The Medic
AN: The Hunger Games is 'soft' science fiction, meaning the emphasis is more on the societal sciences like psychology, sociology, and political science. Collins attempts her hand at more 'hard' science with the muttations, and in homage to that I've taken a few liberties to make them more realistic.
I return from the dressing stall to find Malcovitch sitting calmly on the exam table, sucking the ear buds of the medic's stethoscope. He's got one arm held out gingerly, supported by the medic's steady hand.
…the other hand is cleaning the inside of Malcovitch's elbow with a sterile dressing patch. Look out, Xavier. You're about to get a shot.
He beams when he sees me, and attempts to stand. The medic stops him with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Not yet, Mr. Malcovitch."
"How'd you do that?" I ask, breaking our awkward silence. "How'd you get him to sit up there?" I haven't seen Malcovitch so blissfully calm since before breakfast this morning, and there's not a familiar face in sight.
"I asked," the medic shrugs, looking me straight in the eyes. "Perhaps you were more right than you knew, Petra Angelovna, when you spoke about respect."
I flush, both in embarrassment over the earlier incident of demanding respect while holding snakeface hostage, and a little for how aware he's been of me. He's good-looking, confident, complimented me twice and actually listened to what I said. I'm used to being mistaken for a child. It's both frightening and flattering to find a man willing to see me as a woman.
…too bad he's also the medic who just had a good, long look up your vagina, Petra, I remind myself. But all mutual trust and whatever else I'm feeling is shot to hell when I see the waiting syringes laying on the tray beside the table. Two of each, and two large bags filled with amber fluid. One for Cry baby, one for me. My heart hammers, my face pales, and my vision begins to tunnel. I nearly faint. I think I'd rather be back on that table with my knees spread and Victor-fucking-Ivan Klerkov watching. "What's that for?" I ask weakly.
"Vitamin and gamma globulin infusion," he states. "Bloodwork reveals multiple chronic deficiencies. It's my estimation that yours will as well, although your protein and iron levels should be well within normal. His…were startling even after examination."
I knew he was small. Underfed. I didn't realize how much so. I turn to face Cry baby, both out of pity and a desire to look at anything but that long array of needles. He smiles up at me, a small string of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. "How bad?"
"With winter coming? Even with standard tessare fare, weeks, perhaps months, to live." The medic says sadly. "Refined carbohydrates and oils can only carry the body so far. It requires substantial amounts of protein and essential micronutrients in order to survive."
He sounds like one of them, with his hissing s's and strange inflection, but the words he speaks and the tone are far too familiar. He isn't one of them, I realize. He's like us. Working in the Capitol as one of their dogs, sending us to the slaughter…it's little wonder he didn't share his name. "Which District?" I ask.
He blinks. "Pardon?"
"Which District were you from?"
He swallows nervously. "I'm Capitol born and bred. But I did an internship in District 12 during my training."
12? The poorest, most squalid, disease-ridden District. They say from there you can see the smoke still rising from District 13, and it's the nuclear radiation that keeps their crops from growing, even now, nearly seventy-five years later. "Why?"
"There was something I had to see."
"Like what?"
"The truth," he states simply. "Come, sit. You'll need to be infused as well."
Watch it, Petra. It won't be so bad, just a little poke-
I tried. I really tried. But the second the needle pierced the skin of Cry baby's pale arm I found myself on my hands and knees, retching up the stringy remains of my forgotten breakfast.
My stomach heaves and heaves and heaves, and it's all I can do just to simply breathe. My face is hot, long threads of phlegm cake my chin, my lips, and my hair. I took on getting Reaped, a mob, and a pelvic exam without the slightest show of fear, and a fucking needle brings me to my knees. I find myself hoping this medic keeps everything as confidential as he claims—I can't afford the Careers knowing all it takes to bring down Petra Angelovna is a simple vaccine.
Damnit, Petra, get a grip-! But when I finally look up, that needle is still buried in Xavier's squirming flesh, and fat drops of blood leak slowly from the site. I let out a hiccoughing burp and cough up more skinny strings of saliva. Staring at the floor and wiping my face with my sleeve, I wonder what Klerkov would think of his champion now.
When I get the nerve to look up again, Cry baby is watching me, curiosity and concern written all over his face, one ear-piece of the stethoscope still hanging forgotten from his mouth. "Oh, shut up, Cry baby," I grumble. The medic watches me coolly.
"You too," I snap.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he explains, unconcernedly. "Many people even in the medical field suffer vasovagal syncope at the sight of blood."
"It's not, not blood," I gasp. "Just…just needles."
"Is this really necessary?" I plead, hugging Cry baby to my chest as I sit again on that thrice-damned chair. "I mean, we don't even know if my levels are low."
His green and gold-flecked eyes fill momentarily with sadness. "You're from the Districts. The levels are always low, Petra Angelovna. And you will need all the immunity I can give you before heading into that Arena." Then he smiles. "But if you wish to be certain, I can always draw blood as well."
I groan. "Just do it."
He has me lay back so if I pass out, I won't fall. Cry baby nestles his face contentedly on my chest, fidgeting with the taped on IV site. I shut my eyes in the semblance of maintaining my dignity. The medic grabs my trembling arm with steady hands, and deftly cleans the inside of my elbow. I feel the alcohol cool my skin, gentle as a kiss. Alcohol—that's what this whole process needs. Give me a bottle of vodka and all the anxiety would just melt away-
There's a sharp pain stabbing into my bone. I cringe and clutch Cry baby so tightly he grunts in surprise and squeals. Then-
"That's it?" I ask weakly.
"That's it," the medic confirms. "Now just let it infuse."
I open one eye. "Then no more needles?"
He shakes his head, amused. "Then six more."
Fuck. Fuckety-fuck fuck fuck fuck and fuck.
To my relief, I'm not the only one who doesn't relish any more shots. When the needles come out of our arms, Cry baby decides instantly that he's done with this now, thank you very much, and promptly becomes as fussy and uncooperative as an infant. My own stomach is still to queasy to growl in hunger, but my body is fatigued. It's growing late in the morning, and it's been hours since we've eaten.
"Cry baby, sit still," I command after the third shot. I have my eyes closed and my arms crossed over his frail chest, but even then he cries and kicks miserably. These ones are with the normal needles, the medic explains to me. He couldn't mix them with the gamma globules or whatever the hell they were called, so he couldn't put them in with the 'soft needles' that didn't hurt so bad. He also has to inject them slowly, so they don't burn the veins.
But if there's anything worse than six shots, it's anticipating them. "Isn't there a quicker way?" I complain. Xavier Malcovitch's thrashing is doing nothing for my nerves.
The medic's voice comes from far away. I might have to lay down again. "It can be injected IM, but in bolus form it stings."
"What the hell. Do it." I up-end Cry baby, one arm snaking between his back and elbows, the other behind his knees. I lock my fingers over my legs, and Xavier Malcovitch is trapped, immobile, with his ass just inches from my face. He screams, and cries, and struggles, but to no avail. He's stuck ass-upwards and miserable, as my childhood experiences with medics and nurses always were.
The medic blinks, impressed. "You're had pediatric experience?"
"Hell no." I don't even know what pediatric means. I try to think back to what little schooling I've had. Peds…doesn't that mean feet? "But after you've castrated a couple hundred boar pig, a thirty kilo kid doesn't put up that much of a struggle for vaccines."
"Not vaccines. Vitamins," he corrects. Cry baby lets out a shriek so loud my ears are ringing. I grip him reassuringly. Just two more, Cry baby. Just two more and it'll all be over. I won't them hurt you again.
"Why no vaccines?"
"You can get an influenza-like reaction," the medic explains as Malcovitch sobs. "Myalgias, fever, even fatigue. It's ill-advised to do so close to the Games in under-nurished or otherwise disadvantaged Tributes."
"The weak." I finish.
"That, and other reasons," he continues darkly.
"What other reasons?"
"Petra Anglovna, tell me, did you have your childhood vaccinations?"
"Well, some of them." Until I got big enough that the Capitol nurses learned what 'no' meant.
"And how did you afford them?"
I have to think for a moment. We were so poor back then..."They were free."
The medic sneers. "And did it never strike you as odd, Petra Anglovna, that the Capitol that kills children should care that the masses be vaccinated?"
"When you raise a herd of cattle, you want as many of them alive for profit," I shrug. "It makes sense."
"The same Capitol that lets them starve?" he presses.
Now he has my attention. "What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, Petra Angelovna, is beware the Tracker Jackers."
I blink. "What?"
"Tracker Jackers. It's a myth that their venom kills. Do you know how they were discovered?" He asks. My silence answers for itself. "Three centuries ago, wasp venom was used as a component in the TB and pneumonia vaccines. Medics then noted that the children of affluent families were more likely to have adverse or fatal effects when exposed to wasp venom than those who would ordinarily be considered more at risk due to sanitation or nutrition issues."
I nod, but I'm not sure I follow. "What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, Petra Angelovna, is that my profession, which takes an oath to do no harm, inadvertently discovered a fact which the Capitol has been using as a tool of subjugation for the Districts and that thousands of healthy, innocent children have died from it by simply playing outside," his flecked eyes glint angrily. "Tracker Jacker venom can't kill you, even now days when it's been concentrated nearly a million times by DNA recombination. It's a hallucinogen, yes. The pain from shock can kill you if you receive enough stings, certainly. But the lethal swelling is due to anaphylaxis. Allergy. And allergies can only occur when someone has had previous exposure."
My eyes widen. "They infect us?"
"Your vaccinations give your immune system the pre-formed antibodies to fight the venom. In this case, get enough venom, and your body releases so much histamine the angioedema causes dry drowning," he continues academically, but his voice is thick. He's seen it happen, I realize. He watched kids in District 12 die. Really die, and not just on the Vids for the Hunger Games, either. Real patients—real people—just like us.
…that's why he didn't want to know our names, I suddenly understand. Not because he cares too little. It's because he cares too much.
"They changed the vaccine formula nearly a century ago for Capitol children," he continues sadly. "It's only in the Districts where the hives serve as a form of control where the original serum is still used."
AN: One of the best things about this website is the inter-author interaction we get with the review and PM features. As of this chapter, there's been over 400 visitors to this story: are you all ready to do your share? I don't mean a review for me—there's new author on fanfiction who has started her own Hunger Games fics! She's been nice enough to follow this story, and asked for some help getting some Tributes for her SYOT. If you're a SYOT story fan and have an OC you'd love to share with her or any constructive advice/encouragement for a beginning writer, could you please check out kc000xoxo's fic Each and Every One Can Die?
