Those Who Are Chosen

The smell of antiseptic was piercing through the cloud of sweat and filth that filled the large room. Soldiers lay dying on cots as medical personnel in various states of soiled white garb moved through the Triage. In the old world, the process was different. In the better days, those who were the least injured were at the back of the line for treatment. As the old doctor from a freshly dead world watched the new regime's lapdogs move to the favored her stomach turned. Men with little more than sprains and cuts were receiving the attention of qualified doctors while struggling aides tried to keep severely wounded men alive.

The old doctor almost questioned it until she saw the colored bands tattooed on the necks of the wounded, her fists tightened around a clipboard as she saw the Lottery Soldiers left to die, weak old souls and desperate children who had entered into a war for hope of gaining benefits for their family. One boy no more than seventeen howled in agony as his ruined arm was removed to save surgeons the trouble of trying to salvage it, a girl held in her intestines as aides argued with a doctor over whether she was worth saving given she would most likely never be able to bear a child after such a wound.

The Doctor could do nothing but watch, watch and wait with boiling anger until her work was needed. Before the regime, she had been an anesthesiologist, tasked with rendering patients unconscious and unfeeling so they could be treated without pain. That noble task was now perverted into her current station; To bring death to those who were beyond saving, they called her Mercy and the sick name rotted her stomach.

Like an acid curse, the foul name broke her furious fugue state. She dreaded that she was being called for the girl, instead, she found herself walking almost automatically to a frazzled young man that was bedecked in the soiled white of an Aide.

“This one is requesting Mercy” He pipped, looking saddened and tired, his gloved hands and bare forearms coated in blood.

“Go wash up, I will handle it” The Doctor spoke, her voice a tired grate that confirmed too easily for her liking.

“You’re a pretty one” the old man croaked, smiling up to her from his bloody cot, he was short, ugly but with a smile that touched his eyes even as his broken body should have left him wracked in agony.

“Thank you” She responded, a smile that didn’t touch her eyes was displayed, as much as she was used to the act now she took no joy in ending this man’s life, at one point she would have been putting him into a deep sleep to heal rather than die.

“Could I ask you a favor Doc?” He asked, grunting out a wheezing groan of pain as he pulled out a chain from around his neck, at first the Doctor thought it was some Identifier Tag to return to his family, some false pride for grieving widows and orphans. Instead, he produced one-half of a heart-shaped locket from under his ruined armor.

“Can you make sure this gets to my wife, she's in Saint Martins, Her name is Genna” the old man asked, his crooked teeth caked with blood.

As the doctor stared at the locket she nodded softly and took the locket from his fat bloodsoaked fingers, their strength fading even as her fingers graced his.

She hadn’t needed her skills it seemed, he was content to stop fighting for life as soon as he had passed her the locket, his eyes closed and his last breath became more stinking air in the room.

“It's done” she called letting the frazzled Aide get to the cot to prep the corpse for transport. The Locket half was a weight in her pocket as she worked the remaining day, laying a number of souls to rest before she was relieved, death now little more than the fatigue of the day.

Transport was one of the few things that had improved as the world had become swallowed by war and regiment. Travel between cities bearing the banner of the Overseer was easier than ever so long as you were Dutiful. As a medical professional who had been going to every front strategic aid hospital on the border to administer her care, she was Seen as Dutiful and her travel was not restricted. Especially not to an Asylum like Saint Martins.

The cold stone of the monumental building greeted her with a patiently waiting gaze. It knew better than most that if she were to ever decide the weight of her task was too much she would be here, or a facility like it. So many of her old friends had already gone to the asylums, if they hadn't died during the first crack down. She remembered the beatings, the murders, the chaos and dread that had preempted the take over and the enforcement of the regime's ideals. The Overseer System believed all people had a purpose and faulty parts needed to be fixed, stowed away or eliminated.

Here at Saint Martins faulty parts were being “Fixed” whether they liked it or not.

James had long refused to wear the name he had abandoned all those years ago. He would not allow himself to be changed into what the pigs outside his cell wanted, the medications to change him all went into the toilet and the surgeries they forced on him had been sabotaged numerous times. If he wasn't a valuable piece to the world the System wanted he would have been eliminated long ago, but as much as they wished to force his body to fit their needs, they needed his mind to be functional.

The Overseers saw people like James as a nuisance, but everyone knew the Enemy resided a few miles east. As long as James helped them develop weapons to fight, the Overseers would be content to leave him in a cell with bones that haven't healed properly and scars from surgeries he had ruined out of protest.

Sitting at the schematic of a gun he worked with a felt tip marker on thin paper, tools that he would struggle to injure himself with. As he wrote his notes on the schematic he seemed to be lost in his work before a knock broke the wet scratching of marker on paper. His steady hand jumped to smear the black ink across the page and he was almost upset his work had been ruined, until he remembered it was slave labor for pigs. Rising from his seat he hobbled to the door and opened the slide to speak.

“What is it?” he demanded, until his eyes met a woman of an age with him, her eyes sad and gentle.

“Genna?” she asked the name causing disgusted and pain in James’ eyes before he nodded

“That's what they call me, what do you want?” his surprise and his hope quashed by the name she had used.

“Ray sent me….he asked me to give you this” she gingerly slid the locket piece forward, through a drop slot.

As James laid his eyes on the broken heart, half of which he carried, his heart broke into the pieces that had been held together by hope for a future with the man in the locket.

She was called Mercy by the Overseers, a title for bringing a quick death to the suffering. A frustration she bore every day of her life. No more so than as she saw a man realize his love was gone. What kind of Mercy was it to deliver half a heart, and watch one shatter?