What's it worth?

Investigation; chapter one.

It was undescribable. The entire town was in devastation. Once upright and towering buildings mere rubble and ash littering the ground. Once busy and lively, now ruined by the atrocities of war, now abandoned for the devastation was too much to reconcile the town. Evidence of a town that stood in glory was strewn in masses across the ground - was it pavement, grass? It was hard to tell. Atop the sights, the smells were even worse. It was an abhorrent cologne of death, disaster and destruction. Decaying bodies that were yet to be removed from rubble had the wind carry their putrid scents, acompanied by the ashy scent of flames that had recently been licking all around desperately. Anyone who passed or went through the town would be forced to hold their breaths - there was a substantial amount of dust formulated from debris - saving them from drowning their lungs in the matter. By any means, it was the perfect definition of a war zone; although the words felt wrong on the tongue, to put 'perfect' in the same sentence as 'war.'

Almost robotically making their way through the mess was a figure with a dull navy scarf pressed tightly to their facial area, saving themselves from the dust, though suffered from the occasional matter in their eyes which was easily seen off with a blink. There was one thing that wouldn't be seen off with a blink however; and that was the extent of the damage circumed to the town, the sights that he wished he could forget. The man had seen many things he wished to forget - some were too emotional to even bare thinking for a second - but the haunting feeling that caused goosebumps to ripple across his skin was one he willed. But he was here, he couldn't leave. The task he'd been given was to see the results of war abroad - low and behold, they certainly were extensive. How exactly were he to summarise the sights? With a slight idea blossoming he dove a work-worn hand into the deep pocket of his bailey trench coat and fished out a notepad acompanied by a blue ball point pen. He flipped open the plain black covering of the notepad and flattened it out, then clunked the end of the pen against the surface and began to scribble down random notes. Dust everywhere. Consitenered buildings. Smells of fire and bodies. Reminiscent of a ghost town. No one in sight. Summarising what he could see and smell, the man let a quiet sigh slip from his pursed, slightly chapped lips. He began to walk on with very slow and movementless actions, only seeming to be alive when he would bend down to remove a brick to see what could be underneathe it. What he felt...It couldn't be described. He knew this territory was in the country they had deemed the enemy and he was partly glad such horrid individuals were suffering. Partly. Guilt ran high for the those whom had been innocent yet lost theirs through the actions of none other than those surrounding them; but in war, it was inevitable. Especially in a war that had reached that extent. So he would be forced to drown out the guilt with the quiet delight he felt at seeing the town in such a state, even if it went against morals and ethics. Drifting out of thoughts and into reality, he eventually decided instead he would simply show no emotion; keep a front. His long and slender fingers swirled around a pile of ash - what it was originally, he wouldn't ever know - but now it was simply something to be analysed there and then. Half way through elevating from his frog like position to standing up straight, he heard an unfamiliar, animal like sound. The immediate thought that sprang to mind was great, there's rats, but it soon faded as he realised it was no where near what a rat sounded like. He was beginning to get nervous, to say the least, diving his hands into his pockets and rummaging around but finding nothing of use, except for confectionary. Unsure what to do, he simply glanced towards the direction he believed to harbour the source of the noise, his busy mind conjuring random ideas. Eventually curiousity overwhelmed him and soon equipped with his notepad and pen once more, approached as quietly as he could. All throughout his heart was palpatating, threatening to throw itself out of his mouth. Just as he came within a couple of metres away, he froze in his tracks. His ears had led him to a little area towering with rubble, gazing at the mess with fixated eyes. Something was beginning to stirr once more, the rabid clawing causing him to grow concerned for himself. Then it stopped. His hazel eyes flittered anxiously over the mass of rubble, remaining as he began to see something emerge. Though it was not something he expected. Out, very hesistantly, came a small child. He couldn't sugarcoat it - the child looked horrendous, coated in a thick layer of dust and ravaged from sleep deprivation. They were also wearing clothes that were tattered and on their last life, the overwhelming odour of lack of washing knocking him ill. As they approached their eyes were wild, blazing with something that wasn't hatred, but something strong, feral.