AN: This fic is rated T for violence and language.
The Inspection
Sterile room. Empty air. The circulators drone and so does my medic. They photograph and document my wounds from head to feet. No one says a word about how I got them. "Post-traumatic exposure exam completed," he continues in monotone. "We will now complete standard physical inspection. Disrobe."
I blink. Haven't I already?
"Nurse," he says simply, and the serpent strips the gown from my shoulders before I can move to stop her. I gasp in shock and cover myself, but everyone in the room got a good look.
First Malcovitch, then Klerkov, now this doctor. I flush scarlet from my face to my feet. I know I'm not much to look at—as Klerkov noted drily—but this robot doesn't so much as respond. Maybe it's just a medical procedure to him, or maybe he's seen worse, but the sight of my bare breasts doesn't even merit a prolonged or second look. "Underdeveloped female," he continues as though nothing had happened. "Tanner stage 3-"
I'm already in trouble. I really should be cooperative. But I want my Chaperone and I want answers and I'm sick and tired of the silent treatment. "If you don't like my breasts, just say so." I say as I slouch back into the sleeves of the robe.
He blinks. "You know what the Tanner score is?"
"No," I scowl, "but I know an insult when I hear one."
"It's a medical assessment." He insists, then drops his voice back to its emotionless state and succinctly ignores me. "Nurse, prep her for the pelvic inspection."
"You're a mudak. Assess that. And what the hell are you doing-!" He's pulled out a dangerous looking metal contraption that has no business being used with the words pelvic inspection. It looks like a hip spreader for calving season.
"A full-body entrance physical," he returns blandly. "Nurse, sedative-"
Syringe. "What the hell is that!"
"An injection. " The serpent hisses. "This will sting-"
I deal with knives and death for a living, but if there's one thing on this world I can't stand, it's needles. I grab her wrist and struggle. "Get that away from me-!"
But the medic ignores us. He continues his droll interview. "Age at onset of mensus?"
"What?"
"At what age did you start your menstrual cycles?" He asks.
Menstrual what? Then I figure what he's talking about and flush crimson. In District 6, you don't discuss this sort of thing around men. Ever. "Why the hell would you want to know?" I ask, aghast. But I still don't drop the hand wielding that syringe.
"Age." He repeats.
"Thirteen," I glower, still grappling with snake-face for control of the sedative. I'm stronger, sure, but her scaled wrist is slimy and slippery. She wrests out of my grip again.
"Number of pregnancies and viability at term?"
I flush, indignant. "I've never-"
"Given patient demographics we will screen for STI's as well." He finishes into his recorder. "Nurse, restraints-"
Restraints. My heart begins to hammer. I've butchered animals since I was seven. Restrains are never, ever, the harbingers of anything good. "Don't you fucking dare," I hiss to her.
A second and a third join her. The fourth makes the mistake of reclining the table and pulling out the stirrups.
Petra Angelovna, what the hell are you doing? I'm not so certain. But three things I do know with finality are 1) I am NOT getting an injection, 2) I am NOT getting tied down and raped with that tool, and 3) I'm totally, completely, and utterly fucked no matter what I do next. There was a moment I might have been able to back out of this gracefully. No longer.
Three nurses stand petrified, and snake-face is sobbing with the syringe stuck straight through the side of her neck. I've got an arm hooked around her torso, and a hand against the plunger. From the sound of shrieking, shouts, and intermittent crashes coming from the hall, it appears Cry baby encountered similar hostility. It enrages me more. He's just a little kid. Doesn't know how to stand up for himself. I never should have let him go.
From now on, I trust my instincts. "Bring Malcovitch to me," I snap. "Now!"
For the first time in this whole ordeal, the medic seems more than just vaguely aware of my presence. You take a staff member hostage and start making demands, and suddenly you're the center of attention. His voice is stern, but polite. "Miss, I'm going to ask you to get back on the examination table before I alert security."
He wanted to sedate and restrain me against my will. We're past being polite, shithead. "Go fuck yourself. No way in hell am I getting back on the rape chair." I glare down at him. "I want Malcovitch. Now."
The medic blinks. He turns to the remaining staff. "Go get him," he orders. "Quickly."
Snakeface begins to sob, her neck throbbing against the cold glass of the syringe. Fat, round, red drops of blood begin to ooze. Her crying is shrill and grating, and it can't move me to sympathy. I'm Petra Stoneheart, the Butcher's daughter. If anything, it just infuriates me further."Shut up!" I snarl."You're making it worse for yourself. " But that's not enough to calm her, and the medic's eyes, although still cool, are watching the hand on the plunger in earnest.
I think I understand. "If it's not anything dangerous, why the hell are you all so scared?" I snarl.
"That dose is titrated to you," he explains calmly. "It's effects might prove stronger in a person with less body mass."
"And what effects, exactly?" I demand.
"Muscular paralysis, CNS depression, with possible decompensation of the respiratory drive." He enumerates.
"Would it kill her?" I press.
"Possibly."
A sour feeling rises from my stomach. "And you were going to let them use it on me?"
"The odds of the same lethal effects in someone of your stature are negligible."
"Goddamnit, talk so I can understand you!" I shout.
He blinks again. "It likely wouldn't harm you," he says after a long pause.
"Likely?" I spit. "Possibly? You're a doctor. I thought you were supposed to be smart. So tell me, is there anything you actually know?"
"I know you're concerned for your counterpart," he answers carefully. "I also know you're bluffing about hurting her. Why don't you let her go?"
"Wrong," I put the tiniest traction against the syringe. "Guess again."
"I know if you were to harm a member of my staff, you would earn a great deal of trouble," he continues with gravity. "And that is not something you would want."
"Are you blind?" I snap. "Did you even watch the vids today? I'm going to the Hunger Games. The Capitol can't punish me anymore than they already are."
"They can change the odds," he counters simply, "and assure you have no chance of surviving in the Arena. They can blacklist you from sponsorship. Torture you. Even kill you outright, and require another from your District to take your place. Trust me, Tribute," his flecked green eyes are sad, "You have more to lose than you know."
I blink. But before I can respond the door bursts open and the disgruntled nurses return, dragging Xavier Malcovitch underarm. Their faces and hands are scratched and bloodied, and one sports what looks suspiciously like a bite mark deep in the flesh of her left forearm.
I can't help but smile. He might be small and weak, but he has the advantage. They're only trying to restrain a child. Xavier Malcovitch is fighting for his life. He perks up when he sees me, and redoubles his squirming. "Hey, Cry baby," I whisper.
'The boy is here," the medic continues. "As you can see, he is unharmed."
I nod to the nurses. "Make them go away."
"Leave us," he orders, without so much as a glance in their direction. Xavier Malcovitch runs to me the second he's free and plants his face in my ass. Again.
"You okay?" I ask him. Cry baby nuzzles his nose deep into my hip.
"Any further demands?" The medic inquires, inching forward cautiously. "Will you let my nurse go, now?"
I chew my tongue, thinking. The medic's in charge, and if I'm right, possibly sympathetic. He hasn't called security yet, and my instincts tell me he isn't going to, so long as I comply. I want out of here. I want to live. I want Tasha Pushkina, my father, and a train ride home...
...in short, I have to win the Hunger Games. And if that means toeing the line to get into the Arena alive, so be it. Game Ordinance might dictate we both get physicals, but I'm willing to bet it doesn't say a damn thing about how they're done. "Just one more," I state, pulling the needle slowly from snakeface's flesh. "Respect. It's your job, fine. I don't like mine, either. But if you have to inspect us like cattle, you're going to have the decency to give us some privacy and you'd damn well better use our names…and you move so much as a finger towards my privates I'll put a band around your balls so tight they turn black and fall off within the week, got it?"
