her back straight, her expression smug as she cradled the tiny figure of Fiona in her lap. The girl was naked except for her newborn diaper, and she nursed a pacifier; babies should be seen, not heard. The chamber was vast and imposing, filled with polished marble and the faint echo of voices as the council debated. Patricia didn’t hold a seat at the table; her role wasn’t to govern, after all. She was one of several women chosen for a far more specialized purpose: ensuring that the Resistance’s most troublesome leaders were reborn into lives of submission and helplessness.

The council members, all Amazons of imposing stature and dignified bearing, filled the table. There were several pregnant women there with Patricia, each representing the success of their program. Patricia smirked as she watched them; unlike these women, she had jumped to the front of the line, her pregnancy a direct result of Elia’s connection to Fiona. Patricia hadn’t been next for being impregnated; each woman was equally as devoted to the cause as she, but Fiona and Elia had a special connection that drove Patrica to ensure she had both girls in her grasp.

One of the council members, a sharp-featured woman with piercing eyes, gestured toward Patricia. “It’s worth nothing,” she said, her voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation, “that mother Halvane was permitted to bypass the waiting list due to the… unique circumstances surrounding her case. Tiana’s connection to Elia made this pairing a strategic necessity,” she said, using Fiona’s new name instead of the one she had before being reborn. It was vital Fiona’s old identity be slowly withered away.

Patricia’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. “Strategic, yes,” she said smoothly, stroking Fiona’s back as the newborn whimpered softly in her arms. “It was imperative to ensure Elia was placed in the most effective hands. And I think we can all agree,” she glanced around the room, her voice dripping with mock humility, “that my record speaks for itself. This will further serve our cause in demoralizing the Resistance leaders and help bring about a swift destruction to their futile efforts.”

Another councilwoman raised an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen, Mother Halvane. Elia has always been a fighter. There’s no guarantee she’ll be easy to manage.”

Patricia’s smile widened as she guided Fiona’s tiny hand to her swollen belly, holding it there with a firm yet gentle touch.” Oh, she’s a fighter, all right,” Patricia said, her voice softening to a near purr as she felt the faint kick beneath her skin. Fiona’s fingers twitched against her stomach, the tiny newborn too weak to pull away. Patricia leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, “Always a fighter. But we all know how that ends, don’t we?”

The council chuckled, their amusement reverberating through the chamber. Patricia let her hand linger on Fiona’s, pressing it firmly against the rhythmic movement beneath her belly. “You feel that Tiana?” she murmured, her tone deceptively sweet. “That’s your new baby sister. She’s coming soon. And just like you, she’ll learn her place.”

Fiona whimpered, her wide eyes glistening with helpless tears as Patricia’s grip held her still. Patricia turned her attention back to the council, adjusting Fiona in her lap as though she were a cherished doll. “The Resistance may still believe they have hope,” Patricia said coolly, “But by the time we’re finished, they’ll have nothing left. Not even memories of what they lost.”

The councilwoman nodded her expression one of approval. “See to it that your success is as impressive as your ambition, Mother Halvane. If Elia’s spirit can be broken, the Resistance will lose far more than a leader.”

Patricia inclined her head, her smile never wavering. “It’ll be my pleasure; let my victory bring about further Littles for us to rebirth. Let us bring this Resistance to an end, once and for all.”

Another councilman nodded, “Let this serve as motivation,” he said, glancing to the women who sat opposite Patricia, their bellies devoid of captive Littles, their hunger for motherhood unquenched, "your aid in future raids and operations will lead to even more rebellious littles that we will bestow upon every one of you. Remember, your patience will be rewarded, and, in time, you'll more than likely end up with as many babies as Mother Helvane here or even more..” he said, glancing towards Patricia’s side of the room.

As several women around her stood to leave, Patricia remained seated for a moment longer, her hand still resting on her belly, Fiona’s fingers interwoven in her own. She felt another kick and smiled down at Fiona, whose tiny body trembled against her.

“You’ll show her the way, little one,” Patricia whispered, her voice low and full of malice. “You’ll show her what happens to those who defy us.”

Even as Patricia basked in her assured victory, her mind began to drift, unbidden to the life she’d lost, the moment everything had changed and her old life left shattered to dust.

It had been years ago, yet the memory remained sharp and unforgiving. Patricia had been happy once. Truly happy. Her husband, Marcus, had been her everything, her partner, her strength, her heart. Together, they had worked tirelessly toward their dream, an Amazon child. It was a rarity, a miracle of nature that required persistence, dedication, and no small amount of hope or luck. When the test finally turned positive, Patricia had cried in his arms, overwhelmed with joy. She remembered how Marcus had kissed her forehead, his eyes alight with dreams of the future.

And then the crash.

Patricia flinched, her fingers tightening around Fiona’s as the memory hit her like the shattering glass had all those years ago. She could still hear the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, and the screams that weren’t hers but felt like they should have been. One moment, she and Marcus had been driving home from a routine doctor’s appointment, their unborn child’s heartbeat still fresh in their ears. The next, chaos.

It had been a Resistance assassination plot, the target of a government official driving ahead of them. The explosion had come out of nowhere, the shockwave sending their car careening into a ditch. Patricia had groaned in agony, her vision blurred by tears and blood. Marcus was slumped over the wheel, unmoving, his hand still reaching for hers.

She could hear the EMTs as they worked to free her, their voices grim. They spoke of injuries, of her condition. They told her what she couldn’t comprehend at that moment: that her baby was gone. That the damage to her body was irreversible. That she would never have a child of her own.

Patricia’s throat tightened, her breath shallow as she remembered the sterile hospital room where she’d laid for hours, numb and broken, weeping for the lost. The council had come to her then, their words smooth and calculated while maintaining an air of remorse for her loss. They had offered her a purpose, a way to channel her pain, and a chance to be a mother, not to Amazon children, but to those they deemed unworthy of adulthood.

“The Resistance took everything from you,” they had said, “Let us help you take everything from them.”

Patricia’s lips twisted into a bitter smile as the memory faded. She looked down at Fiona, her fragile body nestled in Patrica’s lap, her diaper crinkling faintly as she shifted. The irony wasn’t lost on her. The Resistance leaders, reduced to helpless infants, were utterly at her mercy as she had been at theirs when that bomb went off. It wasn’t the motherhood she had dreamed of, but it was close enough.

Her hand returned to her belly, feeling the gentle kick of the child inside. “Always a fighter,” she murmured again, this time more to herself. But there was no warmth to her tone, only the cold satisfaction of someone who had learned to wield their pain as a weapon.

The councilwoman’s voice snapped her back to the present. “Mother Halvane, your presence here is a reminder of what we stand to gain and what we stand to lose. See to it that Elia’s spirit is broken.”

Patricia nodded slowly, her hand still resting on her belly as her gaze grew distant. The councilwoman’s words barely registered, drowned out by the echo of memories that refused to fade. Marcus’s smile, the sound of his laugh, the flutter of life she had once felt beneath her heart, all of it gone in an instant, stolen by the recklessness of those who dared to call themselves freedom fighters.

Her lips trembled, just for a moment, before pressing into a thin, determined line. The ache of loss still burned within her, as fresh and raw as the day she had woken in the hospital bed to learn she would never hold her child, never hear their cries or laughter. They had taken everything from her: her family, her future, her dreams. And yet, in that darkness, she had found a new purpose forged from the jagged shards of her grief.

Looking down at Fiona, Patricia’s eyes softened, not with kindness, but with something colder, sharper. “You think you were fighting for something noble,” she whispered, her voice low, meant only for the tiny newborn in her lap. “But your cause took my family from me. My husband, my child, my everything.”

Her fingers guided Fiona’s hand back to her belly, holding it there as Elia’s faint kick stirred beneath her skin. Patricia’s voice grew steadier, harder. “I’ll never get them back. But I’ll make sure you, and every other so-called hero, understand the cost of what you’ve done. I will take your lives as soundly as you stole mine.”

For a fleeting moment, her expression flickered, an almost imperceptible hint of the woman she had been before grief and vengeance had consumed her. But then, it was gone, replaced by the resolute mask she had worn for years. She looked up at the councilwoman, her voice calm and deliberate.

“I’ll do my duty,” she said, not with cruelty but with the weight of unshakable resolve. “Because I know what it means to lose everything.”

The council chamber fell silent as Patricia rose, cradling Fiona close. The tiny newborn let out a soft, helpless whimper, but Patricia’s steps were steady as she left the room, her hand resting protectively over the life growing inside her. There was no joy in her actions, no triumph, only the unrelenting drive to ensure the Resistance paid for what they had stolen, one broken leader at a time.