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Olivier "Lion" Flament

…

"C'est loin (How far is it)?"

"On y est presque, monsieur (We're almost there, sir)."

Somewhere in Guinea, a lone APC traversed the dirt road with all haste, past small homesteads and villages. The search for the missing aid workers was well underway.

From their bulletproof windscreens, members of the 2nd Dragoon Regiment witnessed firsthand the misery caused by the ongoing Ebola epidemic. Stores were closed, houses were boarded up. People were in the streets, wailing desperately for help. Mask-wearing officers struggled to keep the peace. It was chaos: the immediate outcome of a viral outbreak left unchecked. As friends and family succumbed to illness, people would easily turn to anguish for succor. And Olivier knew all too well that anguish was but a small leap towards anger, by itself a contagious disease. Too many angry people in one place would start a riot. Bloodshed wouldn't be too far behind.

Rationalizing the nature of chaos was the Frenchman's way of keeping a clear head, as his armored vehicle passed from one gut-wrenching scene to another. None of this was his fault, the brain kept repeating. This entire province was already on the brink of collapse, even before he and his men were shipped here. Until now, he stood by his decision to keep the Dragoons at bay these past few weeks. His men were better off serving as sentries and peacekeepers, rather than as babysitters for the aid workers working in this part of the country. An easy decision to make in hindsight, but die had already been cast.

And he was about to pay for it.

*engine stops*

"Soyez alertes, les gars (Look alive, boys).", he spoke into his headset.

Olivier's platoon finally reached their destination: the fish market a few miles away from the main treatment center. Earlier today, they were tipped off by a few locals who claimed that the missing MSF personnel had been found. The Dragoons expected little fanfare in this place; at worst, the locals would just throw stones at them. But instead, the soldiers came across a peculiar scene. A large crowd of dark-skinned men and women, whispering among themselves, huddling around… something.

"Mon Dieu. Sommes-nous trop tard? (Oh my God. Are we too late?)", the driver asked, visibly worried.

Olivier refused to indulge in pessimism.

"Alpha, déployez-vous (spread out).", he radioed again. "Établissez un périmètre et faites sortir tout le monde (Establish a perimeter and get those people out of there)."

The Dragoons dismounted from the APC, weapons at the ready. Within moments, they converged upon the market square in an echelon formation, startling much of the crowd with the sight of fearsome soldiers in gas masks and Hazmat suits. It was exactly what Dragoons drilled for, containing panic even in the midst of an ongoing viral outbreak. The team leader was at the forefront, using hand signals to direct his troops, while he marched into the source of the commotion. Flanked by two of his best men, Olivier made his way past the massive throng with faint hope in his heart. He prayed that his subordinate was mistaken.

Parting the last group of people like a curtain, that was when he realized that his wish was in vain. To their surprise, the rescue force had already been beaten to the scene by a single man. Copper-like complexion, slightly greyed hair, with a physique that could only be that of a soldier. Rather than a combat uniform, he was donning the white-and-red colors of Médecins Sans Frontières. MSF. He was an aid worker. Or at least for today, he was one of them…

…

"Gus?"

Olivier called to the man. Gustave Kateb, GIGN medic and volunteer humanitarian. The man didn't budge for a few seconds when he heard his name. Then, he slowly turned around with teary eyes, staring down his own countryman, who in turn was startled by what he saw beyond. Behind the good doctor was a pit, hastily dug in the fish market, where the bodies of six people were unceremoniously dumped. They, too, wore the white-and-red shirts. Pale skinned, unmoving, beaten to a bloody pulp, beyond recognition. The missing aid workers had been found.

The Dragoons were too late.

"Gus…"

*smack*

It happened so fast. Without batting an eye, Gustave lunged at Olivier with a clenched fist, felling the latter with a swift right hook. The masked soldier dropped to the ground, causing his rifle to tumble in the process, much to the fright of the gawking onlookers. It immediately caused a stir, nearly prompting the soldiers to shoot their own countryman out of reflex. But they let their training take hold. The two men accompanying the leader seized the initiative to restrain Gustave, while the rest of the platoon shouted at the civilians to back away. There was much yelling and cussing in the air, adding to the chaos. It was incredibly tempting to fire off a warning shot to bring order.

"C'est de ta faute (This is all your fault)!", the man screamed at Olivier.

The words felt like daggers, stabbing into his heart. Still reeling from the punch, he stood up from the ground with eyes turned away. He struggled not to be overcome by guilt. As for Gustave, he let his scorn made known to all. Though held down by heavily-armed men, he continued to struggle in their clutches, eager for another shot at the man he believed was responsible.

"C'est de ta faute, Lion!"

Olivier laid his eyes on the lifeless bodies, of the people he thought he could save. He struggled to find the words to defend himself, but he instead muttered a quick prayer, beseeching for the poor souls before him to enter Heaven. Then, his brain started to gleam the facts, analyzing them like a computer. None of this couldn't have happened if he only spared a few men to protect the aid workers, as they asked him to do. But what choice did he have? How else could he have kept them safe, if there were countless others in the Capitol who needed protection? What was six lives compared to hundreds, if not thousands?

…

No. He didn't regret any of this.

…

...

It had been almost two years since that incident. That last straw that ended a once-amicable relationship between two distinguished soldiers. As far as Olivier was concerned, however, it was all water under the bridge. He had already left the Dragoons and his rather-brief service with the GIGN was about to end as well. Thankfully, another job awaited him, which he had already accepted a few months ago.

For now, though, he was in Amsterdam. A civilian this time around, attending the annual World Forum on Biohazard Safety and Control. There were quite a few familiar faces in the jam-packed conference hall: licensed doctors, rescue workers, and CBRN specialists from across the world. He avoided making eye contact with them, not finding the heart to indulge in small talk. Slouched in his seat with arms crossed, he instead paid attention to the speaker on the podium, dressed in formalwear like the rest of the crowd.

This whole thing was a pit-stop: one last business to deal with before the flight to England.

"…Chaos is something we can avoid…", Dr. Valeria Melnikova continued her lecture. "…We cannot work with a beleaguered people if we present ourselves as conquerors, not as friends…"

She pressed the clicker to change slides, which contained all sorts of diagrams and charts. It was a detailed proposal for a more efficient CBRN triage system, vetoed by the World Health Organization, that could be used in case of another Ebola outbreak. Unlike the ones found in medical journals everywhere, her system was a curious mix of military-style logistics management and proactive interpersonal communication. It mirrored her own background as a former Spetsnaz combat medic and as a civilian doctor in Novosibirsk.

'Lera', as she preferred others to call her, thought it would be a great idea to bring Olivier along today. After all, he too was well-versed in all matters concerning Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear threats. And admittedly, her lecture did bring up a few interesting points, like how information dissemination could keep the locals calm during an outbreak. Her system of managing and distributing medical supplies in treatment centers could do wonders in preventing backlog. But as a whole, the lecture wasn't really working for him. Olivier actively nitpicked her designs with cold logic while the red-haired doctor droned on with her presentation. Assuaging fears with an information drive would be useless if the ignorant locals were as stubborn as rocks. Backlogs in treatment should always be expected in an outbreak, on account of mass panic and limited resources. The list went on.

"…Let us all remember the oath we swore. Servitas vitae. To save lives. That, ladies and gentlemen, should always be in our hearts and minds... Thank you."

*round of applause*

The Frenchman joined in. At the very least, he should give his colleague props for the thought-provoking discussion, even if he didn't entirely agree with all of it.

…

The Forum was over. The dim conference hall was brought back to vibrant light, revealing empty desk chairs and half-finished drinks. Guests and panelists shook hands with each other, while Olivier made his way to Lera, who was talking to an elderly man- a government-type perhaps. The crowd was quite dense and claustrophobic, and the Frenchman had to tip his toes a bit and wave his hand to get the woman's attention. Upon making eye contact, she quickly excused herself from the old guy and walked towards her colleague, brushing shoulders with random folk along the way. The two doctors exchanged pleasantries.

"You should be a teacher, Lera. Your accent makes people want to pay attention."

Rather than thank Olivier for the compliment, the woman instead frowned at him.

"Hmph. Look who's talking. I saw you slouched on your seat..."

The sudden jab was embarrassing, but well-deserved. The man chuckled awkwardly, realizing too late that he had offended her a while ago. Before he could explain himself, Lera put a hand up at him and walked away, to the backstage and get her things. The man had no choice but to follow. This was all lighthearted banter; standard fare for the two pros who worked together before.

"…Did I bore you?", she asked.

"No… No."

"But you were deep in thought."

"*sigh* It's just that… You should not trivialize CBRN protocols that way.", the man stated frankly. "I mean, fieldwork is unpredictable, but we should always stick to the SOP in the end."

"Oh? I suppose shouting at a mob of villagers is in-line with 'standard operating procedures', then?",

Olivier was taken aback by her innocent joke, referring to that incident that earned him his nickname. A rather peculiar episode in his life, much like the one that started his feud with Gustave. Frustration began to build right off the bat, as he certainly didn't expect to be reminded of two bitter memories in a single day. Nonetheless, he remained calm as he walked with her, all the while debating a few points she previously made at the podium.

"I'm serious, Lera.", he continued. "Your proposed system does not account for the possibility of violence during a viral outbreak. Trust me, it can happen."

She seemed unfazed by his argument.

"I know it does. That's why us doctors need to be even more humane. You can't expect people to accept our help if we bring tanks and APCs with us."

"You put too much faith on the locals. When things get desperate, even 'civilized people' become irrational, stupid… angry."

They could even kidnap and murder the ones trying to save them, he wanted to add. Brief flashes of those dead aid workers came to mind. Six senseless deaths, six victims of misguided vengeance, all because people couldn't accept that their loved ones were no more. That it was the doctors' fault that the outbreak could not be contained. It was a frustrating reality to recollect.

"But guns aren't the answer either, are they?", Lera refuted. "…Before we can work to contain an outbreak, we must first earn the people's trust."

"…"

"Remember that incident in Guinea? The MSF said-"

"Argh, I'm not having this talk again! Forget I said anything."

Olivier felt his temper flare for a bit, nearly causing him to shout in the middle of the crowd. It was noticeable enough for Lera to stop her next words; she too was startled by the quick change of mood. Embarrassed by his outburst, the Frenchman sighed and looked away. A quick apology was immediately discarded, in favor of maintaining a stoic, unregretful face. Right then, it became clear to the female doctor that they would have to put their little 'academic debate' on hold, before it ventured into somewhere unpleasant.

It didn't take long for the pair to reach the backstage, where their belongings were kept in a locker. This time they didn't exchange words, even as they grabbed their bags, took out the spare clothes, and started to change into them. They gave each other privacy as silence prevailed the atmosphere- filled with dull stillness and dead air. With the Forum done, there was only one more thing for the two doctors to do before they could return to the hotel. Then, the flight to England at an unspecified time. Apparently, it was SOP for their new employers to withhold travel details until the last minute. A fair kind of security arrangement, but the sooner that the flight came, the better.

Team Rainbow. That was the name of the future that awaited Olivier and his colleague. It was some sort of top-secret unit, headquartered somewhere in the UK, currently in need of some CBRN expertise. No natural disasters to deal with this time; the two doctors would be going up against calamities brewed in a terrorist group's chemistry lab. Most people would think that there was a big difference between them, but man-made disasters and natural ones ultimately had the same outcome. Death, chaos, carnage, as with dozens of hot zones that any experienced crisis response would be familiar with.

From what the man had gathered so far, a few of his fellow Gendarmerie officers were working in this unit as well, thus explaining their sudden departure from the GIGN last year. Gilles, Emmanuelle, Julien… And of course, the man who had already cut ties with him.

"Olivier.", Lera called.

"Hmph. What?"

He didn't need to turn around to see her anxious expression, out of concern for his sake. And he was right- she stared at him, worryingly, while she wore a jacket over her blouse and jeans. Like she knew what was going on in his head at the moment. Female intuition perhaps.

…

"What happened two years ago… It was not your fault."

The man scoffed, remembering what logic and reason had kept telling him since it happened.

"People died, and I hope I can find forgiveness for it. But what I did, I did to save more lives. I'd do it again. That's doing my job..."

Olivier turned around as he finished buttoning up his shirt. Her colleague needed to know his conviction.

"…And I know we can never save everyone."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try.", she insisted.

"Pour l'amour du ciel (Oh for heaven's sake)... It's like to talking to a brick wall."

"Olivier… One of these days, that by-the-book attitude of yours will be your undoing."

A quick laugh escaped his lips. Olivier wanted to talk back on her, remind her that he had already moved on. There was only answer he could say.

"I know."

Lera shook her head, disappointed at his response. He was sorry that she felt that way, but he'd just about given up on explaining himself to everyone. Everything he did that day, every decision he made, every sacrifice… They were all for the greater good. Hundreds of people were kept safe and sound because he ordered his men to guard them, rather than protect six volunteers who gambled with their lives. Such a harsh statement to say in one's mind, but that was the truth. An untenable situation would never have a good ending.

And he was never proud of the fact that he had an active hand in it. Would there have been another way? Perhaps so. Perhaps he should've run double-shifts with his men, work the extra mile to make sure everyone lived. Perhaps he should've let Gustave tear him to shreds, give a fiery and altruistic heart a chance to defeat one ruled by cold-logic, just to see who was right in the end. Perhaps, if Olivier had done a little better at this job, six lives would not have been lost on that fateful day. They said that die had already been cast, but perhaps they had been wrong all along?

None of that mattered now. Such was the benefit of hindsight, giving everyone perfect vision when tragedy was already over and there was nothing left than to point fingers. But it shouldn't be this way. He couldn't keep working like this. He needed a different perspective. Perhaps that was what Lera was telling him all this time? While his brain earnestly looked for an answer, he looked at his colleague again, hoping to break the ice. He was surprised to see that the red-haired doctor was already by the backstage exit, a bag slung across her shoulder and a hand near the door knob. Her other hand was wrapped around her smartphone, reading an important message.

It seemed that their orders had finally arrived.

"Six wants to meet me at the American Embassy...", she muttered without looking at him "…You don't have to come."

There was still time to make the right decision. At the last minute, Olivier grabbed his backpack and hurried to the woman's side, maintaining a dull expression. She was surprised by his sudden enthusiasm, an abrupt change of mood. He didn't want her to know that her words were starting to work.

"I'll drive.", he muttered. "How far is it?"

Team Rainbow. While he'd made his fair share of bad calls, he probably wouldn't regret this one.

…

Author's Comments/Notes: I've always found the feud between Lion and Doc intriguing, ever since I read about it on the former's Bio page. But given the lack of information on the incident, I created my own version of it based on something I read about the West African Ebola Outbreak (with a whole lot of creative liberties taken, of course). And before anyone asks: no, I did not make Lion and Finka into a couple in this chapter, nor do I intend to do so in the future. Nano-girl only has her eyes set on Chunky-boy himself. ;)

Up next is Vigil!