There is something comforting about staring at the same white stone wall for the thousandth time. Lit up brilliantly by white, fluorescent lights, unwavering and unblinking. The lights in Medicus will always stay on for those who need them. Whether that is someone in the throes of sickness, feverish and delirious; a loved one deafened and suffocated by grief; or a Doctor, hiding from their own cowardice and claustrophobic anxieties. A Doctor who once worked with trembling hands, fighting off hours of sleep deprivation, seeing Darkness in illuminated corners, the walls collapsing in, their only protection a frail mask. When everything changes that brilliant, sterile white remains constant. Secure. Soot from firebombs cleaned off until the surface shines once more. Collages of blood and glass collected and disposed of to reveal the pristine underneath. Dents hidden by the direct light, no room for shadows to seep in at the corners. Though time and people change this wall is a constant, papers arranged at right angles parallel to the desk edges, laboratory equipment and test tubes and flasks all perfectly cleaned and polished, displayed with pride.
That is where the constance wavers, it would be a selfish, ignorant lie to say that this room remained unchanged. Wishful thinking perhaps.
It would also be a lie to say that there is a flower on the desk. There is a withered, brown stem in a nearly evaporated jug of water. Petals, sun bleached, and sand dusted, lie on the surface. Decaying in neat, individual piles. A pointless attempt to return to nature’s cycle. Lying adjacent to the glass is a white mask, crumpled slightly with a cracked lens that was never completely fixed. The stitching along the top perfectly even but clearly handmade, imperfect perfection. Like everything in this room, a foul mockery of human roboticism. A picture frame lies on the corner, close to the side of the desk, easily within reach. The glass is unblemished and polished to the point of brilliance, like everything else in this room. Perfectly encased within lies a photograph of three people lying underneath the stars, only their silhouettes visible, shadowed by the celestial forms above. Insignificantly human.
The biggest change is probably the occupant of this room. They sit in a wheeled chair at that desk, viewing that white expanse of wall from a whole new angle. Crippled and imperfect but made all the more human for it. Their hands work quickly, precisely, well practiced, pouring substances between vials, mixing them with an unmatched proficiency. A white lab coat turned armour now possesses its old stature, no longer dusted with the general grime of the Underground. Well pressed and perfectly ironed. Though their gloved hands shake it is no longer from fear or uncertainty, from anger or disdain, it is excitement. Nervousness sure, but life would not exist without anxiety for the future. A compounding mass of failures are surmounted as they pour the last flask into the vial. Expunged from the world like a resistant stain, extracted like a symbiotic parasite, desperately clinging to its host, removed with the accuracy only a surgeon’s blade can manage. After all, when you are well practiced it doesn’t matter if your hands shake.
This time when they clasp that solution in their hands and turn to leave they don’t collapse under their own weight. Under the necrosis rotting them from the inside out. They instead call out to others, their voice filled with hope rather than desperation. They hold their ‘Magnum Opus’ as it has been called, the rekindled sparks of a flame thought long suffocated. Finally, for the first time that Fire does not burn them as they reach out to embrace the hands of others, to pass it on to dust covered purple painted fingertips or to pale hands marked with the twisted scars of cremation and ash.
That Fire is not a weapon to be used for destruction, it is a tool. A gift, to humanity, one to be celebrated and shared. It is salvation.
Written by Faith C.
The last few years for Promethea had been strange. In Principality, she was the doctor who'd worked herself almost to death to stop a pandemic. In the world beyond the desert, they were a student.
The opportunity to learn the medicine of the future had not come lightly. First, they'd had to put the chasm parasite to bed once and for all. Next, she and Hazel had had to reclaim the Overground. Only once everything calmed down - once the people of Principality could use their resources for anything more than bare survival - had Hazel been able to agree to shoulder the burden in the city while Promethea went away to learn.
They came back a changed doctor. A better doctor. One who could combine the technology of the new world with the resourcefulness she had relied on in the old. Though their return to Principality wasn't met with fanfare or a parade, it was certainly a day for celebration amongst a select few. Achlys and Luna, of course, but Doctor Hazel almost as much.
“Chirp Chirp Chirp!” chirped Icarus, bouncing on Hazel's shoulder again. Hazel smiles. The smile of someone who's seen the world and accepted the difficulties of the past. A sincere, wholesome, happy smile.
“He's happier to see you then I am.” Hazel chuckles. “Finally, he won't need to cover for me when I'm on leave. Speaking of, I think it's finally time you gave me that permanent break from Medicus you promised, Head Doctor Promethea.” Hazel unpins a badge from her labcoat and hands it over. The symbol of Medicus, cast in metal. A symbol that Promethea would be helping the people of Principality and beyond for years to come.
Promethea still wasn't quite sure what to say. Silently, she stepped towards Hazel. For just a few seconds, the two shared a wordless hug.
“Thank you, Hazel.” said Promethea at last.
Hazel stepped back, her grin slipping back into her usual soft smile. “The torch is yours now, doctor. I've seen you bear it to the world before. I know you'll do it again.”