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There's a biting pain in him that is so intense Ptolemy can feel it in all of his stomachs. In every failsafe, in every fiber, in every line of code and pixel. It resides in every piece of him, throbbing and pulsating and screaming until it manages to worm its way out of his skin.
He's starving.
Withering away under his own cowardice.
His instincts, red-hot and on high alert, are telling him, — no, screaming at him — to feed. To nourish himself. To live. To survive the ache. All it would take is one snap of his jaw, one show of his teeth, and the pain will fade.
Oh, how badly he wants it to fade.
He wants so badly for it to leave him, so badly for it to run from his body and never return, and it would be so, so simple…
His mind, however, whispers. Tells him the hunger is nothing. That it is a fleeting emotion he cannot afford to indulge or entertain.
His mind tells him the hunger will fade.
His mind, he knows, lies.
He knows the hunger will not truly fade. Knows that if he does not indulge, he will fade in its stead.
He is not sure who will win the battle of wills.
For his own sake, he hopes it is his body.
For his sake, however…
Ptolemy hopes it is his mind.