Die for You | Catching Fire

chapter forty-four

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chapter forty-four
AGONY AND MERCY

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tw:
ptsd, sadness — mockingjay is heavy :(
━━━━

Going to District Eight to accompany Katniss and the Propo Team earns him an obnoxious burst of laughter followed by a big fat no by his doctor. While his eye is recovering nicely, the key word is that it's recovering. As in still unhealed and incredibly delicate. The stitches need several more weeks at the least, and one wrong bump could split them open. Not to mention the risk of infection from the dirt and debris of the recent bombing.

"When then?" Ptolemus asks. "When will I be cleared?"

Dr. Warwick shrugs. "Maybe another month. Maybe two. It's not a process we can rush. You want to keep your eye or what?"

"What good is it?" He shakes his head. "I can't see out of it anyway."

The older man stares at him for a long time. Then he huffs, lips forming a grim line as he points his own medical file at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that after I spent eleven hours in surgery sewing it back together." Dr. Warwick swivels on his heels and stalks out of the examination room. He calls out over his shoulder. "Your limitations remain the same until your next check up!"

Ptolemus scowls. Eventually, with a huff, he heaves himself off the exam table, paper crinkling and tearing with the movement. Dalton is waiting for him outside along with his occupational therapist Dr. Fission.

"Maybe next time," the refugee from Ten tries, patting him on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile.

He clenches his jaw, fingers twitching at his sides. What good is he to the Propo Team if he can't even go with them to film? What good is he to the war? What good is he to Sage? Ptolemus glances over at Dr. Fission and raises a brow. "Are you coming to Special Defense too?"

His occupational therapist nods. "Depending what you're doing with that sword today, I might be able to help."

"Hm."

The trio embark on their journey down to the earth's core, otherwise known as Special Defense. Ptolemus is too irritated to grow uneasy at that sinking sensation, levels upon levels blurring past them like before. They start through the labryinth, except instead of heading toward the Propo Set, they turn to the guarded hall labeled Special Weaponry.

The guards check the schedule on all three of their arms. Then comes the fingerpint, retinal and DNA scans as well as the metal detectors. Ptolemus's locket and wedding ring set them off, and one of the guards demands he hand them over for inspection. He's about to fight them on it when Dalton gives him a pointed look.

He glowers as he watches the one open and close the locket, holding it upside down, shaking it, rubbing his thumb all across for grooves and latches that aren't supposed to be there. He even takes the picture out of Sage's family, checking behind and holding it up to the light. Heat swarms the right side of his body.

A muscle in his cheek twitches impatiently. "You done?"

The soldier stuffs his possessions back into his fist, though he doesn't slip the photograph back where it belongs, it loose in his grip. There's an air of superiority to his tone as Ptolemus's glacial gaze narrows. "Done."

They're pushed through the door and to the other side where a second round of identification checks takes place. Ptolemus fumbles to carefully slide Sage's family picture back into the locket, and he curses under his breath when he has to give his DNA again. Finally, after twenty more yards of a stroll, they're permitted to enter the weapons collection.