Missing Pieces

This Is War

"A warning to the people,

The good and the evil.

This.. is...war."

"Gale? Is there something wrong?" Beetee asks me in a soft, concerned voice.

I turn around in the chair that I'm sitting in, so that my chin rests on the hard, gray plastic that makes up the back of my seat. "Do you ever wonder..." I start, not sure how to voice my worries. Beetee waits patiently for me to collect my thoughts, and as I do so, I absentmindedly study Beetee's face. Old, wrinkled, worn and washed-out, but a face I trust. One of the only faces I trust.

"Do you ever wonder," I try again, "If any of this is right?" My question comes out sounding a lot more vague than I expected it to, and Beetee gives me a kind look, his way of telling me to elaborate.

"Doesn't this ever feel wrong? Designing the weapons that will eventually be the end of someone? It's..." I struggle for the right words, feeling vulnerable under Beetee's polite but sharp gaze.

"It's hard to think that this," I gesture around at the room, acknowledging all of the blueprints and prototypes lying around, "will take someone's life. It might be a father we kill with this stuff, Beetee. Or a mother, or a child, for god's sake. Does that make us any better than the Capitol? We're creating these things knowing that'll they'll be the death of someone."

Beetee considers this silently for a minute, fiddling with a pen in his hand, a habit of his that I've become accustomed to after spending hours in this tiny, underground room with him. "Son, the Capitol created the Hunger Games? True or false?"

Beetee lets the word son slip out of his mouth with such ease that I doubt he even notices it. I guess we have become a dysfunctional sort of father-and-son pair after all of this time spent together in Special Weaponry. Beetee has looked out for me ever since the war began, giving me quiet words of reassurance through everything. Somehow, his words of encouragement and gentleness have even broken down the hard walls I've carefully hidden behind ever since the 74th Hunger Games, and with Beetee I can let all of my worries loose and, in return, gain partially true promises that tomorrow will bring a better day.

"True," I say in response to Beetee's question, wondering what point he's trying to make.

"The Capitol has essentially murdered 1,727 children, not including the victims of the 75th Hunger Games. True or false?" Beetee asks.

"True," I reply steadily enough, but the number of children killed, put plainly in front of me, chills me to my core. One thousand, seven hundred, twenty seven.

"The Capitol has murdered these 1,727 children solely for entertainment. True or false?"

"True."

Beetee's looks me right in the eye as he says, "That's where the difference between us and the Capitol lies, Gale. They pointlessly murder children for entertainment, while we try to take as few lives as possible for an actual cause. This is war, Gale. We aren't making bombs just because we feel like it. Whether or not you like it, the fact is that there will be violence in war. There will be sacrifice, and there will be death before someone wins. If we were going to win this peacefully, there wouldn't have been a rebellion. If we thought we could get out of this mess with no death, we would've had a nice long talk with President Snow over tea, sign a peace agreement, and be on our merry way."

There's a few minutes of heavy silence as Beetee's words sink themselves into me, break down some of my doubts in my mind and plant a seed of understanding in their rubble.

I am not designing weapons for others' entertainment. I am designing weapons to help the rebels, to give them something to defend themselves with against the people who do spend hours devising ways to kill children, the people who do think that it's okay to slaughter 23 innocent children each year.

This is war, Gale.

Is this war, Gale?

Because it just got a lot more personal.

I watch the red and orange flames lick at their victim, ruthlessly climbing up her frozen body, a single cry for help defeated by the pain. Time seems to stop for a moment as the little blond girl who's not quite fourteen yet reaches out a feeble hand towards her helpless older sister, and that is the memory that I carry with me for my entire life afterwards. Primrose Everdeen's lips forming Katniss Everdeen's name in a final cry for help.

Then the scene starts unraveling too fast for my numb mind to keep up. Bombs, my bombs, explode in hundreds of children's hands. Screams of terror make the air heavy as I put my hands over my ears, almost the way Annie Cresta does, in a futile attempt to block the sounds out. I let myself fall to my knees and let people trample me as they all rush towards the decapitated children, trying to save what's left of them.

I deserve to die.

I want someone to kill me so I don't ever have to face Katniss again. I want someone to end my life and spare me the pain of trying to live with myself after what just happened. I want someone to shoot an arrow through my heart and end my miserable life.

I'm a monster.

But I can't kill myself and I can't let someone else kill me because that would be selfish and cowardly. It would be selfish to die and leave my family mourning. It would be cowardly to die to escape the pain that I deserve.

First, I'll let myself drown in my sea of guilt. Then, I'll get someone to kill me. Better yet, I'll let Katniss shoot an arrow straight through my heart. Maybe that would make up for murdering her sister.

And then I repeat Beetee's words to myself, Beetee's lie from that day in Special Weaponry.

That's where the difference between us and the Capitol lies, Gale. They pointlessly murder children for entertainment, while we try to take as few lives as possible for an actual cause. This is war, Gale.

I decide that there's no difference between me and the Capitol. The Capitol and I are both corrupted beings that don't deserve anyone's mercy.

(A/N) So what didya think of that chapter? I got all depressed just writing it :( Any thoughts or ideas for future one shots?