Chapter 1

"Hawthorne. Hawthorne!"

"What?" I growl, rotating the bomb prototype in my hands thoughtfully. "I'm busy, Beetee."

"I know. But you need a break." The older man pushes his glasses up as he gives me a concerned look.

"I don't need a break. I've only been working for an hour," I snort disbelievingly. I grab a pair of pliers and adjust a stray wire.

Beetee's sigh says otherwise. "You've been messing with that same device for the whole hour. You haven't done anything else or even looked at the blueprints I sent over to you."

I glance up at him. "You didn't send me any blue-" I spot the papers almost as soon as the words leave my mouth, lying on my desk in a neat pile.

"You're distracted." I flinch. They aren't the words I want to hear.

"I am not."

"You're trying to bury yourself in your work, but its not working," he points out sternly.

"Just because I'm concentrating on finishing this project doesn't mean I'm distracted," I snap. The pliers clatter on the table top as I hold Beetee's gaze. He doesn't back down.

"Hawthorne, take a break," he sighs, shaking his head. "It'll help you."

Irritation bubbles up. "I'm fine," I insist, grabbing the blueprints he has placed on my desk. He just shakes his head in disbelief.

Suddenly, I'm angry. It seems now that no one will even treat me like a normal adult who's able to take care of himself. They act like I don't even know myself. Beetee's pestering combined with the Capitol attendants they stationed in my house grow tiring and I've had enough.

Beetee looks up at the sound of my chair being shoved back abruptly. He doesn't seem surprised as I grab my coat and say, "I'm done for the day. I'll look over the blueprints at home." Turning on my heel, I walk out before he can even respond.

Leaves crunch under my feet as I storm back to my home. The cool fall breeze picks up a few stray ones and they skitter across the ground as I walk through town.

2 is very different from District 12. But the dark, dank colors of stone here remind me of the coal mines and the dull colors of 12, giving it a comforting quality that I've come to appreciate.

District 2 is a lot more upscale than District 12. The buildings are all made of long-lasting blocks of stone that have been expertly placed in intricate patterns. I briefly wonder how it is that such Districts like 2 could have been favored so much more than others, such as 12. How it is that many can starve to death in 12 while others in 2 can afford to buy practically everything that they desired.

It infuriates me, but it also relieves me, knowing that things are changing thanks to Paylor. I've heard news of supplies and goods being sent to the outer Districts as well as fair sums of money to make up for the dangerous work that District 12 citizens usually provide for the Capitol. The coal mining industry has boomed thanks to this new pay rate, and, combined with safer conditions in the mines, District 12 is now a flourishing District of growth.

Briefly, I feel my thoughts drifting towards the one person I think about the most whenever District 12 is mentioned, but instead, I focus on my footsteps, counting them.

I kick at the leaves that flutter into my way, feeling my anger melt away slowly. This leaves me alone with my thoughts, a little clearer than before.

Beetee once mentioned to me that I get angry easily, mostly because its so easy to find something that will upset me. I, of course, denied it. "I'm just trying to figure everything out," I argue, but Beetee would have none of it and just shrugged.

I partially think he's right. When I think back to every temper tantrum I've had, its mostly because I don't know what I'm doing with myself. I lost myself in the past and the what-could-have-beens.

But I can't bear the thought of being so out of control of myself. Why do my emotions overwhelm me so easily? Why is it always her that can drive me over the edge of sanity and send me beyond?

I head over to my home at the west side of the District, ignoring the small children that laugh and play at the side of the road. It doesn't concern me how happy they are. Not when I can't even get my own life straightened out.

A ball bounces into view and stops me as it rolls into my path and stops. The children have gone quiet. I glance over at them to see them huddled nervously, wondering what I'm going to do.

I carefully pick up the ball, rolling it in my fingers. It pains me that they're scared of me.

"Mister, can I have our ball back?"

Turning, I spot a small young girl staring up at me with curious eyes. She can't be any older than 7 years, but her stature speaks of a maturity far from her age. Her eyes are a startling grey that reminds me so much of the people back in 12 and her hair is the classic blond hair usually found in 2.

"Yeah, here," I say gruffly. I thrust it into her arms, muttering, "And watch where you're playing next time."

"Why are you sad?"

Her question surprises me more than anything. Just because its one that isn't asked of me often. Usually, the only thing asked of me is 'why are you angry?".

Which usually results in me being even angrier because they simply don't understand the emotions underneath my anger.

"My best friend doesn't like me anymore," I find myself saying.

She only cocks her head to the side. "Best friends don't stay mad."

My lips straighten into a grimace. "She won't forgive me."

She shrugs flippantly, but it doesn't bother me. I don't expect her to understand.

"Best friends say sorry," she says quickly, meeting my gaze with a fierce one.

I can only stand there and blink. She reminds me so much of Katniss in this way- pointing out the obvious without a shred of disdain. Those piercing eyes that seem to make me want to pull the best out of myself instead of fail under her gaze.

But for some reason, I don't feel any sorrow thinking about Katniss in this way. Not when I'm talking to this little girl.

"Hey! Come on, let's play!" Her friends call to her impatiently as I shuffle awkwardly in place. The girl takes one last moment to really look at me before spinning around, about to flounce off to rejoin her friends.

"Wait! What's your name?" I call after her. Her friends stare at me as if I've grown a second head, but I don't care. All that matters is the little girl who seems to understand me better than anyone in the District.

She pauses and looks over her shoulder.

"My friends call me Nic," she calls back cheerfully.

"What's your real name?"

She only smiles at me, giggling. "We're friends, right? That means you can call me Nic."

She scampers away, leaving me standing there, wondering why she's the only one that seems to understand.