:Disclaimer: I do not own POTO. This story is no reviving of the 38-year-old-woman from Valenciennes who's had a face transplant done by Dubernard and Devauchelle in 2005. The people used in this fanfic are made up (e.g. the names of the doctors aren't "Dubernard" and "Devauchelle", so is the place not related to the real first face transplant that was done in 2005.

:Author's Note: I have never written a modern-day-fic, so please tell me what you think of it. Flames are welcomed, too, so don't hesitate.

:Summary: The first face transplant had been carried out on a male whose face has been deformed since birth. Christine's fingers trembled as she read the newspaper. Would he come back and take what belonged to him once his face was no more barrier?

:beta: Incapability

: Face Transplant :

or: The Point of No Return

Christine turned off the coffee machine and poured some coffee into a cup. Her thoughts already laid on the question which marmelade she would put on her croissant, she put the cup on the kitchen table and sat down. Outside, the rain was pounding on

her window. As her fingers reached for the marmelade glass, her glance fell upon the newspaper.

"Surgeons carried out the world's first face transplant in Paris -

The operation took place three weeks ago in Paris, and is believed to have lasted approximately five hours. The 48-year-old French patient from Paris underwent extensive counseling before his operation. Having been deformed since birth, the patient decided to risk the procedure and begin a new life.

"There is only one thing on earth I want to do before I die – and for that, I need a new face." –The Patient's words before the operation.

The tissues, muscles, arteries and veins needed for the transplant were taken from a multi-organ donor in the northern city of Lille, who has been brain-dead.These tissues now replace the skin on half of his skull, and the surgeons were able to form a new nose for him as well.

The operation was carried out by a team led by Professor Raquin and Professor Froid.

In a statement, the hospital said that the man has been able to speak and will be able to go home in two more weeks. He is in excellent general health."

A loud noise escaped her throat and cut through the iron silence which had formed while she had read the article. Her pale face stared at the lines which she could not read anymore. Tears had formed in her eyes and made it impossible for her to see anything. Christine's fingers clenched the glass of marmelade so tightly that her knuckles shone yellow through the skin.

One thought after the other crossed her mind as she breathed heavily. Here in Paris, she would not be safe once he was released from hospital. She would be safe nowhere.

Suddenly throwing the glass of marmelade on the table – it rolled across its surface and fell to the floor, the glass broke with a noise that was similar to her feelings – Christine stood up and ran out of the kitchen.

At the same time in the St. Lucien Hospital in Paris, a nurse handed a hankerchief to her patient. "How are you feeling today?"

The patient nodded and his voice sounded morbid through the layers of bandage that had been put on his face. "I am fine. I can hardly wait for this bandage to be taken off."

"You will be able to go home very soon, Monsieur," the nurse said, "but please do not forget to sing a song for us. We have never had a patient with such a beautiful voice."