After their meeting with Buck in Virginia, Graham and Aria had provided a dose of Vitalyx for him and his wife, followed by Rejuvenex, which was scheduled for delivery on December 3rd. As expected, both Buck and his wife reported remarkable results. He’d agreed—quietly—to begin assembling a few SEAL units who might be open to the serum. Graham was still waiting on that list.
In the meantime, he had turned his attention to a different kind of ally.At his request, Elise Draven had arranged a meeting with Médecins Sans Frontières—Doctors Without Borders—to explore how they might be included in what was to come.
They had flown in the day before aboard the Gulfstream G700, touching down in Geneva beneath a sky smeared with soft gray cloud. Elise had reached out to one of her former colleagues, Dr. Sylvain Marchand, now the Director of Emergency Deployment at MSF, to secure the meeting. It wasn’t a guaranteed success, but it was a start.
That morning, they met in the grand lobby of the Hotel d’Angleterre, a discreet jewel on the edge of Lake Geneva. The hotel exuded old-world elegance with modern restraint—gleaming marble floors, velvet chairs in jewel tones, and crystal chandeliers that refracted the morning light into a soft spectrum. Outside, the ke stirred gently under a low winter sun, with Mont Bnc just visible beyond the mist.
From there, they strolled together to Boréal Coffee Shop—a short walk into a quieter stretch of the city’s grid. The café was warm and minimalist inside, with pale wood tables, exposed concrete, and the rich smell of fresh-ground beans in the air. They arrived just after 7:00 AM, ordered two beautifully poured ttes in wide ceramic cups, and settled into a small table with a view—of the entrance (at Graham’s insistence) and of the street beyond (at Elise’s).
Their strategy had already been mapped out. There was nothing left to rehearse. Instead, they let the morning settle around them, chatting in low tones about what could be spoken aloud. And occasionally, simply sitting in the quiet hum of the café, letting the espresso do its work.
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You have consumed: EspressoStatus effect: +2% PER for one hour
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At a few minutes before 8:00, they stood, left the café, and began their walk toward 78 Rue de Lausanne—the headquarters of MSF. The streets of Geneva were just beginning to hum with activity: bicycles rode past, trams hissed at intersections, and the air carried that rare alpine chill that felt clean in the lungs.
They reached the headquarters just after the eight o’clock hour.
The building rose with quiet confidence—modern but not ostentatious, a structure of gss and pale timber framed by living greenery that crept up the outer walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunlight into a welcoming lobby where function met warmth. Natural wood tones softened the space, and clean-lined furniture kept the tone crisp and uncluttered.
A gentle murmur of activity moved through the atrium: multilingual voices, hurried footsteps, and the rustle of canvas bags and ID badges. The receptionist looked up as they approached, polite and alert.
“We’re here to see Dr. Sylvain Marchand,” Elise said.
The receptionist nodded and tapped a few keys.“One moment, please.”
As they waited, Graham’s eyes moved slowly around the space—tracking exits, sight lines, and the subtle rhythms of a building built for crisis. Elise, meanwhile, inhaled the faint scent of eucalyptus from a nearby diffuser and let her thoughts steel themselves.
After a few minutes, they were escorted up the wide staircase on the left side of the lobby and into a modest conference room tucked behind gss walls and stted wood paneling. Dr. Sylvain Marchand stood as they entered.
He was in his mid-fifties, tall and wiry, with a lean face darkened more by sun than by age. His salt-and-pepper hair was close-cropped, and his eyes were a sharp, intelligent gray. He wore a navy field jacket over a colred shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his nyard—bearing the MSF logo and a faded mission tag—looked as if it had seen a dozen countries and just as many disasters. His hands, though currently still, had the quiet readiness of someone who’d spent years sewing torn flesh back together under pressure.
“Elise,” he said warmly, moving around the table. He embraced her without hesitation. “It’s been too long.”
“Far too long,” she replied, hugging him back. “Twenty-four years, I think?”
“I shouldn’t say it out loud, but yes,” he said, stepping back. “And I still don’t miss Sierra Leone.”
Elise gave a knowing smile. “No argument there.”
Graham, ever the blunt instrument, offered a crooked grin. “What’s wrong with Sierra Leone? The beaches are nice. Right? I mean—when the sands aren’t running red with blood.”
The room went still for just a beat too long.
Graham's grin faltered. “Right. Sorry.”
Elise gave a small ugh, smoothing over the silence. “Graham here is a former Navy SEAL. That’s... Navy SEAL humor.”
Marchand’s chuckle came low and genuine. “Ah, yes. I know the type. I prefer the soldiers who stand between us and danger—like the SEALs—not the ones who create the patients we spend all night trying to save.”
A quiet knock signaled the return of an assistant, who brought in a tray of coffee, small ceramic cups, and two gss carafes. Once assured everything was in order, she gave a polite nod and exited, leaving the three of them alone.
Elise took a sip before setting her cup down and folding her hands. “Actually, that’s as good a segue as any.”
She looked Marchand in the eye.
“We’ve come with a gift. It might be hard to believe—but Elliot Voss has developed a serum that heals the body of all diseases. Fully. Within twenty-four hours.”
Marchand blinked once. Then again. “What?” he asked, voice low but sharp. “That’s... that’s not a medical cim. That’s a resurrection fantasy.”
“It’s real,” Elise said. “I’ve taken it myself. So has Graham.”
Marchand leaned forward slowly, brow furrowing. “Is it protein-based? Enzyme moduted? Some sort of synthetic retroviral override?”
“Closer to the st,” Elise said. “Though none of those terms are technically correct. It works by introducing a coordinated swarm of programmable nanites—microscopic machines—that target pathologies, reverse damage, and stabilize cellur health.”
He sat back, visibly reeling—not from disbelief, but from the terrifying implications of hope.
“You’re saying this thing could clear a cholera camp overnight?”
“It already has,” Graham said quietly.
Elise nodded, calm but resolute.“Dr. Marchand, we are offering a full supply—for every MSF staff member, and for your field clinics. You can distribute it as you see fit. No cost. No catch. It’s cssified as a nutritional supplement. There are no reguted compounds. Nothing to approve or restrict. It just... works.”
She leaned in slightly.“I’ve administered it myself. I’ve seen te-stage patients walk within a day. Thousands have taken it. No side effects. No toxicity. Just one very intense day of purging as the body rids itself of... everything it shouldn’t be carrying.”
Graham grunted. “Yeah. Let’s call it extreme evacuation. You'll want to clear your schedule for about twelve hours. After that? You’ll feel better than you ever have in your life.”
Marchand narrowed his eyes, skeptical but listening.“And you’re just giving this away? Why?”
“Because it’s needed,” Elise said. “And because we trust you to use it well.”
He paused, fingers steepled lightly.“I won’t promise distribution until I see the effect in our own people. Not because I doubt you—but because if I make the wrong call, the backsh will hit real patients. Not just reputations.”
“Understood,” Graham said. “Start with a few of your own staff. Field medics. Yourself, if you like.”
Marchand studied them in silence for a long beat. His eyes flicked briefly to Elise—searching, calcuting, maybe even remembering the woman she'd been two decades earlier in the heat and dust of Sierra Leone.
Then he nodded, slow and deliberate.“Fine. I’ll assemble a small internal team. Discreet. We'll monitor the results in a clinical setting. Bloodwork, imaging, full vitals pre- and post-dose. If it performs the way you cim—then we’ll talk rollout.”
Elise allowed herself a small smile. Not smug. Just... relieved.“That’s all we ask.”
They made quiet arrangements for the delivery of a small batch of Vitalyx, enough for a controlled trial among trusted MSF personnel.
If the results were as promised—and Elise had no doubt they would be—then those same individuals could be offered Rejuvenex, extending their years in the field and multiplying the impact of every healer on the front lines.
And after that—Graham would have a chance to speak with those who wanted to do more. To protect, not just mend. Peacekeepers in purpose, not just name.