[MaC] And So it Begins ... Philip

[Brian Schoner]

Philip swallowed a curse as the buttons of his dress-uniform jacket evaded
his clumsy attempt to button them left-handed. He grimaced down at his right
hand -- such as it was -- hating it, hating the uselessness of it, the
uselessness it made him feel. [It was that or die,] he told himself, for the
umpteenth time. [A hell of a choice, but that's war. And considering what's
happening on the Continent, you got off lightly...] 

He let that thought go, as it never made him feel any better, despite the
truth of it. Gross movements of his shoulder and elbow maneuvered the
burned, clawlike hand into a position where it could clutch weakly at the
fabric. Through an effort, he managed to press the cloth between fingers and
thumb -- enough to hold it in place while his left hand, still unfamiliar
with the motions, made another attempt at the buttons. The effort caused him
some pain, but the pain now was mild compared to what it had been, and he
had better get used to it; the doctors said it would likely never get any
better than it was now.

His right hand held grimly onto the jacket's lapel, as though desperate to
prove that it could contribute *something* to the task it had once managed
effortlessly. He was frustrated enough now to forego the entire party, to
sit here in his borrowed room with a bottle of whisky and the book of Saki
stories that a squadmate had sent him. But it wasn't as though Great-Aunt
Evangeline would let him avoid her social obligations, and the damned cat
would doubtless conspire to ruin his evening despite his best efforts to
shut it out of his room. Besides, there was someone at the party he simply
had to see...if it wasn't already too late.

The button sprang loose again, just as he thought he had it fixed in place.
He did curse this time, biting off the end of the expletive in hopes that
Evangeline wouldn't hear. While grabbing futilely at the cloth with his left
hand, he knocked his right away, the fabric sliding smoothly out from
between his rigid, scabbed fingers. He willed them to close, to catch on the
jacket, but they merely twitched apologetically in the air.