Everything's Made to be Broken [Closed]

What they came across was grotesque, far too horrific to speak of. Demon's work without question. Fingers made hard by conflict clasped gently around two thin rounded slivers of stainless steel. The ball chain cord securing the tags to what was once a neck lay broken in the blood soaked earth, the mixture of muted brown and bright crimson made a strangely beautiful mahogany mud. The pad of the thumb smeared away the blood obscuring the information imprinted into the dogtags;


The tags were taken back and given to softer, smaller hands then the rough and calloused ones that recovered them, to be scrubbed clean of the now oxidized blood. They were all that remained of their owner. It would do his family no good to see them coated in his life's blood. From the basin to the desk of a superior officer where it sat as paperwork rustled, was found and filled, as voices hummed around and the tags touched frequently to read some bit of information and make a complete report. A piece of clean and starched white cloth was wrapped around the precious cargo, one to be sent back to Manchester, the other to another destination. The tag was carried far for an unknowable time, away from the hellish battle front to the grey and decrepit shell of a once-great and beautiful human city that now lay as a testament to ruin, a film of disrepair covered every stone and brick, even the shoots of green that peeked form between cracked slabs of pavement and what were once roads and thoroughfares.

Finally, they moved underground, where the city and her people now breathed, illuminated by evenly spaced lamps attached to the ends of poles or buildings that would be shut off when Lockdown began. save for the single fire at the city centre, where light was kept on just in case, fighting the darkness to keep the dreadful things that go bump in the night in the dark corners they inhabit. There was a pause at one of the many tenaments lined up in the housing district. His mother Justine was not home. A small child, a boy perhaps no older then seven, informed the men in 'fancy dress' that the woman was elsewhere and it was not known when she would return. The widow Valentine taught the little ones and also scavenged just outside the city on occasion with her remaining son. Her daughter is far easier to find, one of Manchester's doctors. She'll be at hospital, where she's most everyday. Her free day was Sunday but it was only Friday today though. She was at the hospital, that was where she could be found.

The hospital was better illuminated then the rest of the city and for good reason, it was here that doctors, nurses and healers used their cradt to keep the people of Manchester together. The little boy was very helpful, having lived next door to the Valentine family for all of his life he could describe the young woman head to toe, down to her prosthetic leg. But that would not be necessary today as her voice carried from the examination rooms, as arguably the most horrible sound imaginable.

"Augh would you stop already?!" Joffery moaned and threw his pillow at the doctor's face in hopes of stopping the noise emitting from it, "It sounds like you've sat on a poor cat whose yowling as he writes his last will on a chalkboard."
Dr. Valentine was undismayed, but she did stop when the pillow hit her face and smiled softly, "I gave you fair warning before I started. I know you're embarrassed but I'm not going to laugh, judge, or drag your Mum in to see or whatever you're fearing." She gently cracked her knuckles and reached for a single latex glove for her right hand, this wasn't the time to waste two, "Now, I need you to take off your pants, so I can see the problem."

The sandy haired teenager sighed and slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, blushing profusely as he gently rolled them down. It didn't take medical training to spot his problem, but it helped in the naming of it. Gently, she examined the offending appendage, "And along with this discharge you've had itching on want feels like inside of you along with the red areas around your crotch?"

"Yes, miss..." the poor boy tried to be brave but the nerves were evident on his face, he seemed to expect some dire diagnosis.
"I have good news for you, Joffery," She sat back and let her gloved hand rest on her knee with the palm facing upwards, "You're not dying, but you have an STD, it's called gonorrhea. It's not fatal, but you'll need to talk to whomever you've been with, because I don't think you gave it to them, did you?" the boy shook his head and she nodded, "Right then, you'll want to stay here for a few more hours, a healer will see to you soon, I'm assuming you'd prefer a male healer to another woman?"
"Yes please, miss." Joffery practically begged.

Neveah managed not to chuckle at the desperation in his voice and took her glove off, "Then I believe Ian should be coming on shift soon, he'll look after you." with a wave she slipped out of the small exam room and closed the newly installed door, it felt good to have actual rooms instead of trying to keep privacy for patients with cloth walls.

"Dr. Valentine?" the soft baritone of his voice made her start lightly before she turned and saw them, two well-dressed members of the armed forces and suddenly her throat, still raw from a short bought with strep, tightened, "Yes?"

"Is there any place private we can talk?" the second man said, his skin was almost the same hue as hers, but a few shades darker, it made the crisp white of his collar stand out even more. "Yes, the lounge is private enough, follow me please." she turned and walked perhaps a little quicker than she needed to, thankful her mother wasn't hearing it first. Two men in military dress uniform, it was what they were there for. She lead the men inside the lounge; longer than it was wide with two couches and a table in the middle and an area for a small cooking fire to heat water for tea, and closed the door.

"Miss Valentine, we are here to inform you that you brother Micheal Caiden Valentine has been killed in action, he was...."

She knew before the apology, before the words of consolation that he was dead. Their words just conformed it. This was something she'd always dreaded knowing from the minute she understood what it meant for her brother to be in the service. Inside the hand of the baritone voice with brown eyes was a piece of starched linen, inside the linen was Micheal's tag which was handed to her at the end of their rehearsed, though sincere, condolences. It was so clean, she almost expected it to be soaked with his blood, but it was his, service number, blood type, his name...faith, everything so neatly imprinted in the piece of metal that now rest in her hand. Neva wrapped her fingers around the cloth, holding his remains in her hand, "So...was there anything...?"

"Miss Valentine..." the second man shook his head, she didn't want those details, and told her as much with his eyes. Neva nodded, as she felt the colour start to drain from her face, "Thank you. And I'll--I'll inform the rest of my family... you two look exhausted." quickly wiping the free flowing tears from her face as more ran down her cheeks, "Once you leave the hospital, head west to-" Nevaeh stopped to swallow what had aspired to be a sob, "to the tenement with the blue lamp, that's the Inn. Greta works there, she'll know you're servicemen at once. They keep private rooms for military, the men prefer it, since the barracks had a small cave in last week, no one hurt but more dirt to move." the questions were as plain on their faces as the pain on her own, "Yes, I'll--we'll be fine. Just... he was the oldest."

When they left she staggered to one of the couches and let herself crumple into it. She choose the dark blue one was the softest of the pair, not the silly plaid. She wanted to cry, to just lay there and have a good long cry of it. But she couldn't get comfortable. The now actively grieving doctor sat up and rocked, letting her forehead press against her palms before wincing. She forgot about his tag, it was still in her hand. Neva ran her fingers of the the raised letters, each one the last of him they would have.

She could see the little mantle in their 'kitchen' it was where Mum put the pictures she still had of the family; Dad with his arms loving arms, she remembered them always around someone. Aiden, his chipped glasses and front tooth were almost identical, he was the pragmatist, cautious but shared that unbounding courage that only seemed matched by there older brother. Micheal was always so strong with that goofy infectious smile of his. Gabe looked so much like Mum. Same eyes, same cheeks, same way of speaking volumes with just his eyes. Micheal's picture would have his dog tag in front of it now. He was dead, just like Aiden and Daddy. Again, Neva tried to lat back, then sit up, she left the couch and stood. But she couldn't stand the thoughts racing, couldn't think, it was suffocating in the little lounge. She couldn't stay. She had to walk, to breathe, to do something.

"I need today, I'll take the lockdown shift. Micheal's Dead. I-I-I have to get out of here. Tell the head I'm sorry. I just...I can't--I'm not...all here." She'd run into Ian just as he was coming in to start his shift. Later she would apologise for blindsiding him with the information but for now she could not stay in that building. Her pain felt like it could grow and consume everything living, all she could think as she walked was why... ? Why couldn't Demons have just stayed in Hell? Why Micheal? Why him? Of all the people left in the world just...Why Micheal? Why my brother?