The Hunger Games: Book Four - How it Might Have Been ... Gale.

Page One

My work day is long and tiresome. For the first ten years, I loved every part of it. The power, the authority, the leadership. Now, I feel as though I am a creator of something useless, and therefore, I am useless.

It wasn't always this way. In the years after the Rebellion, many districts clashed - well, 'clashed' is a generous description. There were some fights that required the use of our weapons made here, but nothing dramatic - ten fatal hits in District One from weapons made by Mockingjay Firearms was the most damage done.

I wander through the long, high corridors of the company building. It is hollow and claustrophobic, though it has become more of a home to me than my apartment. I would probably spend most of my time here, if it wasn't for the memories. For my company, my office, my building, my home - it was inside the new and improved Nut.

The Nut. That was what she called it, back then. Now it is the Mockingjay Firearms central building. It is a factory, an office, a trading centre, a tourist attraction - it is an ancient artifact. At first it felt right, coming here and gathering a team to help reconstruct the mountain I had destroyed during the Rebellion. My team and I, we built it up, we made it stand strong again, though it does not stand as strong as it once did. Rubble still falls sometimes; little boulders cascade down the mountainside, though we have safety precautions. The siren that rings to warn workers to take cover has only been heard once here - and when I heard it, my skin crawled. It is the same siren that rang out in District Twelve, almost forty years ago, when my father died.

"Mr. Hawthorne! Sir!"

I turn to see who is racing towards me. It's Meld, head of bomb production. Meld is one of my right-hand men, though I hear very rarely from him as time goes on. Bombs are a thing of the past in Panem.

"Meld." I pause, turning to face him. "Is there a problem?" No curiosity fills my voice - it sounds indifferent. Indifference is not a charachteristic of mine. I have always cared about everything in my life, whether it be a family member, my job, a co-worker's problem. 

Meld regards me with sturdy eyes, a shadow of a concerned frown sweeps over his face. "Is there something the matter with you, sir?"

It must be more obivious than I thought. Today, I am slipping; falling through the cracks of nostalgia that are usually sealed tight. It is her birthday.

I shake my head. Meld's frown remains, but he tells me: "Sir, we've had a breakthrough."

"In which department?" I know almost immediately what he speaks of. There are never 'breakthroughs' at Mockingjay Firearms - unless it refers to one case.

"Bomb, of course. Sir, we think we've finally cracked the Hunter-Rescuer time limit element."

The Hunter-Rescuer bomb. It is the only bomb I feign interest in, now. Invited long ago with Beetee, who is now an old feeble man that cannot even remember his surname, nevermind the element that Meld reports to have cracked. The Hunter-Rescuer bomb is a bomb that is no longer in production. I have a specialised team of over two hundred people working on a case about this bomb. I need to know everything about it. 

The case was one of the first things I launched when I took over Mockingjay Firearms - known as Capitol Control back then. I gave my team every single detail I recalled about the bomb Beetee and I had conjured up in District Thirteen years ago - when I was only a kid. It is essential to me to know everything about this bomb. Why?

It is the bomb that killed Prim Everdeen.

"Sir, we believe we may have finally cracked the code that lets us know what makes the bomb go off after a certain amount of time. The victims are dying, the rescuers come in, and then boom! Second explosion. I'm sure, of course, you know what I'm talking about?" He does not wait for an answer. "There is a chemical, Hetiueocapholyl, found deep underground in District Thirteen. It is not the only element that factors to the amount of time that it takes, of course, because we have the 'snare' aspect which..." 

His words string together. The 'snare' element. An element I invented. I remember vividly telling Beetee about the hummingbirds; about how we should lure them into a trap. We dreamed of making a snare, of depriving the innocent birds of something essential, and then trapping them. It was a sick dream that led to something so huge, so powerful, I could never see the consequences. Now I am.

"... So you see, Mr. Hawthorne, Sir, we're two thirds of the way there. Isn't that exciting? We almost have it cracked. If you could just accompany me to the lab where they are studing the Hetiueocapholyl..."

"That," my tone is no longer indifferent. It is tough, decisive, superior. "Is the last thing I want to do."

Meld's excited expression turns to hurt, then neutral again. "Yes, sir. Tomorrow, then."

A nod is all he receives from me as I turn away and proceed to clock out. I don't stop walking until I reach my home. The apartment is hollow, dark. My boots are abandoned at the door, scuffing the white tile floor with dirt from inside the mountain. 

The entire wall of my living room is a glass pane window. The city is alight; dots of hovercrafts gliding to and fro, smaller, less luxurious apartments full of families eating dinner together. I miss that a lot - family time. My mother is eldery now; the rebellion aged her so much. Vick, Rory, even Posy - they've moved on, grown up, met significant others. 

I am not entirely alone because of something I have done - it's something I have chosen. There has been other lips, other girls who want to impress, who tell themselves that I am the one. How could they possibly know, after two weeks of being with me, that I am the one? None of them were the one for me. Now I live in solitude, the only thing disturbing me a painful memory once every so often.

The memories - they are stronger today. I walk into my room without turning on a light; I know where they are. Reaching across to my bedside table, I snatch the tube of pills and pop the cap open. I knock back four, five, six. The amount the doctor's believe is too much; the amount I believe is not nearly enough. Without undressing, I collapse into bed, shut my eyes and try to block out the world and the memories as much as humanly possible until the medication kicks in.

It must kick in, for some time later, I awake abruptedly. An alarming banging sound comes from the doorway. Usually I would grab a weapon and arm myself as I investigate the sound - tonight, I do not. Something is drawing me towards the frantic banging; something older than time itself. It drags me from my bed and across the room until I am in the brightly lit living room once again.

The banging turns to a weak knocking, almost a pleading rhythm. It hyponotises me and I draw closer, watching the metal vibrate with every knock. I reach for the lock without hesitation, without checking the peephole. Something is pulling me towards what stands on the other side of the door - and nothing prepares me for what I see.

I pull back the lock, swing the door open so the person who is standing there is in full view and I am completely vulnerable to them. When I see this woman, I am glad I didn't take seven or eight or nine pills earlier. When I see this woman, I am blinded for only a milisecond by what time has done to her once young skin, her dark hair. I know immediately who it is.

Katniss Everdeen.