#user: dorminchu

[teamcivilian]

Fear and Desire — Chapter 03

Fandom: James Bond

Rating: M

Warnings: Non-con in Ch01 and to a briefer extent in Ch03, graphic depictions of violence in Ch02 and Ch03, and major character death.

Summary: "If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?" — Cormac McCarthy (No Country for Old Men)

[Ch01] [Ch02] [Ch03] [Ao3 Link]

This was originally going to be four chapters but I said, three is enough. It's been a hot minute since I saw NTtD and I tried to elaborate a bit on Safin's motives, since canon couldn't be bothered. — Dorminchu

03: RUINER

Growing up, Safin was always a smaller, sickly boy compared to his siblings. That was why his father had been so eager to share his knowledge of the garden. 

By the time he had awoken from the coma his body had betrayed him. Now every day was a fight to regain what had been stolen from him, travelling in and out of hospital. A dozen surgeries and therapeutic sessions. Physical therapy and medications. Access to his father's inheritance ensured he would have a fresh set of organs and whatever else he required. The nurses and doctors and psychotherapists all remarked on what a polite and reserved young man he was in the face of the awful tragedy that had befallen his family. How strong he was to persevere through all of that.

In-between operations and recuperations Safin had plenty of time to ruminate. To lament what had happened to him for the rest of his life would be futile. Instead of grief there was only hatred disguised as emptiness. Under threats of incarceration he had expressed his absence of feeling and been told it was no aberration. Grief took a lot of time to process. He had every right to be angry about his condition. Never illness.

Though his family had been slaughtered and the garden razed, many of the books remained intact. Over the next decade and a half, and with time and care, he was able to eliminate most traces of the dioxins from his body in ways most modern medicine could not. He could do little about his skin pitted over.

By the time he was eighteen he had established contacts with the same men his father had worked for and learnt the name of his family's killer. Over the course of his recovery he was able to whittle down his desire for vengeance from the absurd and theatrical into something more sensible.

Alone, he would raze those who had seen fit to ruin the lives of his family, and from there begin reinventing a new life for himself from the ashes. It began with Mr. White and ended with Madeleine Swann. A girl born from wealth, brought up in the shadow of her father's work and a dying, feckless mother. He looked down into the surface of the lake, into the black abyss, and saw his sister. He reached into that lake and withdrew an innocent child from death. He ensured she would survive in time for her father's return.

For the next eighteen years he was her silent confidant. He knew of her name and all of her pseudonyms. Passing details delivered by his loyal subordinates. Her interest in mental health and non-profit work for charity. Her lack of luck in friends and poorer taste in men. At any time, he could have ended her as her father had ended his entire family. When Mr. White was found with a bullet in his head in Altaussee. When Swann came into contact with SPECTRE's worst nightmare 007. When Blofeld was thrown in prison, and when Bond abandoned her for good in Matera.

Yet Safin did not intervene. Why should he enable the success of that syndicate which had taken everything from him? Despite her abhorrence of her father's methods she had accepted White's money and his protection. She attached herself just as naturally to 007. She was cunning enough to spite her own fear. And nine months after the incident in Matera she bore a child.

Only then did Safin begin to put together a procedure for her retrieval. She would need protection and MI6 could only offer a surface-level guarantee. So for the next four years as he amassed his resources he was also keeping an eye on Madeleine Swann and her infant.

When they met for the second time in her office, five years later, he was curious. Would she recognize him now? Did she pause because of his inflammatory words or some part of her mind that recoiled in unwilling recognition?

The same part slowly giving way from disbelief into understanding on some subconscious level. It was not clear until she grasped the memory box in her hands. The horror he had grasped in the eyes of the adolescent giving way to despair. To look at his face and know there were no outs, no bargaining chips.

Two days had passed since their initial arrival onto his base. In between consultations with Obruchev and the other bioengineers, Safin noticed the blank walls. The soldiers around every corner were necessary but a proper refurbishment was overdue.

Military intelligence anticipated that the MI6 agents 007 and 008 would arrive within the next twenty-four hours. Not enough time to intercept the release of Heracles into the atmosphere. There were enough forces on the ground and around the island to alert him to any further interceptions. Better yet to lower the guard around the subterranean complex and let MI6 come directly to him. After Bond was dealt with there would be time to create an environment more befitting of home.

For now his new guests must be kept comfortable.

That morning, Madeleine would not come out of her cell for breakfast. When Primo opened the door she was still laying in the bed provided, feigning sleep. Dressed in her own clothes from the day before.

Safin said, Playing dead won't help you.

The stillness to her body suggested childlike stubbornness. But there was nothing she could do to harm herself within her cell. The room had been checked before her arrival.

He said, Mathilde has asked me about you. Did you know that?

No response.

I would like you to accompany me for breakfast. You may go willingly, or I will have you dragged like a prisoner. Which will it be?

She finally raised her head. An ugly, violent emotion kept behind her eyes.

There is a change of clothes for you. He motioned over to the chest. You will dress first. Everything you will need is here.

She did not move. I'd like some privacy.

Safin said nothing.

The realization passed over her with a slight shudder. She averted her face. She got up and went over to the chest and opened it. She slipped out of her blouse with trembling hands but kept on her camisole.

Undress, please.

A sharp flinch of her shoulders that she disguised as reaching for a plain taupe dress that would come down to her ankles. Matching blouse and cardigan covered her wrists. If she were looking she would catch his cold, empty smile. She had nothing to fear from him.

As she redressed she did not look at him. She stood with her chin down. He walked over to her. Without anger she was a much simpler creature. A beautiful, fragile thing just as easily snapped in half. In a perfect world he would have plenty of time to correct her more clandestine tendencies.

He said, Now, I'm sure you feel better.

Madeleine said nothing. She was looking past him. Safin nodded to Primo.

In a little while the two of them were attending a quiet breakfast while Primo remained as wordless vigil. The female aide who brought the tray of tea caught Safin's attention.

Klava, he said, switching to Russian, a moment please.

The aide stiffened at the gesture. He brushed her sleeve aside and brandished her hand revealing a row of smaller teeth-marks that were not enough to pierce the skin. How did this happen?

Her stupid little shit, she hissed, wrenching her hand away. That's the last time I bring her food.

Madeleine grasped her own teacup tightly. She was watching them now, very closely.

Safin said, I think she would not retaliate without good reason.

Every time, she asks for her mother. I don't see why you insist on keeping them separate from each other. The aide glared at Madeleine.

Your orders were to make sure the girl was fed and rested. Not push that responsibility onto our guest.

Your guests, the aide said through her teeth, who will not eat or drink anything I offer them because they suspect it must be poison.

Madeleine's jaw was very tight.

I assumed you would be skilled enough to negotiate, Safin said. Perhaps I was mistaken. If you would prefer instead to work down in the garden, I will notify your team immediately.

Klava's face was very pale. No, of course not.

Very good. You may leave us.

Then he looked at Madeleine. If you wish to know, Mathilde is safe. The girl does not cry much. But she is listless. She misses you dearly. I see no reason to separate you indefinitely, as long as you remain obedient.

She wouldn't bite someone out of malice, Madeleine spat.

Safin allowed her a small smile.

Of course not. She is usually so well-behaved.

Listen to me, right now. I will do whatever you ask. But you will not involve her in this sick little game. If you ever think of harming her, or allowing harm to come to her—

—in what way have I harmed either of you?

Her eyes flashed.

I have given you a room to sleep where you will not be threatened or disturbed. I have provided your daughter similar accommodations. If I wanted to hurt you—he glanced at Primo with the barest of nods that went unreciprocated—there are much simpler ways to do so. He looked at Madeleine. You are the only woman on this base. 

Her jaw clenched. Each meeting would be the same as the first. Safin waved his hand.

If you still think I have harmed you, in any way, please speak. Whenever we are alone I will only ask for your honesty. 

Her grasp on the teacup was uneven. She had curled her fingers into a fist, white-knuckled. He reached across the table to take her wrist and she shrank back, displacing a little liquid onto the saucer. His mouth twisted.

Madeleine, there is no need to be nervous. We are having a civil discussion.

She looked him in the eyes and said, I am doing this for Mathilde. No one else.

Of course. You need not justify yourself to me. He said, But if you are still concerned, I will entrust you the responsibility of caring for Mathilde. In return you will remain here on the island.

Madeleine's facade of calm rippled. What are you saying?

I cannot send you back into a world that would just as soon devour the daughter of SPECTRE. You will be safer here with your daughter. Does this not suit you?

The same dangerous softness without a smile. One misplaced word was all it took. She swallowed dryly.

Yes, it—it suits me.

Safin nodded. Have some tea.

Madeleine glanced at the mess she'd made but did not move.

You saw Klava serve us both. I gain nothing from poisoning you.

She took a sip but her eyes shone with contempt. She said, For what purpose are you keeping me alive?

I knew that someday you would grow into my enemy. You have been living in the shadow of your father for so long, yet you forget you are still his daughter. When you offered yourself for the sake of Mathilde it was your choice. The first, selfless act you have ever wrought, and now you will live by it.

That's not what I asked.

Madeleine, we have each lost so much. We understand one other so naturally that there is no reason for me to eliminate you. As the daughter of SPECTRE, it would be a greater cruelty to leave you to fend for yourself. What I am offering is far more merciful.

You are confusing obsession for mercy.

He faltered. A wheezing scoff shook his frame and betrayed the frail body beneath the kimono.

I assured you that I would never let anything happen to Mathilde, he said. But when our business with MI6 is finished, if you truly wish to leave this place, I will hand over the girl to your lover. There are many who would pay good money to claim ownership over Bond's woman.

Now she was forcing herself to remain very still. Her face must be blank. Placid. An arrogant tilt of the chin or callous remark would be easier to stomach than his lack of sentiment. Without that tenuous thread of human connection all her sacrifices were for nothing. The sooner she understood this truth the easier her life would be.

Of course, he said, it doesn't have to be this way. You can start over. Repent for the sins of your family. He gestured to the vial tucked away against his breast. If you wish it, I will make sure no one else can touch you.

After breakfast he dismissed Madeleine to her room and ordered Primo to accompany him to visit Mathilde. She was sitting on the bed meant for an adult, clutching the stuffed rabbit to her. When the door opened she looked over sharply.

Mathilde, I would like to talk to you. Is that all right?

No response.

You are more comfortable with French? He switched. Your mother and I were just talking about you.

Mathilde said nothing, though she was looking at him closely. She had her mother's hair. The same nose. Safin approached slowly and she did not decry his actions. She was looking over at Primo. Her wide blue eyes a shade darker than her mother's.

He indicated the opposite corner of the bed and asked, May I sit here?

She glanced over at the stuffed rabbit. Clutching it tightly, she nodded.

I heard about what happened this morning, with Klava. I understand you miss your mother. But you cannot behave like this in my home.

She was a bad lady.

Bad? What did she do?

Mathilde's brow creased. She was saying mean things about maman. And me.

Hardy, like her mother. But she would need a little coaching.

I'm sorry, Mathilde. I didn't know. If you would rather see your mother from now on, that can be arranged. But you must behave yourself. Can you promise that much?

Mathilde was looking at him closely. To settle her nerves, Safin gestured to the stuffed animal. What is his name?

Doudou.

I see. That's a nice name.

Mathilde said, Why are you talking to me?

You are my guest. I want to know how you are feeling.

You only care about maman.

That isn't true. You are important to her, and so you are important to me.

Mathilde looked away from him, at her only friend. Deep in thought. You know my maman?

We met a long time ago. When she was a child I saved her life. Over the years I came to care for her.

Why do you care about her if she doesn't like you?

Safin stopped. Mathilde was looking at him, unbiased and frank. Unlike her mother she had not yet learned to hate. He chuckled.

Well, sometimes you care for someone, even when they do not understand why. It doesn't matter if they understand. You care for them all the same.

He touched her head as if to tousle her hair. She tensed immediately, and he removed his hand. Are you feeling well?

It's cold.

It's no good for you to be stuck in a room by yourself. I would like you to accompany me for a walk. Remember? We walked around the garden together.

He offered his hand. She did not take it. I want to see maman.

You will see her after we walk. You have my word. OK?

They rounded the circumference of the garden two times and did not speak. Mathilde kept Doudou under her arm.

Mathilde looked him up and down. Still tense. I'm not supposed to talk to you.

Safin knelt down so they were on the same level.

Your mother is going to be all right. Right now she needs a little time to think. I know that I said you will see her. But she needs to be alone. Have you ever felt like that?

Mathilde didn't speak. She looked steadily at Primo and walked up to him and offered Doudou. Give him to maman. So she's safe.

Primo blinked slowly. He took the stuffed animal and nodded.

Safin caught Primo's eye. Return her to the room afterwards. She will see her mother another time.

Madeleine had been sitting, thinking. When the staff spoke in front of her at all it was always in Russian. They would always avoid eye contact. The thin man with glasses looked over and expressed his condolences for the boss's woman. Primo was the only one who acknowledged her with a look.

Every one of them complicit in their leader's scheme.

Left on the verge of tears that wouldn't come. Until he was away from her family once and for all there would be no end. She could not fold.

The moment she saw her own face it would be her father staring back at her. Or her mother.

Primo opened the door, walked in, set Doudou on the armoire. The kid came up to me and insisted that you have this.

Madeleine looked up. The muscles in her face fighting a losing battle for indifference. Her composure finally broke into a light sob. Primo turned away, ready to leave.

You don't have to do this, she said thickly. You see this plan he has, the lack of one. How can you stand there and let him get away with it?

I have my orders. As do you. See to it you don't give him a reason to reconsider his mercy.

Madeleine sneered. This is not mercy. It is senseless.

What he could not communicate in words. Two souls entrapped in the same circumstance. 

He's sick, said Madeleine. And he isn't getting better. That is why he feels he must eradicate all of these people, isn't it?

Primo said nothing.

He has probably been sick for some time, I think. All the medicine in the world can't stop the inevitable. Your boss is no better than any of these heartless men and women he has slaughtered in the name of progress. Whatever ideology he wants to paint it as. If he succeeds, what else is left to conquer?

Primo said, I'll collect you when he calls for you.

Madeleine walked over to the armoire. She clutched the rabbit to her own body and wept into its soft fur.

Then stopped. Groped the seam along Doudour’s head until she found the foreign outline under soft fabric. There was a slit no bigger than an inch. Reaching in, she experienced a stab of pain along the pad of her finger. Drawing out a shard of china spanning the length of her palm to her ring finger.

Madeleine wiped her bloodied hand on the sheets. She stared at the shard for a long time. She used it to tear a strip from the sheet and bind her hand.

Each time Madeleine left the cell she paid close attention to her surroundings. In the garden, the steel gate was closed. Mathilde was nowhere to be seen. It was just Safin and Primo and a handful of soldiers in the garden, around the perimeter.

Where is Mathilde?

She was not feeling well, Safin said. Primo told me she hasn't been sleeping regularly. I offered to give her some tea but she refused. So we will let her sleep for a time.

Madeleine looked at Primo who gave her the slightest incline of the head.

Then Safin was right in front of her.

What happened to your hand?

I cut myself.

Safin took her hand in his, meticulous. His brow furrowed. How did you manage this?

I wasn't thinking. I dropped one of your plates and cut myself cleaning it up.

Safin looked at her closely. Why were you cleaning? That is for the help to do.

I thought it would be right. I did not intend to offend you, or your help.

Primo was coming up behind them.

Safin understood what was happening a second too late. Primo was the larger man and he grabbed Safin by the back of the collar, pinned his arms behind him with little effort.

Madeleine looked at Safin. His teeth bared. In her other hand she gripped the shard of china so tightly she'd drawn blood. He opened his mouth to speak.

She slashed at his naked throat in one jagged movement. Blood spattered down her chest and forearm. His mouth opened but all that came out was a congested gurgle. Madeleine shut her eyes.

For some reason the soldiers were not rushing to eliminate them.

Primo let him fall limp to the ground. Madeleine did not look.

These men answer to me, said Primo. Safin gave me that authority. I instructed the to give Mathilde a light sedative. Right now she is only sleeping. She will wake up in an hour or two none the wiser to this.

Just then, Bond and the other 007 rounded the corner. Madeleine looked at them and they looked at her and the woman said softly, Shit.

Madeleine, said Bond, but she was already with Primo.

It's over, said Madeleine.

Not yet. We have to shut this down. 008, with me.

Nomi glanced at Madeleine once before joining Bond up the stairs into the heart of the facility.

Hours later, when the island was disarmed and they were all on a helicopter back to Europe, Mathilde was sleeping in her mother's arms.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 03 [Revised]

This chapter contains commissioned artwork by the one and only @cavalieredispade. Thanks a million!

III: I WOULD NOT COMPLAIN OF MY WOUNDED HEART

Each December, on their wedding anniversary, Madeleine’s parents flew out to Tangier and booked the same honeymoon suite in L’Americain. Madeleine’s earliest memory of her mother was in that room; sitting by the open window to read, or have a cigarette, while Madeleine wandered around the room finding ways to entertain herself.

The rest of the year, she spent growing up in a two-storey cabin on the shore of Lake Altaussee, enshrouded by trees and limestone mountains. Her father’s occupation kept him abroad for lengthy stretches of time. Her mother stayed home a lot. She had blonde hair that was brittle to touch. Get too close and she smelled like smoke beneath her favourite perfume. Her arms and legs were always bruised because she had trouble getting out of bed, out of chairs, without falling or bumping into furniture. Madeleine could not remember seeing her eat much. Just taking naps throughout the day to stave off headaches. The only thing that ever seemed to put her at ease was her medicine, which Madeleine couldn’t administer in front of the maid, or her father.

Madeleine tried it only once. She spat it back into the glass with a poorly-disguised grimace. While her mother chuckled, Madeleine had to get up and fill a new glass for her mother. She heard her coughing on the way back, wet, congealed with mucous. Madeleine set the fresh glass down and waited for her to stop.

It tastes gross.

Her mother smiled. “It tastes bad because it’s medicine. You shouldn’t be drinking it, since you are healthy. Once you get to be my age, you will understand why.”

Her mother coughed a lot because she didn’t like to open the windows. She said it was just to prevent the cold air from getting in in, or hot air getting out. Besides, if Madeleine were uncomfortable she could always go outside.

Madeleine said, why do you drink it?

“Because I’m sick right now. Why don’t you go upstairs and play?”

By then, Madeleine was old enough to decipher the surgeon’s warning on the back of the bottle. Just like the gun under the cabinet, the magazine with five rounds past the legal capcity, her father’s choice in colleagues, her mother’s sickness, there were things you did and didn’t talk about.

As her mother began drinking more heavily, Madeleine would go to school or into the village with the bodyguard of the week. It must be lonely for her, sitting at home all day. Madeleine would spend some time with her mother if she was awake, just talking about the day, and her mother would sit and nod along as if she were still dreaming.

Sometimes she would drink too much and make herself sick. The maid showed Madeleine how to get stains out of the upholstery by diluting white vinegar or hydrogen peroxide with equal parts tap water. Not to combine vinegar and peroxide, creating peracetic acid which was an irritant. Cornstarch or baking soda to deodorize.

“If you want to do it properly, she said, mix ten ounces of three percent hydrogen peroxide, three tablespoons of baking soda, and two drops of dish-washing detergent. Mix until the baking soda is dissolved.

“Pre-test the upholstery by applying the cleaner in an inconspicuous place. Allow it to dry. If the fabric does not change color, spray the stain and allow the cleaner to work for an hour. If the stain is not gone, repeat the process.

“Rinse the cleaning solution from the area by dabbing with a damp cloth and blotting with a dry towel. Over time, detergent residue will attract dirt. The hydrogen peroxide could bleach the upholstery and weaken the fibers of the fabric. Then, you have to call a professional cleaner.”

Then, one day, the maid’s services were no longer required. There was no warning. Her mother said something about some of her jewelery missing, how you couldn't trust a lot of people. Madeleine nodded along. She was a very good listener.

The year Madeleine turned ten, a week away from her parent’s anniversary, she was home for Christmas break. She woke up a little earlier than usual because she was still accustomed to her regular schedule. She had a couple hours before she walked into town. She got dressed and came downstairs to fix herself breakfast. Her mother was sitting upright on the couch, in the same position as last night. Sometimes she fell asleep like that. Passing by, the acridly sweet smell of vomit permeated the air. She’d have to clean that up first.

In between the living room and kitchen Madeleine stepped on something small and crunchy. Her mother’s painkillers were scattered across the wood floor. She walked over to check on her mother, who was staring out the window without seeing. She didn’t respond when Madeleine touched her shoulder. Then shook her lightly. Called her name twice.

She noticed the half-empty glass, the upturned bottle of medication on the table. Her mother’s breathing, laboured. The bodyguard came in the house which her parents would never permit. He told Madeleine to get her things.

Madeleine’s father came home early in the morning. He explained that her mother took enough sedatives to make herself very sick, but nothing more. One of his most trusted associates, Dr. Vogel, would come here to make sure she was stabilised. In the meantime, he invited Madeleine alone to Morocco. To see more of the world, as he put it. Her mother needed time to recover.

Two days later in the lobby of L’Americain her father was chatting with the attendant behind the desk. He mentioned his wife (sick, again, poor thing) and daughter (just turned ten last year), a bit more delicate in their sensibilities. Her father led her upstairs to their room.

Madeleine set her own luggage down in a shady corner. The fine-cut curtains didn’t do much to stop the sunlight beaming in, the dry air. Madeleine went to the bathroom and checked her face. The white sleeveless cardigan looked elegant, but come evening she would have pink patches on the crown of her head, bare arms, tip of her nose. In a few days they’d start peeling. Madeleine made sure her hands were clean before tending to her face, which was still smarting. She took her time patting dry with the towel. She came back and her father was looking at the empty wall opposite the master bed.

“She never really liked coming here,” he said. “She just wanted an excuse to drink.”

Why did she make herself sick?

“She’s angry with me. Well, I haven’t been home as often as I should. There’s only so much I can do, now that she has gotten so ill.”

Does she hate me?

Her father stopped. The lines in his face accentuated by his frown. “She’s in a lot of pain. When people get very upset, they tend to say things they don’t mean. However she chooses to deal with that pain is her decision, but it is not your fault. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

Madeleine nodded. Her father’s hand smoothed her hair back; she stepped away, resisting the temptation to massage her sunburnt scalp.

He said, “You’ll have to change before dinner.”

Madeleine, biting the inside of her cheek, said, I know, dad. Frowning, she said, I don’t have to talk to Mr. Le Chiffre at dinner, do I?

“He is my business partner. You keep your opinions to yourself.”

Yes, dad.

Her father looked at her a long moment, then shook his head. “Here, you can’t go anywhere with a burnt face.” He motioned her over to the bathroom and started opening drawers, retrieving a tube of antimicrobial ointment next to the shaving cream. “There’s a hand-mirror as well, if you miss a spot. Just put it back when you’re finished.”

Okay. Thank you.

He smiled. Madeleine smiled back, even though her face hurt. 

⁂

On the drive to the Paris-Est, Madeleine’s feelings dissipated into grudging acceptance of her situation. An independent contractor looking for ransom would not understand the significance of the name SPECTRE, nor refer to her father by his title of The Pale King. Neither Safin nor his associate bore the metal ring she associated with the black emblem on her father’s letters—from work, he would always preface to her mother’s scowl—or the scant, unnamed ones that began showing up at Aunt Droit’s house the summer she turned eighteen.

She looked at the back of Safin’s head and said, “You work for my father?”

“I was contracted.”

Madeleine scowled at nothing in particular. “I didn’t know he still hired men like you.”

“He does not usually employ those outside of his circle.”

Exiting the car, boarding the train, she already had her tickets in first-class. Safin took a seat adjacent to her, with the end of the car in his line of sight. His associate was out of sight, on the other end.

En-route, they’d go from Paris-Est to Strasbourg, then Basel, then arrive in Zürich; a four-hour commute, assuming no complications. She could sit and refuse to talk like an insolent child, or she could take a moment to dissect her only source of information.

Objectively, she placed him somewhere in his early-to-mid-thirties. Average height. Not as physically imposing as his colleague, but still in excellent shape. He had a soft face which made him look younger, despite the scarring. The backs of his hands were damaged to a lesser extent than his face and throat. A subtle tension persisted around the shoulders—back in her residency years, she’d observed the same tendency in men who came from prisons.

The attendant walked over smelling like artificial vanilla, and enquired if they would need anything. A rush of saliva flooded Madeleine’s mouth as before vomiting. She shook her head.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” said Safin.

The attendant continued down the aisle. Madeleine exhaled. Sunlight beamed on the side of her head, warming her past the point of languid ease. All she had was the handbag at her feet; burner phone, wallet, spare cosmetics, and a custom holster for a gun she hadn’t touched since purchasing, years ago. Still in the safe, if it hadn’t been confiscated by forensics or whomever broke into her apartment.

Madeleine relaxed her shoulders. Itching to get out of her head and into someone else’s for a change, she said, “I never collected my luggage from the airport, you know. I don’t have much on me.”

“Your personal affairs have been accounted for.”

A well-dressed thug was still a thug. Now she was stuck with him for the rest of the commute. Madeleine couldn’t stand to sit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Safin without looking up.

“Dining car. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Safin made eye-contact with the associate by the door and gave a slight nod; Primo got up and followed her down two car lengths. Madeleine took a seat at one of the tables. Primo was by the door again. He didn't order anything. The other passengers, the server, became non-entities. Ordinary civilians. Two strangers on a commute. She shouldn't stare diffidently around as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Focus on having a quiet meal. She paid in cash. Tipped ten percent.

When she returned to her seat, Safin said, “Trouble?”

“Of course not.”

Safin glanced down the end of the train. “Very good.”

From Basel to Zürich, they were on the upper level of the SBB train, seated at a booth. Safin was closest to the aisle and by extension, the exit. Madeleine, in a spot by the booth corner, was getting a little sick of this charade. He wasn't much for conversation, and the confines of her own head were starting to wear on her. He was allotting her space but less visibility, like putting blinders on a horse. If this situation were truly dangerous, they wouldn’t be travelling by train in the first place. Too many possibilities for interception.

The passing attendant didn’t address her beyond a glance and a small, terse smile. Probably just wanted to get to the end of the shift. Or maybe it was just her resting bitch face. She was simply run-down by the events of this morning. Operating on fumes. A dangerous way to live, even with someone else looking over your shoulder. Just like her father, sending a bodyguard-slash-operative in lieu of explanation.

“Dr. Swann,” said Safin, “is there a reason you keep looking over at the door?”

It was the first thing he’d said to her in a while. “I was just thinking. My father never mentioned any property in Zürich.”

“Not property. It’s a penthouse. You have a room set up already. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Madeleine nodded. Parsing over his sentence in her head a few more times. She looked up. “You have a reservation?”

“Only in the interest of your protection.”

Madeleine stared at him. Scoffed. “This is ridiculous. I haven't had a problem in years. He still treats me as if I am indebted.”

“You took his money.”

Madeleine stared at him in disbelief. “I took it to get through university, which I could never have afforded on my own. I never asked for anything beyond what he deigned to offer.”

Safin’s mouth thinned.

“Now you don’t want to talk? Fine. Since you obviously have nothing better to do than humour me, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask. What, exactly, were you planning to do if I walked away? I understand you have your method of operations, but really. The middle of a police station?” Safin said nothing. “I guess even men like you have to get your kicks. It's not every day you get to lead someone at gunpoint—”

“Are you finished?”

His indifferent tone didn't match the look on his face. Before she went to Oxford, she would have never talked to a close-protection officer this way. Madeleine averted her eyes. She could feel him studying her over the edge of the sunglasses. He turned his head in her direction, said, “You dislike guns.”

“I hate them.”

“May I ask why?”

“When I was a little girl, a man came to the house looking for my father. He found me instead. He got very angry when I wouldn’t tell him where my father had gone, so, I defended myself.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s why.”

⁂

After getting off at the station it was only a short drive into the Wollishofen district. The hotel entrance flanked by a pair of men in suits. One of them nodded to Safin before bidding them entry.

The penthouse was a step above the apartment in France. Hardwood floors. Everything polished. Individual climate control, central heating and IDD telephone. The kitchenware looked new. Her room was already set-up for her. A gilded dresser by the bed. Pillow-top mattress. The marble bathroom adjacent, complete with a hairdryer, dressing gowns and towels. Twin lamps flanked the bed. Engraved into the ivory base of each lamp was the shape of a dragon, twisted in upon itself.

Hardly her father’s style, or to her own tastes, for that matter. He probably picked this establishment because it was close to where he worked. Running business meetings over in Schwyz. He'd always been pragmatic when it came to his family and occupation.

The suitcase at the foot of the bed called her attention. Opening it, she found the clothes she’d left in Arnaud’s apartment. She parsed through the fabric. Some of these, she hadn’t worn in a season or two. Going out more often. Getting compliments at work, out-and-about, trying to smile.

At the bottom of the suitcase, she felt something heavy and cold underneath her folded dress shirt. The Glock 43 in her hands, complete with a spare box of ammunition. Manilla envelope containing old birth certificates and copies of all her current information, plus forged papers. Everything from the safe. A level of attentiveness hovering between convenience and invasion.

She went over to the set of glass doors leading out to the balcony, and drew the curtains shut. Unpacking the rest of her belongings, she couldn’t hope to blend in wearing anything she’d taken to Conakry. She was not strapped for cash, and still had plenty of money set aside in a Swiss account—for a day just like this one. The type of life insurance most people her age could never afford, and the ones below her tax bracket would kill for.

Despite occupying an apartment together, the death of Arnaud had the same emotional weight as a newspaper obituary. An hour at most for sympathetic grief, then annoyance for the persistence of that grief. All this time, carving out an altruistic identity through deeds. Spending the rest of her life making up for inherited sins. Living with people for the sake of social convenience.

Taking comfort every month her father failed to acknowledge her, in this façade of a charmed life. Holding onto that impossible dream until karma caught up. Leaving behind nothing of herself, beyond the lives she might touch along the way. Taking perverse pride in the impossibility of knowing an enigma. Each time, the quiet of each new office, the empty apartment, became a little more encompassing.

She was going to be here a week. She would have plenty of time to recuperate. And heaven forbid, enjoy herself for once. She was not going to sit here and cower like she was under house arrest.

Coming into the living area, she caught sight of Safin and his associate.

“The room is fine,” she began, “but, if I’m going to be here a week I’ll need some things in the morning.” Safin held her gaze in lieu of speech. “Just clothes. I don't want to walk around in things I wore a week ago.”

Surely, he would rebuke her. Call her out as a trust-fund. She had given him every right. He levelled with her and said,

“Once we work out an itinerary, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

⁂

That night she buried herself under the soft blankets. Dreamless sleep the most precious amenity of all. If she started taking pills she’d draw attention to herself. She dreamed she was back in her childhood bedroom when her mother called from downstairs. Madeleine checked the rooms and couldn’t find her mother anywhere. Someone she didn’t know, standing in the hall that led to the living room. She said,

Où est ma mère?

The man turned. He was dressed in a jet-black suit.

Laissez-moi passer. J’ai besoin de parler.

The man motioned to the living room with a lanky arm. "Elle vous attend."

With each step the hall increased a little further and further. Living room should only be ten steps away, not fifteen. Not twenty. When she looked back the man was elsewhere. The living room was empty. On the sofa was a large, red stain. Her mother must have spilt the wine.

The shock of cold liquid percolating her socks. Someone had tracked water into the house.

She followed the trail into the kitchen. A different man hunched over the sink, in a white coat and snowpants. A rifle slung around his shoulder, at his hip. Black gloves. Black boots still damp with melted snow.

Before she could say a word he grabbed the rifle and turned to aim at her with mechanical precision. Muscle memory.

"You aren’t supposed to be here." His accent wasn’t Austrian, or French. Garbled through the blood trickling into his mouth, under his tongue. "Get out, and I’ll forget about this."

There was a hole in his jaw the size of a 9×19mm Parabellum. Nine rounds loaded into her father’s Beretta 92S, under the cabinet with the bleach.

She explained in a high voice how the stain in the living room needed cleaning. Her mother would be very upset if she didn’t. She just needed to get to the cabinet for a moment, please.

His teeth bared, stained red. Finger on the trigger. "I won’t ask again."

She opened her mouth and screamed, maman, run—

Two shots. Impact tearing through her body without regard for gravity. Looking down in time to see blood spattered across the hardwood floor. Brain matter and bone fragments against a hot car window.

She plunged her hands into herself. Clawing away the sheets. Unbroken skin, sheened in sweat. Her eyes flooded with tears as she sat up and began to rock herself back to stability. Waiting for the initial swell of terror to pass, as it always did. Regulating her breathing. Just a trauma response. Sitting still, unsure if it was midnight or five in the morning. 

Pressing her face into her palms. A dull throbbing behind her eyes, in the base of her skull. About to get up when she heard the footsteps. Movement from the hall towards the living room. A few seconds later, Safin’s voice, indistinct. She couldn’t make out what he was saying at first. Something in Russian. Orders from his employer, most likely.

And what must they think of her? Another privileged idiot, living in a bubble. Disrespectful to her father and his syndicate. Hypocritical.

She contemplated feigning sleep. The warmth of the sheets was too cloying. Her phone read 06:21. Still too early for her to be awake. She stood up, barefoot on hardwood, creeping over to the balcony. Reaching out to touch the pane. Cool glass kissing her naked palm. In two weeks it would be October. Two months from now, the ground would be laden with snow. The ocean grey and still.

Opening the door. Stepping out onto the balcony, gripping the rail. Taking fresh air into her lungs until the soles of her feet smarted. Hardly any boats. Just her and the horizon and the night sky.

Stumbling into the bathroom when she couldn't bear the cold any longer. Bags under her eyes more pronounced than the day before. Madeleine had a shower, trying to piece together the dream, hazier than in her youth. Visceral details heightened by recent exposure. An intimation of childhood memories depicted in abstract. She shook it off, dressing for the day. It was only a dream.

Before she left the room she caught the silvery glint in her peripherals. The old television reflecting the light from outside. Combing around the drawers for a remote. She clicked it on. Quickly hit the mute button. Squinting at the harsh colours that only reignited her headache. Flitting through channels for news. Poring over the headlines. Not a word about the MSF. 

She sat there for a while letting the colours wash over the room. Clicked it off and went downstairs to have breakfast.

Safin, hovering by the glass doors in the living-room area overlooking the ocean front, was dressed as if for another commute. “Dr. Swann,” he greeted.

She rifled through the pantry and found it stocked. Looking for some cereal, something basic—catching briefly on the bottle of liquor. Madeleine took the cereal, fixed herself a bowl and some coffee. Still had a headache. Light breakfast. Plus, the caffeine would dehydrate her.

“I don’t suppose this safehouse has any painkillers?” Safin looked over. She was already going through cabinets. “It’s my head. Just the weather.” She met his gaze with more confidence than she could back up. Safin’s attention shifted to the side of her head.

“On your right.”

She took two with her coffee. Ate in silence. Waiting a week in the hope her father might have an excuse was a truly miserable proposition. What would she say? Hello, Papa. I’m still alive. Did you pick this location to remind me of your home in Austria?

Well, one thing at a time.

“Who do I speak to when I’m ready to leave?”

In lieu of a response, Safin glanced over at his associate.

⁂

She couldn’t travel beyond Zürich’s aptly-named canton. She could not contact anyone else outside of SFT to confer information about her father’s whereabouts, or anything else for that matter. Aside from that she was free to go wherever she liked within the constraints of the itinerary.

First, clothing. That took her to Bottega Veneta. In Flagranti’s Business Acumen playing over the intercom. Madeleine’s hackles raised. The painkillers in effect. Caffeine wearing off. She started parsing out signs. She hadn’t really thought about what she needed beyond the vague idea of change. Starting fresh. So accustomed to the life of a disconnected middle-class that its opposite became seductive. Perusing the aisles in a daze. Selecting whatever pulled at her heart in a perverse reminder of home. Nothing too extravagant. A new raincoat and a couple pairs of shoes. Navy scarf for the winter months. Spare lipstick. A few more shirts and dress pants in monochrome. Spare underwear, socks.

Spent an hour trying it all on. Avoiding the eyes of the woman in the glass. She didn’t feel any different. The raincoat was too dark. She might as well be attending a funeral. She already had a reputation for being severe. What did it matter? She was always severe and the rest of the world could just bite the bullet.

The associate was waiting, outside. Probably didn’t give a damn about her, either way. She wasn’t about to humanise him beyond his occupation. They made brief eye-contact. Unimportant banter between her and the cashier during the transaction. Associate was taking her bags. Walking with her over rain-slicked asphalt. Back into the car. The beat of raindrops on the window lulling her into a false sense of security.

Snapping herself out of it when the car stopped. Treading up the stairs, down the hall. Pulling old clothes out of drawers, off hangers. Substituting her purchased goods. It wasn’t enough to fill the wardrobe, but she would have time to buy new clothes. Set aside the old stuff to be dealt with.

Each time she returned to the safehouse, there were men checking over everything. Protocol, on top of all the scrutiny. 

“I don’t want them in my room when I come in,” she told the associate. “Around the premises, and they can check the cars if it is necessary. If they must check all the rooms, fine, I just don’t want to see it.”

Childish to her own ears. Too beaten-down to think better of it. The associate just said, “Talk to Safin about it.” He walked out of the room without looking back.

That evening, Safin was lingering around the living room. He'd made himself tea on the stove. Without looking up he said, "I hear you are feeling crowded?"

Madeleine scowled. "He told you about that?"

"That's all right." He paused. "I'll accompany you."

The next few days were a tolerable blur. Wandering through Bahnhofstrasse. The Beyer Clock and Watch Museum. Next day, the Museum of Graphic Design for ten francs. Bellevue Square. Sattel-Hochstuckli. The three hundred seventy four metre Skywalk. Dinner at the Mostelberg-Stübli. Home again, each time without incident.

On the job, Safin hardly said more than a couple words to get his point across. But he gave her no reason to acknowledge him beyond this, dissolving into the background noise until he was needed. At least they weren't glowering at each other.

Apart from this, he was not around except for very early in the mornings. At the safehouse he would acknowledge her in passing with a curt nod.

How much normalcy could she put up with before she broke down? She had no more power or relevance than the common man and the only difference was her awareness of futility.

Inevitable, perhaps, that her thoughts would stray back to the MSF. Conducting research on her own, in the mornings and evenings; parsing through official news sites on her laptop, then underground articles, statistics, and anything else she could scrounge up.

The Guinean military had been busy quelling unrest for the last week, but there were few details. Several key figures in the MSF were currently under investigation, tarnishing the reputation of the organisation. That stuck around the headlines, right next to some lesser story in the corner about various pharmaceutical companies cooperating in tandem with the Red Cross and clean MSF figures to ensure there was no repeat affliction throughout the rest of Africa. Madeleine didn’t see her face or any mention of a Psychosocial Unit mentioned anywhere.

By day four, it was all she could think about. She alternated between laying in bed and taking down notes from various news sources. She slept one hour. Shambling downstairs on a very shameful autopilot. No real appetite. Safin nowhere to be seen. It took all the energy she had just to stand. Maybe she could take a free-day if she was polite. He had already accomodated her other, silly demands. Moving over to the sofa. Slumping into it. Closing her eyes. Only for a second.

Sharp staccato of rifle fire tearing apart a wooden door. Gun in the cabinet, next to the bleach. Heavy footsteps on wood. On carpet. She’d never get there in time.

A gloved hand on her shoulder. Jerking awake with a guttural hitch.

“Dr. Swann?”

Face-to-face with the last person she wanted to justify herself to. She recovered her composure, averted her eyes. “I—I’m sorry. It was just a nightmare.”

“About your mission?”

He was still holding her shoulder. He didn’t need to restrain her. She was perfectly aware of her surroundings. “No. I’m not sure what. Anyway, it was only a dream.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” His grip tightened, causing her to flinch. “If a client came to you exhibiting these symptoms, what would you assume?”

Madeleine held her tongue. 

“This is not the first time you have exhibited this behaviour. Mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues," he inclined his head, "an increased fight-or-flight response. Difficulty sleeping.”

“So, you can define post-traumatic stress disorder. It does not make you my analyst.” She brushed him aside, staring at her hands balled up on her knees. “Most of the time, I don’t remember my dreams.”

“That’s a strange thing, to not remember something so distressing.” An undertone to his voice that made her stomach clench. “Tell me, did you buy your way into passing your psychological evaluations?”

“Let me make one thing very clear to you,” said Madeleine, standing up to look him in the eyes, “I can accept that you are here to keep me alive. I’ll go along with your precautions, or whatever you think is necessary. Your personal opinions do not apply. If that is more than you can handle, I’ll simply find someone else.”

He said, very softly, "Are you threatening me, Dr. Swann?"

"Do you feel threatened?"

A flicker of some unfamiliar emotion trapped behind his reserved countenance. Tempered with the set of his jaw. He stepped back. “You aren’t leaving until you get some sleep.” Before she could answer, he turned and left her alone, confused.

⁂

For the next thirty six hours the SFT team confined her to the safehouse. Letting her out only to walk her around the halls for twenty minute intervals like a high-strung pet. She could take sleeping pills, though she was monitored. Her resentment outweighed by desperation to regain her agency.

Falling asleep due to exhaustion rather than effort. She woke up to daylight behind the curtains.

Safin was lurking about the living area when she came down. He didn’t say anything. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way.

“You’re an independent contractor?” Safin looked at her. “How long have you been operating?”

“Fourteen years. Our operations tend to stray away from the public eye. The situation in Conakry was an exception.”

Madeleine nodded primly. Still grasping for a conversation topic that wouldn’t completely sabotage her own intentions.

“I remember there was an incident in Bolivia, back in 2008. A water crisis." Safin was watching her out of his peripherals. "Dominic Greene, the famous entrepreneur, lost his life and the organisation he was courting shut down. But the gas explosion at the La Perla de las Dunas, that was all over the news. At the time it was deemed a political assault because several key members of the Bolivian military were rumoured to be involved.”

“Did they mention a man by name of Luiz Medrano?”

“Medrano. It's been a long time. I honestly don't recall.”

Safin nodded. “General Medrano, I should say. He cut a deal with Greene. Undisputed access to a seemingly useless piece of land in the Atacama Desert. It was, in fact, the site of an underground dam. Greene would have a monopoly over Bolivia’s water, and Medrano and his coup would seize control of the country.” A particularly cold smile crossed Safin’s face but didn’t reach his eyes. “Not all of their subordinates were loyal. Someone from the outside must have intercepted at the hotel. Even so, their claim over the dam might have stayed out of the public eye if not for the amount of military figures found complicit in that political handover.” He paused. “QUANTUM’s disbandment was not made public at the time. How would you know of this?”

Madeleine lowered her voice. “My father helped found it. Greene was one of his associates. I don’t think my father mentioned him to me more than twice in my life. He’d never let me see his shame directly. Just like what is happening now, in Conakry. You must know something, please. Is this another one of his deals? Why was I singled out?”

Safin drew breath, exhaled.

“You are concerned. That is natural. For your own good, forget about what happened in Guinea.”

A week ago Madeleine would’ve clung to her indignanation. “You expect me to ignore this? It isn't going away just because I'd like it to. All those people, their families are suffering.”

“You accepted the mission knowing that there was the possibility there would be casualties.” He looked over at her. “The situation escalated far beyond any one party’s control. There’s no sense in blaming yourself. You did the best you could.”

“Forgive me if I do not want to stand by and watch people suffer.”

“There is a difference between idealism and taking action. Just because you grew up wealthy, you don’t have to prove yourself to the rest of the world.”

"It’s always been important to me. It's not just wealth. I realise that I have a lot of advantages that other people around the world may not. The least I can do is help, however I can." Safin chuckled. "What’s so funny?"

"The resources required are hardly ever provided by charity. Access to agricultural tools. Clothing. Self-defence. Usually, it falls to monetary donations without any regard for politics or economic disparities. Your MSF is something of an exception."

"First of all, it's not my charity, I volunteer. And these changes don’t happen by simply talking about it. You need to organise first. Someone has to provide funding. There is a lot of work that goes on behind the scenes you are dismissing.”

“The failure of the MSF to act indicates the organisation’s greater limitations. Not your own, or any one person's.”

“They’re supposed to be neutral.”

“What good did neutrality serve the civilians in hospital? The mining infrastructure?” said Safin coldly. “The MSF look weak, collaborating with the same men who keep these people in poverty, and future clients understand that no one is going to protect them.” He paused. “Why give your time to them?” 

“That’s the trouble with men like you. You’re focused on the bigger picture. You don’t give a second thought to anyone else who might get caught up in the mess you thrust them into.”

“Good-will is useless when you are looking down the barrel of a gun. In the end they needed someone willing to work outside of their jurisdiction.” He glanced at Madeleine. “To keep the peace.”

Madeleine mulled over what he was saying. Studying his face. Too intricate to be leprosy or a burn wound. It couldn’t be an acid attack, as the structure of his face remained intact. Chemical, perhaps. It was a very distinctive type of scarification she’d read about once or twice, but never treated.

“Are you trying to diagnose me?” he said, turning to look at her directly. “You could just ask.”

Easy to read. She paused. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

The ice in his eyes dispersed into indifference. He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” Cordial, but not openly genial. “Now that you're awake, I can tell you. There’s been a slight change of plans. Your father should be arriving later this evening.”

Madeleine exhaled. "Just my luck." Then she looked over at him. “Well, I suppose I've no reason to distrust you.”

“I’m just the messenger, Dr. Swann.”

Madeleine smiled. “Please, just call me Madeleine. I’m not working right now.”

He paused. “Madeleine.”

[safinsscars]

“Ich werde dich nicht verletzen.” The girl was watching him closely. He took another step. “Du verstehst mich? Da war ein Fehler.” He approached until he could see the whites of her eyes. He offered his hand. “Ich gehe mit dir. Niemand wird dir weh tun.”

Insult to injury - chapter 5 by @dorminchu

[crewman-penelope]

✨🧡SEND THIS TO TEN OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING. ✨🧡

Awww! Thanks darling 😘

[teamcivilian]

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.” 

[teamcivilian]

007 Fest 2022 Masterlist

WIPs: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Fics: Fear & Desire (Starts on Ch03 but the entire fic is included in a masterpost!)

Insult to Injury (This links to the masterlist, which includes Ch01 at this time on tumblr & ao3)

Not exactly the level of output I envisioned originally, but hey, 9,716 words isn't shabby either. I hope you enjoyed what I had to offer, and/or stick around for what's to come! — Dorminchu

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 02 [Revised]

I didn't anticipate the level of re-work that would go into Act I overall, wowza. Here's chapter two.

II: THERE'S MURDER IN THE AIR, IT DRAGS ME WHEN I WALK

In the face of her own mortality Madeleine could do nothing but cower. Attempting to shrink deeper into herself while the seatbelt dug into her. Squeezing her eyes shut as if it would fix the crushing weight inside her chest.

When there is a perception of an overwhelming threat, the human body goes into fight-or-flight mode. People in high-stress occupations, such as soldiers and police officers, can use techniques to consciously regulate their breathing, allowing the body to enter into a state of calm.

Keeping her feet flat on the floor, with her back straight. An unmarked Jeep was not ideal. This would be easier if she were sitting at her desk at work, in a sunny café—none of these places were secure. Too many uncontrolled variables.

Inhale, holding to the count of four. Exhale, hold again to four. Fainting in the middle of an active combat zone won’t help. Inhaling sharply—hold, balling fists in the leather seat, should keep them flat—exhale. Releasing the fabric of her dress—inhale, hold. As long as you can think you have a chance. You’re going to come home—exhale, hold. This was just a worst-case scenario. You’re going to survive this—inhale. You’re going to be okay—exhale, opening her eyes.

The Jeep was travelling slowly up the main road, in a convoy. They had passed by Donka, but she saw plenty of soldiers and armored cars moving in the opposite direction. No medical vehicles. No civilians asking for their families. The high-risk patients would need to be rolled out on stretchers. Perhaps the MSF had pulled this off in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t the heads of mission be notified in the event of an attack?

“Dr. Swann,” said the driver. “Me comprenez-vous?”

Madeleine tore her eyes away, making the connection her heart would not. “Je—je peux t'entendre.”

“Ça va aller.” She watched him reach across the console for the radio, tuning it to a specific frequency. He clicked on the transceiver and said, “Podtverzhdayu, chto u nas posledniy.”

“Otlichno. My pozabotimsya ob ostal'nom.”

“Ponyal.” He clicked off.

The man in the passenger seat glanced at her. One of his eyes was fixed in the socket. He turned to the driver and muttered, “Zachem ty vzyal yeye?”

“Nash kliyent khochet, chtoby yeye blagopoluchno vernuli. Posle etogo eto ne nasha zabota.”

“Ona ne iz nashikh.”

“Nevazhno, Primo.”

The Medical Coordinator didn’t see what was wrong until it was too late. She didn’t deserve to be shot. Same as the man from Logistics. It shouldn’t have been them. It should have been Kessler, marked down as unfit for work—if you knew something was wrong, why did you stand by and let him get away with it? Madeleine was so busy looking the other way, staying out of trouble, when all along she was their scapegoat.

⁂

January, 2012. Madeleine was coming back from another volunteer mission. It had been July when she left. Without the MSF vest she could be just another tourist, dressed in a thin blouse and ankle-length skirt, hiding dark circles behind sunglasses.

Coming back should feel like relief. Selflessly giving her time and attention to those who were in dire need. When the duration concluded she could say, you showed up and did your part. Now it’s time to go home. But there was always something else to do. Every time she saw another news report on missing children, acts of terrorism in other impoverished countries, she’d think, what percentage of the money do they ever see?

She called Arnaud. I've just landed at Air France. Would it be possible for you to pick me up?

“It'll be an hour, maybe two. Can you wait that long?”

She told him where to meet her and he said, “Be careful.”

Madeleine hung up.

Stopping to get something to eat. The man in front of her, probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a navy suit and carried a leather suitcase. He was polite to the staff but not obsequious. He picked up his coffee, tipped twenty percent. The kind of man whose legacy was left upon plaques in art museums and conservatories, or dictated letters with no return address on behalf of an insidious third-party.

Madeleine bought a sandwich and some bottled water. Sitting down, she noticed a couple at the table adjacent. The little girl, couldn't have been older than six, peering at Madeleine over the side of the chair until her mother pulled her away with a few chiding words and a half-apologetic glance towards the poor lady who was just trying to have a meal. Madeleine gave them an easy, practised smile.

19:00, Madeleine got another call. Arnaud was waiting for her outside. They met up outside the main entrance, and he offered his coat in lieu of a hello. She took it, only because if she put up a front he would start fussing over her. Hailing a taxi, Arnaud helped stow her luggage in the trunk, gave the driver the address to their apartment.

Actually, said Madeleine, it’s a couple blocks away from there.

She never gave her direct address on public transport. Arnaud squeezed her shoulder.

The cab smelled like mildew, and the radio was on. Madeleine was prone to a little less scrutiny with a someone else's coat around her. The car stopped for a light, and Arnaud talked quietly to her about his goings-on. He’d been promoted to Senior Psychologist. Then the sink was leaking, so he’d had to get it fixed. Thanks to her payment plan they were not in any danger of eviction by the authorities. He glanced at her like he was telling a joke. Madeleine sighed through her nose, smiling in spite of herself.

“We had to celebrate your birthday without you,” he said. “I hope you aren’t too upset.”

Very, said Madeleine.

“I tried to call, but you weren’t picking up. I thought maybe you were busy.”

It slipped my mind, actually. The birthday. Madeleine smiled. I suppose that’s a little less forgivable.

“You sound exhausted.”

The taxi pulled up one block away from their street. Arnaud paid the driver, struck up a little friendly conversation while Madeleine played look-out. Nothing happened except Arnaud, taking her luggage for her before she could say, it's fine, I'll get it myself. He walked with her into the apartment, up the elevator, down the hall.

Madeleine flopped on the bed and closed her eyes. Waking up, it was still dark out. The clock said 04:14. She got up to fix herself some water. She was several time-zones ahead. It would take a few days to readjust. On the way back to her room, there was Arnaud. “Do you need anything?”

Madeleine hesitated in the doorway. She told him she wasn’t sleeping well on her own.

Arnaud didn't say anything. He followed into her bedroom, laying down next to her. They didn't talk about her long absences because it was simpler not to. The same way she tolerated his friends because they were never outright derisive or unpleasant. It was too inconvenient to pull up roots.

She pictured coming home one night, turning on the television to see a bus in a charry fireball. They'd count up the dead until his name flashed on the screen to join the rest, and she’d sit there for however long it took to sink in.

He caressed the back of her head lightly. Her chest tightened. Turning into the warm body at her shoulder. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. His breath hesitated. She hooked her leg around his waist, sitting up, straddling him. For the first time in months they couldn't get closer.

Drifting off with his arm still around her. Waking up to daylight, alone. The impression of a body on displaced sheets. There was a cup of tea on the end-table, gone cold.

⁂

The Jeep travelled out of Conakry and into Sierra Leone. After a standard security check Madeleine was taken into a building meant for holding conferences. The Project Coordinator came over and put his arm around her, offering a chair. Despite sitting in a car for four hours, Madeleine didn't trust herself to stand.

With the exception of the Medical Coordinator, the other mission heads had survived. There were only about thirty of the fifty MSF present. She didn't recognise anyone from the Psychosocial Unit.

Hand on her shoulder, causing her to flinch. Looking up into the face of a hospital aide, male. Probably Arnaud’s age. Arms recently scoured. "Dr. Swann, right? You were with the Psychosocial Unit." Voice slightly muffled by respirator mask.

Madeleine gave a curt nod. The aide looked at her face. Her hands throttling the plastic bottle. She let go, jaw tight. He offered a brief, empathetic glance before his attention diverted. Madeleine unclenched her jaw, kept her head down.

The Project Coordinator called everyone's attention.

Earlier this morning, the head of mission was informed of a possible attack on Donka Hospital. For reasons that were not yet clear, the government had also decided to retake Donka Hospital as well as Ignace Deen, Clinique Ambroise Paré and Clinique Pasteur by way of military intervention.

The majority of high-risk patients and all MSF workers at Donka were relocated and had not been harmed. Several of the MSF and doctors at the surrounding hospitals were on-site when the insurgents showed up—thanks to the cooperation between the PSD and SFT, casualties were not as severe as they could have been.

The government sent in their own forces to nullify further incidents without consulting MSF. This, combined with previous incidents against aid workers and doctors, indicated the division between military and humanitarian action was of little concern to the active terrorist threat. The MSF’s involvement was no longer necessary, leaving thousands of innocent patients without proper medical care.

After the briefing, the Project Coordinator went around the room discussing the situation with others. He got to Madeleine and said, “We’re still waiting for more information. International travel is currently under a moratorium because of these attacks, but we'll be able to work something out.” His voice wavered slightly as he squeezed her hand, said, “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Dr. Swann. I’m so sorry.”

Two SFT escorted her outside, where Safin and the man with the faux-eye were waiting. Due to the escalating threat, it would be in her best interest to stay out of Conakry for the time being. Once the moratorium on travel was lifted, she would be flying from Lungi International Airport. A reservation had been made for her at the Home Suites Boutique Hotel.

“The chauffer will ask for The Pale King's daughter. Don’t open the door for anyone else.” Safin looked over at her in the rear-view. “Is there anyone at home you wish to notify?”

⁂

April, 2012. Arnaud talked her into spending a Saturday afternoon at the L'Orriù di Beauvau with old friends. A surgeon and his wife, a paediatric nurse; both twenty years her senior. Their only commonality was their altruism. Sitting in company of others, she wasn’t as likely to keep watching the doors. All of their issues at work and home seemed so rudimentary. The year before this last mission, she was administering HIV vaccines in Moldova. So many people in the world had no one to watch out for them.

Despite her reservations, Madeleine made sure to set aside time for the people in her life, in some way or another. Whenever she could not busy herself in paperwork or other constructive activities, she tended to get a little surly. Arnaud was just as keen to make himself scarce, but he was also insistent that she find more things to do outside of work.

In her early twenties, working on her residency in-and-out of hospitals in France, Madeleine made up for the time she’d invested in schoolwork. Back then, she still had people to go out with on Thursday evenings. She would challenge herself to strike up a conversation with the other doctors each week. She’d hear the clinic manager speaking to the head psychiatrist, oh, Madeleine, she was nice enough. Maybe a little standoffish, but dependable once you got to know her. Not everyone could be a social butterfly. It was hard to be friends with someone who never talked about herself. Maybe she was just shy. One of those misanthropic types who got her validation out of productivity. A lot of the time, they wouldn’t even wait for her to leave the room first.

Obviously, she was just conflating a couple bad experiences. All she had to do was talk a little about her work at home and the mission in Hong Kong. Counselling the victims of a trafficking ring bust. Keep it light. Oh, yes, the mission. It was a success. We were able to assist such-and-such number of displaced children and adults. It isn't as heroic as you make it sound. A lot of sitting in rooms with no air conditioning, or in tents. I am not being modest, you would feel the same if you tried it. 

She told them about how the rules were very strict, especially with correspondence. Just by sending a picture via phone, the intent could be misconstrued. How she just didn’t want to draw any extra attention. How the gratitude from the lives her team had touched more impactful than money or prestige. 

The nurse said, “Madeleine, I hardly see you anymore. Don’t you ever take a break?”

“She does,” said Arnaud, “if I remind her to.”

The surgeon disguised a smirk by taking a drink of coffee. Madeleine did not look at Arnaud. The nurse was watching them with something like concern.

“Were any of your relatives in law enforcement?” asked the surgeon.

Madeleine said no, none of them.

The paediatric nurse said, “You remind me a lot of my older brother. You're both very, oh, how should I put this? Aware of your surroundings. But that's good for a woman your age.” The nurse leant in like she was some kind of whistle-blower. “He’s done very well for himself. Got started as a narcotics officer. Now he’s working for MI5.”

Madeleine nodded. She said, I've never been told I act like a narc before.

Arnaud and the surgeon chuckled. The nurse did not.

The nurse said, “You can’t be too careful these days. My brother was telling me a little about that terrorist attack, last month. You’ve probably seen it on the news. Some maniac posing as a policeman broke into Parliament with a gun. He was after the SIS. Can you believe that?”

“Tiago,” said the surgeon. “His name’s been released. Some rogue MI6 agent.”

Madeleine became very interested in her tea.

Now the surgeon wanted to know, had Madeleine ever considered forensic psychiatry?

Back in her residency years, she used to have dreams about receiving letters in the mail, no return address. The same black insignia on all of her father’s letters. She shrugged and told him that she would rather help people directly.

“You've got the right temperament,” the nurse said, “for court cases. Very no-nonsense.”

Madeleine shrugged. She'd been called much worse when she was working on her residency. That got a laugh.

She tolerated their company for another half-hour, before remembering she had to call a client back and reschedule that appointment. She didn't usually take clients on Saturday. Stepping back into the café, she did her best to appear sorry to a group of people willing to put up with all her deflections.

⁂

In the tastefully lit lobby of Home Suites Boutique Hotel, the attendant behind the desk sized Madeleine up and informed her she'd been marked down for a Junior Suite. Madeleine asked if her things had been collected.

The attendant's eyes darted to the men from SFT. She gave Madeleine the room number and gestured brusquely towards the young-faced bellhop waiting beside the elevator. "He'll see you to your room."

The bellhop stole a couple pointed glances at Madeleine as if she were wearing something ostentatious. He only spoke to ask if she would like him to help her into the room with the bags. When Madeleine accepted, he wheeled the trolley ahead, unlocking the door and unloading her luggage on the rack, quickly muttered: "Have a nice day," and left without looking back.

Stepping into the living room. Classic furniture. Carpet at her feet. Air conditioning. After living in a small, stuffy room at the Grand Hotel de L'independence, such smaller luxuries were closer to home. Her compliance bought with this beautiful suite. She didn’t want to touch anything or sit down for fear of sullying the furniture.

So she checked her luggage. All of her clothes were in-order. The laptop and recorder as well. She booted up the former to find all her recent documents had been moved to a directory that no longer existed. Madeleine closed it.

In a matter of hours the tragedy would breach headlines in the interest of garnering military attention and drop shortly after the government stepped in.

She moved into the bathroom; white marble. A walk-in shower and bathtub. French cosmetics by Chopard. Artificial scent permeated her senses, making her nose itch. She finally got a look at herself in the mirror. The woman in the reflection cracked a wavering smile.

The staff here probably didn't see many customers in her condition. No wonder she'd garnered such a reception. She hadn't asked for any of this. She noticed her wide eyes, trembling mouth. The blood that wasn't hers. The little particles of what had once been the Medical Coordinator, the insurgent, and Peter Miller from Logistics, spattered across her blouse, on her skin and caked onto her hair.

Dry-heaving. Collapsing over the toilet, exhuming the little that was left inside of her stomach. She tried again. All that came back up was her own spit.  

A convulsion worked through her body. Her voice warped, mutating. Not a sob but a guttural sound clawing its way up from her lungs. Animal distress, unable to escape the confines of her physical body. Clutching the porcelain, mired in the smell of vomit and perfume.

Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold. Her breath kept shaking. She flushed the toilet, closing the lid, sitting on it with her head in her hands. Inhale, hold. Exhale. Sitting up straight. Regulating her breathing until she was clear-headed. She turned on the fan to air out the room and spent a long time under the shower, checking her hair, under her nails. Then she redressed.

⁂

June, 1998. Madeleine led an unassuming life within Maisons-Laffitte. Classes were stimulating enough to take her mind off life back home. Horseback riding, hikes in the summer. Madeleine could tolerate the heat well enough.

The instructors found her obedient and diligent in her studies, though after a couple months she hadn't made any friends. Waking up on the floor of the dorms every other night, tangled in her sheets. The other kids stopped trying to talk to her. The school doctor took her aside and evaluated there was nothing wrong, physically. They put her on sleeping pills. It helped, but she was always so listless in the mornings. Took her off, and the nightmares got worse.

That summer, a couple of the girls dragged her down with them for a swim. Madeleine had never learnt how. Playing off her embarrassment against the other girls as disinterest. Her desperation fell on deaf ears. Standing there, the water lapped at her knees. It wasn’t so bad. Just cold. She would rather be studying with her peers. A hand collided with her back and she was falling forward.

Thrashing, though nothing held her down. Maybe they thought she was faking for attention. One of her spells. Nothing to do but wait it out. Try to help her, and she’d take someone down with her.

The pair of hands that caught her were stronger than a child’s. Pulling her into the summer sun. The instructor was demanding an explanation while the other girls looked at him, not Madeleine.

At the infirmary the nurse got nothing but monosyllabic answers. Act too stubborn and they'd label her psychotic. Too hysterical and they'd kick her out and her father would never forgive her.

She’d been making progress. One little slip up and here she was, back in the psychologist’s office, watching him scribble in his notebook. The only reason she agreed to come back was because he never pressured her to speak.

This time, she told him a little about her father. How he never knew to deal with her, or her mother. That was why her mother left, and why he'd sent her here.

The psychologist wanted to know about the lake, an hour ago. Well, said Madeleine, she'd never learned how to swim. Out on the ice, she was always afraid she would fall in and freeze to death. She knew a little about how the shock was supposed to kill you first. She couldn't think of a worse way to go.

“You won't have to worry about that in the summer.”

Madeleine said nothing. He jotted something else down. The medication is helping, she said, but I'm still a little tired in the mornings. I wish it could help when I have nightmares.

“Can you describe one of these nightmares, if you're comfortable?”

Through a dry mouth Madeleine said, I don't really remember what they are about. I wake up on the floor and can't explain myself. It's really embarrassing.

Sometimes, said the psychologist, when a person goes through a particularly intense or upsetting event, his or her mind will block it out.

Madeleine gripped her sleeve.

“Is it possible these nightmares could be related to what happened this afternoon?”

Ten years old. Her father sitting her down at the kitchen table, saying, It’s called post-traumatic stress. People who have been in very dangerous or upsetting situations, sometimes they aren’t able to turn off their survival instinct. It can feel like you’re back there, but it’s just a feeling, Madeleine. Can’t hurt you any more than a dream.

Does it ever go away?

He’d paused for a moment, and looked away.

You get used to it.

Madeleine said, I think I would like to go now.

⁂

December, 1997. Her father was in the process of relocating from Austria to Norway. One of his associates picked her up from the airport, drove her to the new home in Nittedal. She walked up the steps. The door opened and he was dressed for work. He smiled and said, “Hello, Maddie.”

Madeleine forced a smile. No matter how old she got, she’d always be his little girl.

She took off her shoes before setting foot in the house full of unrecognizable, sturdy furniture. To the right was the kitchen. On her left, a spiral staircase, wooden and naked without carpeting. The living room table overtaken by a neat pile of letters and yellowed documents. No family pictures on the mantle. No indication that the family from Altaussee had ever existed. Her father asked what she thought of the place.

Well, said Madeleine, it has a lot of windows.

Her father replied that they had plenty of curtains. The heavy silver ring on his right hand—last winter, he would never have worn it in front of her. 

While she was in school, her father had decided it would be best if she lived with her Aunt Droit for a while. It was abrupt but the best way to keep her safe.

You own a dozen safehouses across the globe, she thought, yet you can’t bear to live with me in one. In her father’s eyes, even at twelve years old, Madeleine was just another business partner. She didn’t have the courage to tell him her true feelings. Forsaking her own security for a fleeting moment of pride.

She nodded, paying attention to what he didn’t convey in words.

“You need to think about your future. Pretty soon you’ll be going to university. Six years might seem like a long time from now, but it goes quickly. Have you given it any thought?”

Her father had never really asked before. Madeleine’s eyes wandered. He wasn’t even looking at her. Back then, she was pretty sure about mental health. She wanted to be a therapist.

Her father scoffed. “Psychologists don’t get paid well unless they’re already connected. If you want to be a social worker, just throw your money away. It’ll be quicker than earning the degree.”

Madeleine scowled. That wasn’t the point, she said. It was about helping other people who didn’t understand how to fix themselves. Not standing by and watching them hurt themselves out of ignorance, or lack of options.

“So,” her father said, “you want to go into medical school. You’ll make a decent salary. And if you’re passionate about it, I’m sure it will open a lot of doors.”

The lift of his voice betrayed him, that lingering hope to connect. As if he could earn some redemption after a year of indifference. He turned his head slightly.

“Is that what you’d like to do?”

December, 1998. It was Droit who opened the door to her home in Nice. She took one look at Madeleine and said, “You’re Fredrich’s daughter?”

Madeleine nodded, drawing her coat a little tighter to herself. The only person that called her father Frederich was her mother.

Madeleine took her boots off at the door. A well-furnished home that might be advertised on travelling brochures. The kind of place her mother would call homely with a scoff.

Droit worked full-time as a teacher. She was not married and never smelled like alcohol. During the day, Madeleine had her own set of chores around the house.

“I’m sure your father has people to handle most everything,” Droit said, “but you’ll have to pitch in.”

Madeleine shouldered her schoolbag with a grimace. People outside of the family circle tended to make assumptions. She didn’t take it personally anymore.

Her luggage wheels rattled over hardwood on the way to her room. Sparsely decorated. A double bed with plain ivory sheets. “It might be a little smaller than what you’re used to, but I made sure everything’s clean.”

It’s lovely, said Madeleine. Thank you very much.

Droit hesitated with her hand on the doorjamb. “How’s boarding school working out? I hear you’re keeping busy.”

It’s school. The only difference is that I live there most of the year.

“You enjoy it?”

It’s all right.

Droit paused. “Do you like eggs? My sister never was a good cook. My mother was always cross with us. My sister could never do anything right. Once she turned up the water too high and ruined our pot. I thought our mother was going to kill us.”

Droit chuckled. Madeleine started to laugh, but her throat tightened. She averted her eyes to the window. All the animals and plant life, suffocating under powdered snow. Revealed in the thaw, come spring.

Most adults respected her adolescent brave-face or resorted to overt sympathies. Droit just put a gnarled hand on her arm and said, “I’m sorry, dear.”

It’s okay, said Madeleine softly, I just miss her.

“These separations are never easy. I’ve never had any children, but—leaving your own behind. What a selfish thing to do.”

Madeleine pulled away. Yeah.

⁂

By the next morning, no word from anyone asking for the Pale King.

If only she could get some sleep, she would be able to relax a little. But all of last night she was thinking about the attack on the hotel. What the insurgent had said just before he was shot. The threat had been allowed to get into their hotel parking lot, only to be swiftly neutralised by the protective detail. Without some kind of communication between the teams in the field and heads of mission, somewhere along the line, there had been an infiltration. Of the MSF? Or the PSD surrounding them?

After an hour of reading over the hotel’s local wi-fi, she could determine next to nothing about SFT. These men were contracted on behalf of someone very powerful. The number of people who spoke about the Pale King, she could count on one hand. None of the MSF missions she’d attended would cooperate openly with private contractors. Running from the same men hiding behind NGOs who operated out of their country’s jurisdictions.

Once she was in a more secure location, she would make some calls. Let her hair go back to its natural colour, or dye it again. Spend some extra time giving away most of her scarves and other frivolous accessories to charity. A month from now she’d pop up under a different name, at another private clinic, reacclimating to the same career and sham of a social life.

After all of her spiteful declarations about her father’s work and his horrible friends, that blood money was the only way she could afford to go through Oxford. She was going to be indebted for the rest of her life. Or whichever one of them died off first. A crushing, humiliating certainty that, for all of her efforts, she had as much influence on the world as the common man.

Just the idea of hearing his voice again made her want to throw something. Sitting here in her air-conditioned room, blaming her father out of convenience. When the blood was on someone else’s hands, all she had to do was sort out the aftermath. Men like him had no heart to break.

⁂

June 14th, 2012. That evening, throngs of people under the Eiffel Tower and on the Champ-de-Mars to watch the fireworks. Over in the Jardins du Trocadéro, you could see it from across the river. Madeleine shut all the windows to keep out the gunpowder smell. She could hear this going off in the distance. She was in the kitchen, fixing dinner, when someone knocked at the door. Madeleine stopped. The knocking did not. She almost called out, but her chest was suddenly tight.

The knocking continued. Madeleine almost dropped the knife. Crouching on the kitchen floor, out of sight. In her bedroom, right corner of the walk-in closet, in a portable safe was a Glock 43, subcompact. Someone was trying to get into the apartment. Even if she started running she would not make it in time. What if they’d taken Arnaud? Tracked her to this apartment. All she had was the kitchen knife. The door opened.

That was how Arnaud found her. Taking her shoulders, saying, “Madeleine?” until the sound of his voice registered. She almost put her arms around him but for the knife. Gently disentangling herself, she looked at the floor, “I thought you were working.”

“I got back early. Thought I’d surprise you.” He was still dressed for work. Somehow, he’d never looked his age before.

They both noticed the smoke simultaneously. Arnaud got up first, turned off the burner. “It’s not too bad. Just a little singed. I’ll get the window.”

That’s all right, said Madeleine. Not tonight. It’s all I can smell inside and out.

Arnaud was looking at her in a way he never had before. He swallowed dryly. “Have you ever considered seeing a specialist?” Madeleine’s eyes were somewhere else. “Every time we go out, you’re so anxious. I don’t know how you can go on like this.”

You startled me, said Madeleine coldly. I appreciate your concern, but I need to clean this up. She brushed his arm away.

“You were on the ground. I know I can’t force you to do anything. But I think you should consider seeing a therapist about these spells.”

Don’t try to diagnose me as if I am one of your clients. I won’t put up with it just because we’re living together.

“You’re—”

You’re going to say I’m being unreasonable. I don’t understand why that is so difficult for you. I’ve got it under control now. It’s not any of your concern. If you want to argue, I won’t discuss it with you.

He said, “Okay. I’m going out.”

No matter how hard she pushed, he would always come back.

⁂

Six days after the incident at Donka, the government put out an official statement that the MSF’s services were no longer required. That same night she took the plane home. It was 06:45 when they finally touched down in France.

Even so, she couldn’t let her guard down. Heading towards the baggage reclaim, she noticed two men in suits divert from conversation to follow her path.

Could be a couple of SPECTRE’s dogs, waiting for her to try and hail a cab. Or a pair of international commuters going about their day.

Ducking into the airport restroom, Madeleine did a quick self-assessment. She hadn’t gotten much sleep on the flight. At least she’d changed into something she could wear coming into work—white blouse, grey dress pants and matching peacoat. She caught herself trembling and grit her teeth.

She was just suffering from jet-lag. Prone to old habits, self-perpetuating. Overreliance on the intervention of others had made her soft when she could not afford to be.

When she came back out the two men were nowhere to be seen. She didn’t notice anyone watching her on the rest of the way, or at the baggage claim. Everyone in the clinic would want to know how she was doing. Arnaud, especially. It had been a mess abroad, and she was grateful to be back home.

For now, she was stuck idling around the carousel like everyone else. Entranced by the motion of the belt when someone called out, “Dr. Swann?”

Man in a plain taupe suit tailed by a younger woman in button-up shirt and slacks. He had red hair and a mole on the side of his chin. The woman’s dark hair cut short. They introduced themselves as Detectives Blois and Jardin, respectively.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeleine, “what is this about?”

Jardin said, “You need to come with us.”

At 07:53 she was sitting in an interrogation room. Blank walls, blank floor. A table and two chairs. Blois asked how she was feeling. 

“Fine,” said Madeleine, “I just flew back this morning.”

“Where are you coming back from?” asked Jardin.

“A non-profit mission in Africa. I volunteer when I have the time.”

“Must be a hell of a lot of work. But, I suppose someone has to do it.” Madeleine offered her a tight-lipped smile before averting her eyes to the door. Blois was offering coffee, too hot to drink. “You live alone, Dr. Swann?”

“No, I am staying with a friend.”

“Arnaud, is that right?” Madeleine nodded. “Did he try to call you earlier today?” Madeleine looked up. Blois’s expression became stony. “I’m sorry to tell you this. He was found dead this morning. We think he must have jumped, or else been thrown over the balcony. Your apartment has been searched. Clothes and money weren’t touched. We have his phone. He tried to call you several times. You have any idea why?”

Madeleine said, “I’m not sure.”

“I’d just like to ask some questions, if that’s all right.”

They ended up grilling her for an hour. Was Arnaud involved directly in your activities with MSF? Any prior knowledge of your volunteer work? Did he have anyone in his life who might wish him or yourself harm? Any suicidal ideation? Substance abuse. So on, so forth.

Hell, maybe Arnaud was suicidal. Maybe she would have a clue if she had gotten to know him on better terms than a housemate, coming-and-going without asking questions. The possibility of her death was too great a stain on his conscience. She left him yearning for the strength to walk away.

Blois said, “Any relatives you can contact?”

“No.” He was writing something down. Madeleine frowned. “Just my father. Frederich König. We’re estranged.”

Blois stopped. “König? The financier from the nineties? I didn’t know he was still….”

Jardin was looking at her very closely. Madeleine straightened her shoulders. Naming her father was always a last resort. “You must excuse me, Detective, if I may ask—you are detaining me?”

Blois stopped writing. “We managed to get in contact with your employers before you arrived. Your alibi checks out. This is just protocol. You’ll be free to leave with your CPO once I submit this report.”

The buzzer sounded. As the heavy door on the other side of the room opened, Blois stood up and Madeleine did the same. Jardin walked her to the door.

The man standing in the hall was dressed impeccably. Black pinstripe dress shirt, plain black suit and dress pants. Behind sunglasses, it was difficult to tell if he was looking at her directly. Madeleine froze, mid-step.

“Mr. Safin will see you out,” said Jardin, touching Madeleine gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Madeleine heard the words without processing them fully. She couldn’t bring herself to look away. There was no reason he should be here. Safin, exchanging a curt nod with Blois, now turned to Madeleine. “Follow me, Dr. Swann.”

Taking her into a different, empty room. Her fate was sealed. All the evidence would be discarded. The recording of their session archived. Just another suicide to print in that week’s obituary. The door shut behind her.

“You should know,” he said, “in a case such as yours, I am liable to follow through.”

Madeleine almost scoffed. “I’ve done nothing to warrant this.”

“You were in the right place at the wrong time. Or did you think it was a coincidence that you were spared?”

Madeleine shot him a foul look that went unreciprocated. “You’ve been spying on me—what, since Conakry? Who put you up to this?”

He didn’t answer straight-away. Just gave her a look that let her know exactly what kind of impression she was making. “There is a car waiting outside that will take us to Paris-Est. Your father will see you week from now in Zürich, but no sooner. Your respective offices have been informed you’ll be taking a leave of absence, for your mental health.”

“You don’t seem to understand what I am saying. I have a life here. Friends who will ask where I’ve gone, and why.”

“You would put them in harm’s way to save yourself?” Madeleine blenched. Now Safin inclined his head slightly. “There. You could have looked more upset about your boyfriend, it was not convincing.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Madeleine snapped. “This is about my father. I cut off all ties with him many years ago. I have absolutely nothing to do with him or his sick life. Why would he ask for me now?”

His shoulders lifted. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Oh, is that how this is? You really want to help me? All right. Start by informing my father I don’t need any more trouble. Whatever he did, he has ways to fix it without badgering me.” She walked past him, towards the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

“You cannot return to your apartment, Dr. Swann.”

She scoffed. “Of course not. I’ll just find a hotel.”

“You are the daughter of a very powerful financier. You may lack his connections, but you inherit the same enemies. I can’t let you go alone.”

“I’ve survived this long without outside intervention.” No thanks to you.

“You’d fit easily into a briefcase.”

Something in his tone stayed her hand. Madeleine chuckled to spite her nerves. “You’re trying to be funny, now? It isn’t working.” Safin did not answer. She should turn on her heel and walk out.

Instead, she waited to see what he would do. He touched his ear and said, “Prinesi eto syuda.”

“What is this?”

No answer. His expression impassive. An empty threat to provoke her nerves, watch the corn-fed socialite squirm a little. He couldn’t be serious. There were cameras everywhere. Countless witnesses both inside and around the station.

“Step away from the door,” he said. “I won’t ask again.”

Madeleine complied.

The door opened. The man from the Jeep with the faux-eye handed over a briefcase her father might use.

“You can come along quietly,” Safin said, “or you can make a nuisance of yourself. Which will it be?” Madeleine drew the coat tighter around herself. Even with sunglasses it was easy to tell that he was looking at her now. A subtle, unpleasant smile brought his scarification into relief. “Come along.”

She was walked out the door, out of building and steered discreetly into the black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter idling by the curb.

EDIT 09/08/22: Reworked ending scene in France + terminology. CPO = Close-Protection Officer

[teamcivilian]

WIP Wednesday 03: Insult to Injury Ch02

Rough WIP below the cut. Concept is that Madeleine is talking herself through a PTSD/trauma response, in her head. The cause of this is not explicitly shown. Trying to strike a balance between formal (logical information) versus informal (4th wall nudging) sort of how Lemony Snicket would explain a phrase in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Feedback/constructive critique regarding the flow of the scene/technical details would be greatly appreciated!   —Dorminchu

Sitting in the back of the Jeep, with the fates of the hard-working staff in Donka and their patients uncertain, all Madeleine wanted to do was sit with her head against her knees and cower. Running through worst-case scenarios faster than she could logically process them. Attempting to shrink deeper into herself while the seatbelt dug into her abdomen, keeping her upright. Pliant.

When there is a perception of an overwhelming threat, the body goes into fight-or-flight mode. By consciously regulating breath, you allow your body to enter into a state of calm. Box breathing is one such excercise. People in high-stress occupations, such as soldiers and police officers, can use box breathing when they are in a state of fight-or-flight. It can also be used to improve your concentration.

You can do this most anywhere, at your desk, in a cafe, even the the backseat of a Jeep.

Make sure you're sitting upright, with your feet flat on the floor. Ideally you'd be in a stress-free, quiet environment in order to focus.

One; Close your eyes. Inhale through your nose, counting to four seconds in your head. Try to feel the air and see where it is entering. Placing one hand on your chest and another on the lower stomach.

Two; Holding your breath, count to four. Try not to clamp your mouth or nose shut.

Three; Slowly exhale for four seconds.

Repeat steps one through three at least three times. If it's possible, continue for four minutes or until calm returns. Focus on feeling an expansion in the stomach, but without forcing the muscles to push out.

When you regulate your breathing, you allow CO2 to build up in the blood. This enhances the cardio-inhibitory response of the vagus nerve when you exhale, stimulating your parasympathetic system; in other words, producing a calm and relaxed feeling in the mind and body.

Try to focus on something else. The hum of the engine. Whatever is left within your control.

"Dr. Swann?" The voice was neutral; a counterpoint to her own distress. The other SFT soldier was watching her in the rear-view mirror, on the passenger-side. Under the balaclava she could just make out his eyes. Difficult to tell how old he was. Native to France, going by his accent. "You're going to be all right."

[teamcivilian]

WIP Wednesday 02

Life has been hectic, but I am still doing what I can! Ch01 is about 80% done; here is a rough cut of a brand new scene from Insult to Injury. —Dorminchu

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 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.

“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.

[teamcivilian]

wip wednesday — miscellaneous scene(?)

Just a joke bit/rough concept for a later bar scene in Insult to Injury where the characters (in this case Safin, Madeleine) start to let their guards down, under the guise of an night out — y'know, whatever normal people get up to. Think of that country bar scene from The Bodyguard in terms of tone and function — the major difference from canon is Safin's profession; an ex-military guy who specialized in counterintelligence (technically he still does!) and now does private security for a lot of higher-ups adjacent to SPECTRE. Madeleine is still a psychiatrist but about as important to her dad's business as Connie Corleone was in The Godfather. Safin is in charge of her security after some hinky plot stuff goes down, Madeleine invites him on a normal night out as a colleague. – Dorminchu

"So, what does SFT* stand for?" Safin looks at her for a couple seconds. Chuckles. "What's the matter?" He mutters, "You are ridiculous." "You can't say what it is?" "You want to know. Okay." He levels with her. "Super fucking tough." Madeleine scoffs. "It doesn't." "That is what is stands for." He waves her off. "It wasn't my idea. No more questions." "You're just messing with me." He smiles and it affects his eyes. "Of course not." "If you aren't going to tell me, at least come up with something that correlates." No answer this time. Whether he is or is not pulling her leg remains ambiguous.

* SFT is the stand-in name for the fictional PSD/security detail Safin manages in earlier chapters. I wanted to give him a dry sense of humor. Comes out moreso if drinking — not yet sure if this will be jossed, unless he's challenged to blend in.

Bonus wardrobe mock-up below the cut. Takes place during winter, in Norway.

[teamcivilian]

WIP Wednesday 04: Insult to Injury Ch03

Over the last year, it’s been increasingly difficult to find the motivation and time to work on my hobbies. This is more to do with personal reasons/mental health, and it’s not the fault of anyone online. Maybe I’m due for another Internet break next month.

I’ll do what I can to push through, as I dislike the idea of leaving an audience in the dust and I genuinely enjoy working on this project. I’ll admit, the subject matter is a little daunting/draining, which probably doesn’t help the aforementioned mental health but hey, it’s a fictional story. No one is actually getting hurt or traumatized.

Ch02 has an outline, should be out in the next couple days. Ch03/04 won’t take too much refining but I’m not 100% sure it’ll be done by end of July in pristine quality, as awesome as that would be. Honestly there are times I can’t believe people are still interested in this project, but it really does make my day to see that it’s the case!  — Dorminchu

On the first ride to Geneve, Madeleine said nothing. Anything she wanted to know was off the table while they were out in-public spaces. She could just sit and stare out the window and deny any opportunity to reveal her feelings by talking first. There were only a couple of other passengers in the car with them.

After the most uneventful two and a half hours she’d had in weeks, they were headed to Sion. On the second level of the SBB train, seated at a booth closest to the exit. From where Safin was sitting, he would be able to see the whole car. Madeleine, in a blindspot where the booth corner met the back of the seat opposite, was getting a little sick of this bodyguard charade. If he wanted her to play along he could at least have hired a couple men on each aisle to make it look official. The only power she had now was to continue the silent treatment, like a child. It wasn’t as if Safin should care either way. She was the one being displaced, not him.

The train shifted into motion. Madeleine said, "I didn’t realize I was still important to my father." Safin’s expression didn't change. Madeleine simpered. “If this situation were as dangerous as you imply, we wouldn’t be travelling by train. I’ve no idea what he has told you. I have worked very hard to get him out of my life and he treats me as if I am indebted.”

“You took his money.”

A real bodyguard wouldn’t acknowledge any of her remarks. This was a well-dressed thug who didn’t even have the decency to look in her general direction when he spoke.

“He’s my father. Not yours.” Back to silence. “Anyway, I don’t need your pity.”

"Of course not."

She scoffed. "You think you're very funny. If I keep asking you questions, what, will you hold me at gunpoint?"

He turned his head with the same reserved expression. “I have no reason to.”

Madeleine almost smiled. "Well, let's not give you one."

He paused. “You dislike guns?”

Madeleine thought back to the gun in her apartment bedroom. She hadn’t touched since buying it in 2010. No idea if it had been recovered. Arnaud never asked. He probably never figured it out to begin with.

"As long as I'm not the one pulling the trigger, it makes no difference to me what people do with their time. Obviously, I understand that there are times where self-defense is necessary. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I see."

[safinsscars]

Lord know best

By @dorminchu

Read here

[crewman-penelope]

Yeah!!!

WIP Wednesday 02

Life has been hectic, but I am still doing what I can! Ch01 is about 80% done; here is a rough cut of a brand new scene from Insult to Injury. —Dorminchu

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 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.

“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.