AN: The fanfiction audience in general is nearly 90% female. We talk about boys, we talk about books, we talk about shoes and shopping, we talk about awkward first kisses, failed or budding romance and we talk about sex. We portray friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and motherhood, but I've yet to come across a fic that even begins to discuss another integral aspect of our (and our characters'!) lives as females: the medical field.
So I, Lasgalendil, hereby dedicate this chapter to every girl who's ever had to put up with annoying health care personnel asking, "are you sexually active?" then writing 'yes' in the chart regardless of the answer. PAP smears save lives, ladies. They also suck.
This fic is rated T for violence and language. Warning: this chapter contains invasive medical procedures.
The Exam
"My apologies," the medic says mildly the moment snakeface slips through the door. "I didn't realize you were intelligent."
I cross my arms. "And that's supposed to make a difference?"
"The average age-adjusted IQ disparity between Capitol and some Districts' children is nearly forty points," he explains levelly. "It's been my experience that such children are less comfortable with forced conversation than they are will the physical exam. Clearly, in this case I've misjudged."
In my case, yes; with Malcovitch, I'm not so sure he isn't right. "So it's alright to treat people like animals if they can't live up to your standards," I squeeze Cry baby's shoulder. "I get it. You're an over-educated, elitist pig in addition to being a Capitalist cocksucker."
He runs a gloved hand through his short-cropped hair with a sigh. "You're wrong, miss. I find it easier to treat people like animals when that's how they're accustomed to being treated. Especially when they're about to die," he corrects.
"Too bad for you, then." I snort. "Because this animal isn't about to die at all. I'm Petra Angelovna, and I'm going to win the Hunger Games. He's Xavier Malcovitch." I nod to Cry baby. It's not much in the way of greeting, but it's politer than it could have been. Even Malcovitch eyes him expectantly for an introduction.
"I?" He blinks, taken aback. "A doctor in the employ of the Capitol given the honor to serve the exclusive clientele of the Hunger Games. Does that suffice?" He grimaces, then shakes his head. "But the misfortunate one is you, Petra Angelovna. If you'd had decent nutrition and education, I'm fairly certain you could've been a genius."
That, quite possibly, might be the first compliment I've ever received from a man. And, albeit only a hypothetical one, he's very handsome. I'm unprepared. And a little bit shocked. My long list of preformed insults has no repartee for this situation. I feel suddenly shy. Hell, I might be blushing. "Ha," I snort, with an attempt at humor to sound braver than I feel. "Next thing you'll be telling me I'd be pretty as well."
"Further developed, possibly," he amends. "But your bone structure precludes you from societal standards."
My warm, fuzzy feeling of infinitesimal femininity fades instantly."Don't you know how to take a joke?" I snap.
"I was unaware one was being told."
"Me being pretty's not a joke?" I demand. "How much vodka have you had this morning?"
"The ads you see in the Districts feature a small minority of women with a certain skeletal structure and facial proportions," he explains, tone light but somber. "Even then there is an extensive editing process before the images reach the consumer. There are beautiful people in the world, Petra Angelovna, but they're far more rare than you might think. Even in the Capitol," he states. "Which means the converse must be true as well: you're not as disproportionate as you've been led to believe."
Disproportionate? I miss just being plain old ugly. "Now you're just being insulting."
"Perhaps you're just feeling insulted," he suggests. "I've challenged your defense mechanism. It's only natural to experience hostility."
From behind me, Xavier Malcovtich lets out an untimely giggle. While the content of our conversation is above him, he still finds the interaction entertaining. Hell, come to think of it, so do I.
"Alright, then, Mr. Medic-Doctor-person, I'd love to listen to your thoughts on my incomparable beauty all day, but Malcovitch and I are tired. And hungry. I want something to eat and someplace to sleep and some time to prepare for the stupid Chariot ride." I conclude theatrically. "What do we have to do to get out of here?" Just toe the line, Petra. Toe the line and you'll get to see Tasha and Klerkov soon enough…
He gestures to the exam table with the slightest hint of a smile. "I have to finish documenting your physical exams."
"So where does that leave us?"
"At an impasse," he declares gravely. "My duties as Games Medic are quite clear. Were you to consider reneging on your threat of castration, Petre Angelovna, we could continue at your leisure."
I shake my head violently."No way. I am not sitting in the rape chair."
"It's a standard gynecological evaluation, not an assault," the medic corrects me sharply. "The chair is designed to maximize comfort both for the patient and performing physician alike."
I cast a squeamish glance to that ominous table. "Why?"
"It's a requirement." He informs me. "Game Ordinance."
"Why?" I press again.
He stares at me helplessly as though he'd never considered it before. "I suppose because an untreated infection or an unacknowledged tubal or uterine pregnancy would be considered a serious metabolic disadvantage in the Arena."
I wrinkle my nose. "So-?"
"So," he continues, "It's a Tribute's fundamental right to receive proper medical care for any debilitating condition that could be construed as a disability. I also suppose potential Sponsors want to ensure their investments are sound."
"I'm not pregnant." I insist.
"How can you be sure?" He asks seriously.
I cross my arms. "I'm not stupid." I've grown up around animals. I know where babies come from.
Again, the faintest trace of a smile crosses his lips. "I hear the same from many Capitol women of all ages every day, Petra Angelovna. But fertility and intellect, as I explain to them, are unfortunately separate issues."Behind me, there's a clatter as Xavier Malcovitch knocks over a tray. Metal instruments tinker across the tile, and the medic observes him thoughtfully. "It's only forceps," he finally says. "It won't hurt if he touches them."
He turns back to face me, intent."Can't you just…lie?" I ask weakly.
"I don't lie. Not when it comes to my patients' health." He informs me with a look as though I'd insulted his professional dignity.
"You didn't alert security about our incident earlier," I remind him.
"That was omission, Petra Angelovna, not falsification of medial records—of a Tribute, no less. That is an offense I could lose not only my license for, but my tongue as well. The Capitol tends to take these Games…quite seriously." He shudders, but when he speaks again his tone is firm. "I don't want to involve security, Petra Angelovna," he says sternly, "but believe me when I say I will."
Toe the line, Petra. Just tone the goddamned line…do whatever it takes to see Tasha and Klerkov and get into that Arena alive and sponsored.
"Fine," I flush. I'd rather go willingly than tied down and drugged with an audience, anyway. "But if anybody even thinks the words restraints, needles, or pussy, I'm reneging on reneging, got it?" I raise a brow Tasha Pushkina-style and stare him directly in the eye. You don't have to have the strength to overpower the bull, my father said. You just have to have the strength to convince him that you can.
I sit gingerly on the table, swinging my feet and wishing for Tasha Pushkina's reassuring voice and smile. It's foolish. She couldn't stop this, but somehow her poised presence feels protective all the same. Victor Ivan Klerkov might be physically intimidating and more useful in a fight, but my mind wishes him out of Panem for the moment. I think I'd rather ride the Chariot naked this evening than have my Mentor walk in. Again.
The supply table is almost full now, I note unpleasantly. "I usually have the nursing staff to help me," he apologizes, spreading viscous jelly against the metal spreader. "This process is easier with two sets of hands."
"It's a hell of a lot worse with two sets of eyes," I point out, still regarding the tool with as much distrust as I had for that needle. Between the two, I don't know which is worse, anything sharp and pointy, or anything of whatever dullness intended to be shoved up…there.
He sees my look, and tries to distract me as best he can. "What's his story?" he gestures to Malcovitch, suddenly successful in grasping one pair of the metal forceps with another. He smiles up at me from the floor proudly, large eyes shining. Look what I can do! those eyes say better than any words ever could.
I shrug, stomach churning with nervousness."He didn't say."
The medic nods appreciatively."What does he say?"
"Nothing, as far as I know."
He frowns."Did you know him from before?"
'Before the Reaping?" I ask, "I guess it's possible I'd seen him." Before my sisters sickened, and again after they'd died, father would often give out wastage to the poor. Blood sausages, head cheese, salo, even organs and feet if the season had been good to us. Suddenly I understand why he chased the dogs away—he saved the scraps for the starving.
I turn to watch the pitiful boy so taken with his new-found playthings. I'm sorry, Cry baby, if I was ever the reason you had to go hungry.
"Everything's ready," He informs me briskly. "Are you comfortable?"
"What sort of shitheaded question is that? Of course not," I protest, slouching back against the seat in glum resignation. "Let's just get this over with."He hands me a rough white sheet. I accept it hesitantly, with no idea what to do next. "What's this for?"
"It's a drape," he explains.
Adults never actually listen to a question the first time, I've found. He proves no exception."Yeah, I see that," I reply. "But what's it for?"
He blinks in surprise. "Modesty, of course."
"Let me get this straight: you want to me to let you put your fingers up my genitals and you're worried about modesty?" I ask, staring him straight in the eye again. "Please. If I'm going to let a man touch me down there for 'medical reasons' you can be damn sure I'm going to keep an eye on him."
"You, you don't want the drape?" He asks meekly. There's a slight sheen of sweat to his skin.
"Fuck the drape," I tell him. "I don't want the exam."
He sighs, suddenly looking as nervous as I feel. He gestures to Malcovitch with the spreader. "Are you sure you want him here?"
Xavier Malcovitch watches us with mingled suspicion and mild fascination as I place my feet in the stirrups. I shrug. "Nothing he hasn't seen before." Or Klerkov, for that matter, but given the situation I try not to think about it.
…too late. I thought about it. Ew.
"Please," the medic pleads, "This is-"
"Awkward?" I snort, staring at the ceiling, pulling the robe snug across my chest. "I'm the one with fingers up her ass."
'Technically it's the-"
"Ouch!" I snarl. It hurts. "You could've warned me!"
"No evidences of fistula or growth in vaginal mucosa.," he comments blandly, avoiding my gaze. This time, however, it's purposeful. I might be the one on the table, but he's the only one blushing. "No vaginal trauma, scarring, or fluids present. Cervix is-oh," he ends abruptly.
"Oh, what?"
"It's just…not something typically seen in a girl of your age and socioeconomic status." He clears his throat. "Cervix is visible, hymen intact. No adnexal tenderness. Ovaries palpable bilaterally with no cystic lesions."
"What, did you think because I'm poor that I'm a whore? Please," I snort as the exam is mercifully finished and my knees back together. "Does this look like the sort of body men would pay money to fuck?"
I've never been more happy to see clothes in my life. I feel dirty, violated, and a little bit nauseous. I get the whole physical attraction thing, but suddenly now I feel like I haven't missed out on much. If that was 'just' a medical procedure, then sex must be the most awkward and painfully embarrassing act the human race has ever inflicted on itself.
You can count me out, I tell the world as I slip into my pants. Even with—make that especially with—that fit physician. Gorgeous green eyes or not. that encounter was entirely too personal. Vaguely I wonder how it is married people can stand to face each other in the morning.
