Author: LeyaLaFea
Prompt: 3rd person P.O.V. + superpowers are discovered with soulmates + uber driver Maine + corona virus patient RJ + no healing powers
Prompter: sereace_m
Geneva, 1 week before
The meeting at number seventy-eight Rue de Lausanne was supposed to be an uneventful one. Uneventful for Dr. Ric Faulkerson, that is. He wasn't fond of all these leadership and hierarchical matters in the MSF, which stood for Médecins Sans Frontières, or as the English-speaking world knows it better, Doctors without Borders. A paediatrician by profession, he'd rather go back to the days when he flew to a war-torn African village to attend to the wounds of the children, or to the time when the MSF answered the call of the U.N. to give first aid to a refugee camp for displaced Afghans from Kabul. He found himself half-grumbling that he had to leave his colleague and friend, Dr. Sameer Gupta, in Lebanon, just to attend this meeting.
Dr. Jaymie Lee, the current head of the MSF, gave him a call two Saturdays back. She told him that she was thinking of handing over the reins to someone else, as she wanted to focus on lobbying for the MSF's advocacy to stop the indiscriminate targeting of healthcare providers and hospitals in the different war zones around the world. To his surprise, and slight chagrin, she put his name, and no one else's up for nomination to take over. The meeting was supposed to discuss the transition from his post as the MSF Middle Eastern head to her position. While he found it a great honour to fill in her shoes, he slightly resented the fact that he may not get the chance to go to and tend to the children who needed emergency medical care. He knew the numbers by heart -- the number of displaced children in the Middle East, with no access to basic vaccinations, the number of hospitals bombed every week, the number of doctors who were targeted by warring sides -- and he felt he wasn't helping the cause for every hour that he had to tend to such administrative matters.
He sighed and shook his head at his thoughts. No point warring over it in my head, he mused. He decided to ask Dr. Lee if he can decline, although, at the back of his mind, he knew what she was going to say.
Dr. Faulkerson looked at his watch. It was 10:30 AM. Time to meet her.
He stood up from the lounge sofa he was sitting on and walked towards her office, and knocked on the bright red door.
No answer.
He knocked again. Still nothing. He put his hand on the doorknob, and found it unlocked. He opened the door slightly and looked in.
"Dr. Lee? It's me, Ric. May I come in?"
He focused his eyes on the clean desk at the centre of the office, and at the woman at the helm of the MSF. She was on the phone, with her brows furrowed, and her disturbed thoughts showing through her face. She looked up, saw him, and signalled him to come in. He walked in and sat down on one of the black leather chairs by her desk. He looked around. No picture frames, no flowers, no splashes of colour to decorate her office. Dr. Lee was known to be no-nonsense, hard-hitting, and at times, unjustly accused as cold. All those things seemed to have shown themselves in the way she kept her office.
It must come with the territory of being the head, he thought, which convinced him all the more to try to wheedle himself out of the nomination.
Dr. Lee finished her call, and put down the phone. "Those bastards," she cursed under her breath. She looked at her visitor in the eye and said, "Dr. Faulkerson, I'm so sorry to tell you this, but Dr. Maaz was killed this morning. The forces of President al-Assad were smoking out the Syrian rebels in Aleppo, and in doing so, bombed the hospital in al-Quds. Dr. Maaz was tending to the orphans in the ward when they bombed the place. They're systematically targeting all humanitarian efforts for their own people. It's a disgrace."
Dr. Faulkerson was in shock. Dr. Maaz was the last known paediatrician in Aleppo, and one of the most compassionate doctors he had known. He had once tried to convince Dr. Maaz to help them take care of the children in the refugee camp in Lebanon, but he refused, saying that, for as long as there were still children in Aleppo, or in Syria, for that matter, he wouldn't leave.
And now he was dead.
"And the orphans?" he asked.
"The orphans in the ward were all killed. But there's still a nearby building were the others are being housed. Our people are flying there now to ensure they get the basic medical care. But without Dr. Maaz, it will be difficult for our team to move at the speed the children need us to move/"
"Then I'll go," Dr. Faulkerson said. "I've been to Aleppo -- Dr. Maaz showed me around a few months back. I made a promise to him to look after the children if anything happened to him. I can't turn my back on that promise now."
"Dr. Faulkerson," she said. "I know your heart for the children, but we can't afford to put you in danger now, given the transition. Send Dr. Gupta, then. He was there in Aleppo as well, wasn't he?"
"No. I need to go. And I'm taking Dr. Gupta with me. There are around two thousand orphans in that place, based on last week's reports. Dr. Lee, if you want me to consider the post, let me go to Aleppo to help. I can't turn my back on them, or on my promise to Dr. Maaz. Please."
Dr. Lee was silent for a moment. She let out a long sigh. "All right. Go. And yes, take Dr. Gupta with you. But don't do anything too heroic. I need you back here. One week, Dr. Faulkerson. I'm giving you one week to tend to the orphans, and if necessary, bring them to Lebanon. Work with our team in Aleppo. I'll send word that you will be there in a day or two."
"Thank you, Dr. Lee." Dr. Faulkerson stood up, shook her hand, and briskly walked out of her office.
Without looking at his phone, he dialled an all-too familiar number. "Sameer? You there? Drop everything. We're going to Aleppo."
