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teamcivilian · 2 years

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Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Ch01 [Revised]

Warnings: Intense scenes of violence including torture, sexual content, nudity and language, allusions to childhood trauma/abuse.

Rating: M

Genre: Crime/Drama with a side of romance.

Summary: A troubled psychiatrist desperate to escape past criminal ties is drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall, Pre-NTtD]

07/15/2022 — This is going to be the final rewrite. Aside from some big fixes (Madeleine’s profession as a psychatrist rather than psychologist, aging her up by one year, switching "college" to "university", giving the PSD its own name, etc) I made an effort to tighten up the dialogue and characterization overall. At the time I was originally working on this (2020-2021) I pulled a lot of information from fan-wikis; as such, there were some conflicting details I overlooked for the sake of convenience. It still might not be perfect, but I’d rather move forward than stay trapped in development hell.

Whether you’ve been reading since early 2020, or are new to the story in time for 007 Fest 2022, I hope you enjoy what’s in store! —Dorminchu

— ACT I —

“Most rich people have a gangster in their ancestry somewhere.” ― Ken Follett, Winter of the World

I: FORGIVING WHO YOU ARE, FOR WHAT YOU STAND TO GAIN

2003; Madeleine was eighteen, fresh out of Ermitage International School. Just a week before, she’d talked things out with her academic counsellor. Mental health was a very important subject to her. She had always admired those who could help others who lacked the knowledge or courage to take the first step. She wanted to go into psychiatry. Looking back on it, she probably sounded like every other self-impressed trust-fund looking to cajole his or her way into advanced placements.

The counsellor simply sat behind his desk and listened, nodding every once in a while. He was getting paid either way. “Have you decided what university you will be attending?”

Madeleine explained that she had put in a few different applications already.

The counsellor said, “These positions go quickly. Put in a couple more. Oxford is a good choice.”

Madeleine paused. Money was not exactly a problem for someone attending Ermitage, but she didn’t want to go flaunting this around. She thanked him for his time and information, and left.

The very next morning Madeleine opened her laptop—a birthday gift from her father, kept for convenience’s sake—to a series of emails confirming her acceptance into Oxford. Tuition payments. High-priority placements. So on, so forth.

Her father never wrote. Never gave any indication that he had a daughter in his life, until she had gotten her baccalaureate.

With tears in her eyes, she read the messages over to make sure she was not mistaken. She composed herself, called her Aunt Droit and relayed the message. The tremble in her own voice mistaken for elation.

But the warmth in Droit’s voice stayed with Madeleine for years. “Congratulations, dear. You’ve worked very hard at this.”

Madeleine bit the inside of her cheek and hung up.

⁂

She spent the next four years at Oxford, plus one in the Sorbonne during her residency. Once she was a practicing psychiatrist, she could support herself without outside interference.

She embraced the temporary comfort of acquaintances who knew her as Madeleine Swann; disciplined in her studies, but always cordial to the part-time students. The type of person who was drawn into the orbit of socialisation. A tough nut to crack. Colleagues sought her advice on research projects. Some vying to get into her good graces. A couple guys might ask for her number and end up studying together for weeks. Most were appreciative, but eventually Madeleine earned an unshakeable reputation for being frigid.

Of course, not everyone was so disingenuous. Madeleine attended her fair share of lunches and off-campus events for the sake of networking opportunities, melding into a small-knit group of undergraduates with comparable grades. Arnaud, who was studying to be a clinical psychologist, only stuck out in her mind because he kept finding excuses to hang out between classes. He may as well have been making conversation to a brick wall, but his presence gave her an excuse to get out of parties and potential dates. She let him accompany her to and from the library without complaint. Even after he’d graduated, they still kept in touch.

After becoming a licensed psychiatrist in 2008, she immediately turned to non-profit work. That summer, there was a water crisis in Bolivia. Tuberculosis outbreak in Laos. 2009; aftermath of a military coup in Ethiopia.

In the spring of 2011, she moved back into Paris. Cycling between outpatient management at the hospital and private clinic; in the latter case, complete with her own office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her co-workers were about as as droll as her taste in décor—with the occasional concern about her walls being a little sterile, always passed along by the secretary. Not even a picture of yourself, Dr. Swann?

Out of the blue, Arnaud contacted her over email. He was a clinical psychologist now, working just a couple blocks away. How would she like to meet up again, just for old time’s sake?

Detached from the stress of a full-time enrolment, this gesture lost its annoyance. It was honestly flattering. She wasn’t that busy.

They caught up over in a local bar Madeleine forgot the name of. Arnaud was busy teaching, over in Hauts-de-Seine. He was a Senior Psychologist now. How was she doing, these days?

She mentioned the clinic, no problems there. The hospital as well. She had her own new circle of friends. He kept looking at her as she talked. On impulse, she offered to buy him shots. A belated celebration of their graduations.

Arnaud said, “You, drink? I’ve never seen you touch a glass.”

“That’s because I don’t, usually.” She took half a sip. Cringed. “Sorry, it’s been a while.”

“You don’t have to finish that.”

“Neither do you.”

Arnaud chuckled.

She said, “My mother used to drink a lot. I guess I thought I would always turn out like her one day, but that’s silly isn’t it.” She finished her drink. “You haven’t even touched yours. I bet I could drink your ass under this table.” She took his glass before he could so much as speak, downed it. She grinned. “See?”

Cut to half-an-hour later; Madeleine, vomiting her sandwich from six hours ago into the toilet while Arnaud kept her head up.

She didn’t remember much besides waking up on the couch in her apartment, still in her clothes from the night before.

“How are you feeling?” said Arnaud.

Madeleine groaned. She grabbed throw-pillow and mashed her face into it. “What time is it?”

“It’s just past two.”

Madeleine lay there until the faint odour of stale vomit was no longer tolerable. Cursing, she swatted it aside. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“It was no trouble,” he said. “You never told me you had family.”

“What?”

“That’s the first time you’ve mentioned any relatives.”

“I was drunk,” said Madeleine. “Don’t worry about it.” Madeleine lowered her hands, squinting at the light. She could make out his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept very well. “Well—what did I say?”

“Something about an aunt, and your mother. I didn’t catch all of it.”

A pit in her stomach that had nothing to do with her recent choices. Madeleine looked Arnaud in-between the eyes. “I’d rather forget about this, if it’s all the same to you.”

Arnaud frowned. “You’re not troubling me at all.”

From then on, she’d accompany him for walks in the Parc Georges-Brassens if the weather permitted. See him for lunch, or dinner. From every other weekend to every weekend.

As the months progressed it was difficult to find excuses to remain platonic. Not because she felt any particular, immediate attraction. She just couldn’t bring herself to relinquish her grip on someone so easily accessible. A heartless woman would string him along with false hope and drop him at the first sign of commitment; Madeleine accepted his offer to cohabit his apartment in Vaugirard. Separate bedrooms. Plenty of space to keep to themselves.

In lieu of a car, they’d share public transit. He’d tease her for checking the corners of the bus each time, but he would also wait up for her on long shifts. Whomever came home first fixed dinner, so on, so forth.

Two years later, they were still together. Her co-workers wondered how she and Arnaud could balance their careers and relationship when she made three times as much as he did in a year.

⁂

In the winter of 2013 Madeleine applied for a position as psychiatrist with the Médecins Sans Frontières. A week into March, she got an email confirming her placement. A three-month mission in Conakry, Guinea, May through July, with the possibility of an extension. Madeleine had relayed this information to both the clinic and the hospital, so there was no worry.

Now it was April. Sitting in the comfort of her office, reading over electronic pamphlets and advisories. In a couple weeks she would be working in far less hospitable conditions. Non-profit work always looked good on a résumé.

Checking her laptop, tabbed over to a different page: Guinean Visa and Passport Requirements: All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia. Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance.

She sat back with a headache settling just around the base of her skull. Alone with four polished wooden walls and the analog clock, the fluorescent lighting fixed her to a single moment in time.

A knock at her door snapped her out of contemplation. It was the senior consultant. Madeleine motioned him in, closing the laptop.

“I’m surprised you don’t sleep in that office,” he said.

“That would save some money on bus fare.” She opened the cabinet of folders under her desk, filing away documents from that day’s session.

“How’s Arnaud?”

“He’s doing well.”

The consultant nodded. As she packed up, walked towards her door he was looking at her with something close to sympathy. “You are serious about this mission in Conakry?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

His face darkened. “Have you seen the news lately?”

“Oh, I doubt they would be looking for applicants if the situation were that severe.” Madeleine smiled dryly. “But, there is always a chance I’ll die doing what I love. I can’t think of a better way to go.”

The consultant’s uneasy laugh caused the secretary to glance at them through the doorframe. Madeleine hit the light on the way out.

⁂

Late at night, the weather was on that precipice between winter and spring. An overcast sky, grey and still. By the time Madeleine was opening the door to the apartment, she was grateful to get away from the chill seeping into her skin.

Arnaud, still dressed for work, was sitting on the sofa with last month’s issue of The International Journal Of Psychoanalysis. Without her pitching in, he’d be working part-time shifts at the clinic and teaching night classes just to make end’s meet. He looked up and said, “You’re back late. I took care of dinner.”

Madeleine shrugged out of her coat. “Thanks. I got held up at the clinic.”

“What for?”

She went over to the closet and hung her coat up. “Just lost track of time. I had a pretty busy shift. I’ve been weighing my options lately. This year, I’ll probably be moving to a different clinic. I’ll have to relocate to Spain, or Switzerland. Drag you along.” She looked at him because he hadn’t said anything. “You have enough to worry about.”

Arnaud readjusted his glasses. “I’ve got my degree. I can get a job just about anywhere you go.”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Their schedules did not always leave time to get acquainted with each other’s inner thoughts.

Madeleine said, “Can I get your coat?”

He looked up at her, sitting up and shrugging out of it. “Yes, thank you.”

She took his coat, walked back over to the closet, paused. “I put in a position with MSF a few weeks ago. It’s possible I won’t be back until August.” The silence protracted. Madeleine came back into the living room. “I meant to tell you earlier.”

“No, no. I’m grateful you decided it would be convenient for you to tell me at all.”

Madeleine stiffened. “Don’t start this now.”

“Last year,” said Arnaud flatly, “you were gone for six months on some psychiatry tour, you wouldn’t tell me where. This year I had to ask around your office. Conakry? You know what’s happening over there?”

“That’s exactly why I need to go. They’re in need someone with my skillset.”

“You ever take a moment to consider what would happen if you don’t come back?”

“It’s a risk I am willing to take.”

He scoffed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because you’ve never volunteered outside of a mental health ward, let alone this country.”

“Not everyone has the luxury of working eight-hour shifts or leaving the country for months at a time.”

Madeleine stiffened. He had no right to use this against her. Everyone made mistakes, it had just slipped her mind, and now he wanted to turn it into a bigger issue. “I don’t need to be paid to make a difference in someone’s life. Why is that so difficult to understand?”

“Jesus, listen to yourself. This isn’t a competition.”

“If you’re so worried about it, maybe you should come along. Make sure I’m not in any real danger. Why not take some pictures while you are at it? You can put those on your wall at work.”

Each time they went out to dinners with old colleagues, now, they would say—oh, you’re still doing volunteer work abroad? That’s so admirable, Madeleine—and Arnaud nodded along with a tight smile. Each of them had found success in their respective fields. Arnaud and his colleagues spoke about their personal lives with an ease, an intimacy which Madeleine could never quite reciprocate.

Arnaud took his glasses off. “Right. I’m no different that that furniture set. Something you buy to make your life a little more complete.”

Madeleine’s eyes hardened. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

Arnaud shut the magazine. “Aren’t you going to have some dinner?”

“What about you?”

“I was out with some friends. I’ve already eaten. You can have some if you like.”

Madeleine frowned. She went into the kitchen. Leftovers from the night before. A quiet dinner for one.

“I should have told you,” she said again, while Arnaud came back, prepped the dishwasher to run. “I’m sorry.”

He paused with his thumb on the extra rinse button. “You should have your own life and interests, outside of mine. I’ve never volunteered abroad. I’m sure it’s very rewarding.”

He walked out. Madeleine could not argue to an empty room.

⁂

By the end of April, she was getting ready to depart. Arnaud was still asleep when she left for her 06:30 flight.

The situation in Guinea had not improved so much as stabilised. Madeleine was assured that the MSF members on-site had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was advised to vaccinate, just to be on the safe side―according to her medical records, she would not need another round of shots until 2015.

Sometime around February, a group of diamond miners in South Africa had been exposed to an unidentified gas while working in the lowest depths. There were multiple deaths, and far more instances of atrioventricular block and cardiac arrest, ataxia, blindness, nausea and vomiting; all symptoms related to blister agent poisoning.

The official statement put forth claimed the gas came from a hidden stash of chemical weapons by terrorists. It had been struck mistakenly and exposed the workers to its effects. The pictures of the victims plastered all over news sites were reminiscent of chemical burns. So the mine had to be shut down for an indefinite period.

In the lobby of the Grand Hotel de L’independence Madeleine was introduced to the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you’ve made it, Doctor. We need you on-site as soon as possible.”

By the time she got to her room on the second floor, a fine sheen of sweat had built on her skin. Her luggage was waiting for her on the bench. Off-white walls and bedsheets, a couple wooden chairs. One lamp on the wall beside the desk, two flanking the headboard. The sofa beside the bed looked older than the rest of the furniture. The red and blue pillows as a thoughtful accent were probably new. Everything was clean, though the flatscreen television looked out-of-place. The air quality inside the room was stuffy. No point in lingering here.

On-site at Donka Hospital she met up with the Medical Coordinator and Psychosocial Unit. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were at full capacity; the workers coming and going from there were all clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable as the situation permitted. There wasn’t time to get to know each other outside of their professions and the given assignment.

All of them were good on paper but betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism. Fresh into their respective fields, they were coming here not simply to lend their aid to those in need, but to make a difference. They were all observing the crises of the rest of the world through the same lens of journalism and commercialized empathy. It could not prepare them for the experience of actually sitting down and listening to what their patients talked about with prosaic sincerity.

Conversations were conducted in French, or else by way of an interpreter, though the sentiment in the voices of these patients was palpable. Death was an expected outcome. Implications of negligence or corruption in the government were a common topic of discussion among patients and hospital staff alike.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media had grossly exaggerated the problem. The workers whose condition had kicked off the initial “chemicals in the mine” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through after that were not as grievously injured, but showed traces of the same poisoning. The photos created a narrative that incited concern in the public eye and incentivized the need for donations. Now the government wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

The rest of June crawled by without any major incidents. By July the MSF were in the process of dealing with an influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs). There had been a flurry of similar incidents in surrounding prefectures. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and MSF Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the initial wave back in February.

But the hospital was overwhelmed. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of SFT, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

The latter was a point of contention. Accepting outside assistance from the government directly, rather than working out a compromise, allowed the possibility for interference. But the Project Coordinator was in full support of additional protection around the hospital, as well as the hotel.

Each morning, before work, Madeleine and the rest of the Psychosocial Unit were reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of methods in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The one exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Dr. Kessler. He worked on the Medical Unit. Madeleine had cooperated with him a handful of times at the behest of the Medical Coordinator and gathered that Dr. Kessler had gotten into a dispute with the Medical Team a couple days ago. Madeleine wasn’t around to hear the details, but some of the younger MSF members talked about him less discreetly. Kessler was just out-of-touch. He lacked consideration for the emotional states of those affected severely by these recent attacks. He was jumping to conclusions with faulty information passed on by hearsay.

As the situation in the hospital became more desperate he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. He acknowledged her judgements but remained standoffish whenever he was not working. She found nothing wrong with his conduct.

Over one break, he said, “I was supposed to be home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “Bringing in a proper security detail at this stage—we’re sitting ducks. Who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr. Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while. Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I was not selected for my personal opinions.”

Dr. Kessler chuckled. “Well, may I run something by you? In confidence.” Madeleine glanced over at him. “I think, what we are dealing with here is something more dangerous than a few terrorists. When these IDPs come in, with all of the cases I've seen, there is no evidence of the chemical agent on their clothing. The mines should have been shut down months ago, but they have not ceased operation.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Tell me, how does this make sense?”

A moment of recognition passed between them. She could not acknowledge him outright. Her father had many enemies and it was foolhardy to assume they would not follow her to the ends of the earth. She looked at Dr. Kessler and saw an honest man. She said,

“With all due respect, I wouldn’t know about the greater picture. I don’t want to say anything if I cannot back it up. It seems strange because we don't have all the information to explain it, but there must be a logical reason.”

Dr. Kessler nodded. Probably marking her down as another of those young idealists, just here to get her stamp.

So Madeleine changed the topic to something more palatable: “You have been late the last several times we worked together. May I ask why?” His expression faltered into a temporary window of vulnerability. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you. The medical staff are not in a reasonable state of mind.”

“That’s all right. It’s just my wife and son. This past month has been no easier on them.” Then he looked at her. “A lot of these people we care for don’t have the luxury of a plane ticket home. Sometimes, I think it would be easier to do this work alone.”

Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she plan to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect from answers as she could in the clinic, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response. “I know what you mean. Right now, I’m living with a friend. We graduated from university together. He tends to lead his own life while I am away, but he is very understanding of what I do.”

“It’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. Kessler’s mouth was set, and his eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few people would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this out of the goodness of their hearts. Just remember that not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you’re ready to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. “He’s a psychologist. We have an understanding, that’s all. I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work, as if their conversation had never happened.

As July carried on, she found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a lack of progress.

She kept the window in her hotel room cracked, just to let some fresher air in. The room smelled like gasoline and sweat, but it was better than the alternatives. A little noise pollution kept her aware of her surroundings, alone with her own mind and the recorder. Conversations with the IDPs and their families circled back to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from some formless, looming insurrection.

Madeleine paused the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. In a week she would be on a flight back to Paris.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Dr. Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, right by the outdoor pool. As Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…we’ve seen evidence of PMCs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the IDPs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another month. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent about….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on personal matters.

⁂

That night Madeleine’s dreams were interspersed with the sounds of sirens and heavy traffic. She woke up the next morning, unrested and sore, an hour early. Watching the shadows on the ceiling cross over peeling paint. At 07:00 she got ready for the day. Exiting her room, she found the Project Coordinator by the elevators, talking with the head of security from SFT and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

Apparently a surplus of medical supplies had arrived by truck, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if everything had been accounted for only to find out it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of the PSD, losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Dr. Kessler and the psychologist consultant from the Psychosocial Team, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining additional supplies would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as an interception of a failed attack by local terrorists.

The head of security, Lucifer Safin, noticed her first. Black suit, a leather gun holster on his left side. Distinctly scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, yet the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. Possibly chloracne? “Dr. Swann. I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr. Kessler?”

Up until this point, they'd not talked. She might just catch a glimpse of him walking with a couple soldiers in the morning heat; in spite of the weather she had never seen Safin without leather gloves.

There was a hushed quality to his voice which might indicate internal damage, but he was able to project without difficulty. Accent would suggest a Czech or Russian ethnicity, but his complexion and eye colour invited room for speculation. His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct.

Of all the useless things to be thinking about, his name was what stuck out to her. After growing up in a family with fake passports and birth certificates it was possible Lucifer was simply an alias.

Her attention went to the window. She’d forgotten to lock it.

He said, “I have just a few questions. What was the extent of your relationship to Dr. Kessler?”

“We talked once or twice. I didn’t know him that well. He told me he had stayed behind, in order to assist the medical unit. And he has―had a family, back home. He seemed close to them.”

“You have worked with him before?”

“Never directly. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit.” Safin said nothing. He was looking around carefully at the room, the furniture. His eyes came to rest on the window. He walked over to it. “From what I have gathered, Dr. Kessler and the Project Coordinator had opposing views on protocol.”

“Did he speak to you about these views?”

Madeleine thought about their last conversation. The desperate look in Kessler's eyes. That moment of connection, tacit and fragile.

“He expressed, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail. He considered the possibility of an attack by outside forces to be imminent.”

“You are aware,” Safin said, “that once humanitarian action is subsumed into broader military and political intervention, it may be perceived as interference.”

He was looking at her closely. The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Madeleine said, “I think you would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr. Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. A minute later, you were at the window.”

“Yes, I had forgotten to close it.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me, so I got up and closed the window. I don’t know what the conversation was about.”

“This is common for you?”

“I left the window open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Without information about Dr. Kessler’s lifestyle outside the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. His work was sound. Whatever he said to me was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze for much longer than was necessary. She did not dare avert her face. He said,

“The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs. We appreciate your cooperation.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to two. Another day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That evening, Madeleine was informed she would have to stay on to make up for lost ground, at least until August. The MSF offered a lot of flowery, empty apologies which she accepted because there was nothing else to do.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. Right now, you are just Dr. Swann the psychiatrist. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again unless you call him to grovel. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this. Undoubtedly this hospital was safer under the watch of the Security Manager from SFT than it would have been with the FSPs alone. Why was she still tense?

⁂

By August, the sunnier days gave way almost completely to rainfall. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the chemical attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady, neither faltering nor immediate, but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

At night, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation. She drew the curtains in her hotel room and tied her hair back. Even indoors it was impossible to avoid the cloying embrace of humidity.

The day started as just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside her window as she got dressed and left. Madeleine was thinking about how stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working too many hours in the hospital. She was keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion, but if they were seriously going to ask her to carry on into September she would have to find an alternative.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The usual FSP were on-guard by the hotel. Ever since the attack on Donka Hospital there were more of them standing around.

An unmarked black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator went up to it first. One of the FSP shouted in French. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the exterior of the vehicle, and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and saw Peter Miller, head of Logistics, facing down the barrel of a rifle. “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?” Half a dozen more men stood behind him, all armed.

Miller opened his hands in supplication. “I don't understand what you're—”

Two shots. Miller joined the Medical Coordinator. The insurgent was looking at Madeleine.

“You are from the hospital?” The rifle jutted into her sternum. Warm blood spattered across her skin and clothes, pooling at her feet. The sight of dry earth briefly mixed up with wooden floorboards. “You allowed them to experiment on us and our families like dogs! Who gave you the orders?”

She tried to say, I'm sorry, I don’t understand, but all that came out of her was a weak little gasp. One PSD broke from the group and came directly toward her.

She caught his black eyes, under the balaclava. The scarification impossible to mistake. He turned and shot the insurgent twice in the the head. He grabbed Madeleine by the waist, the way you might handle an animal, and opened the backdoor of the Jeep. Shoved her into the backseat. Checked the seatbelt. Shut the door. The front doors reopened. Two men entered the car. The hands on the steering wheel were mottled.

Additional round of gunfire set her into a fit of trembling. She ducked with her hands over her nape. The distinctive voice in the front seat overtaken by the roaring in her ears. She heard a voice whispering, “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

#user: dorminchu #fanfic #fanfiction #canon divergence #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #original characters #teamcivilian #007 fest #007 fest 2022

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