#beegale

                      Beetee is silent, Beetee is still with shock as Katniss escapes the scene, as white-gloved hands drag his partner away. Then, the frozen cords of his neck release, expelling an almighty scream from his throat.

                                                   “———Gale !! ”

           let his flesh not be torn

           let his blood leave no stain

                      “No—-no——”

            Consoling hands envelop Beetee’s thin shoulders, but the inventor will have none of it; he throws off Plutarch’s grasp and approaches the closest screen instead, mouth agape with horror. As the Peacekeepers attempt to identify their captive, Gale begins to fight. Body twisting, elbows looking for crevices to stab, deft fingers searching for the feathers of an arrow. A Peacekeeper draws her pistol. The barrel hits Gale squarely in the mouth. Down he falls.

           though they beat him,

           let him feel no pain

            Beetee presses both hands to the viewing screen, smudging the glass with his fingerprints. Gale, now bleeding at the mouth, frees his bow from the strap at his back to thrust it sharply into the woman’s abdomen. She doubles over and falls. Gale twists away from her partner’s fists and fumbles at the sheath behind him, clearly desperate, clearly hungry for an arrow——

                         An arrow.

            An explosive-tipped arrow, perhaps, a gift from Beetee, that could end his life in as painless a manner as possible before his captors can carry out much more grisly means.

           let his bones never  b r e a k

           and however they try to destroy him,

           let him never die, let him never die

            But no such luck. Gale exposes his back when he turns to land a kick in the male Peacekeeper’s head and the guard steals his quiver, then his bow when Gale raises it to strike. Unarmed, Gale simply lunges, but the Peacekeeper delivers a hard blow to Gale’s temple using his own weapon. Again, the hunter falls. And static begins to gradually obscure the picture.

           where are you? already dead, or bleeding?

           one more disaster i can add to my generous supply

            Beetee’s knees turn to water, and he sinks unaided to the ground. Through varying bits of static, the speakers emit grunts of pain, shuffles of feet—-and then, to Beetee’s horror, the unmistakable explosion of a gunshot. Gale’s scream slices through Beetee’s body like an ax blade; without falling, Beetee ends up on the ground, spasmodic gasps escaping his lips and pulling dust from the tiled floor into his mouth. Hands pull him upright, but Beetee frees himself with their hold and returns to his feet. And he runs. As he does, another gunshot reaches his ears. This time, no scream follows.

                  He falls through the doorway and hurries down the hall in zigzags so that no one can run after him.

            Gale, suffering. Gale, dying. But not dead, oh, no—-soon the Peacekeepers will realize who they have, and they will do everything but kill him. Beetee knew this. Beetee planned for this; he supplied Gale with those explosive arrows, instructed him on how to detonate them manually, should he need to. Blinded by his desire to help his friend, Beetee gave him advice that would prove futile, something Beetee could have, should have realized.

                        He enters an empty research room—-no, not a mere research room. The very room in which he spent weeks working with Gale. Blueprints still scatter the table, pencils litter the floor; it’s a breath of normality to wash out the smoke with which recent turns of events have polluted  his lungs. But, of course, it’s all a façade.

           no good deed goes unpunished

            Gale, idiotically relying on Beetee’s promise of safety. Suffering indirectly because of Beetee’s negligence.

           my road of good intentions led where such roads always lead

           no good deed goes unpunished

            This time, Beetee is conscious of his descent to the floor. He presses his cheek against the smooth concerte, as if hoping to hear some sort of reassurance from the earth. But, of course, nothing could reassure him now. Gale has been captured. All he can hope for now is a quick, painless death for his friend. After which Beetee will be wholly, absolutely alone.

                        All alone.

                                    Wiress, his other half.

                                             Finnick, with whom he endured.

                                                        And Gale. His partner. His ally. His friend.

                                                                                                              His soldier.

                                                                    ———Gale !!

            Beetee is on his feet at once, his eyes wet with tears, his face contorted with rage. Rage toward the Capitol, or toward the rebels, or even toward himself, he doesn’t know; all he knows is that it needs an outlet, now. In one swift motion, he sweeps the papers from the worktable. The bench itself is then upturned. The man throws tools, pencils, whatever passes over his hands as he reaches blindly—-the room soon becomes alive with crashes and sobs. Beetee doesn’t care. He wants noise. He wants destruction, because destruction promises distraction from the torrent of thoughts threatening to drown him, to choke him.

           one question haunts and hurts too much,

           too much to mention

           was i really seeking good, or just seeking attention?

            No. No. He gave the arrows to Gale in an act of friendship. An act of love, even. Not a careless act of obligation. He absolutely refuses to believe otherwise.

                        But all he did was watch.

           is that all good deeds are when looked at with an ice-cold eye?

           if that’s all good deeds are, maybe that’s the reason why

           no good deed goes unpunished

            A strangled sort of moan escapes his throat, and the fight spills from Beetee like blood.

                        All  they did was watch. 

            Plutarch. President Coin. These so-called “freedom fighters,” these leaders of rebellion—-they watched Gale’s capture without batting an eye, because to them, Gale is but a pawn.

            They are all but pawns.

                        Something else Beetee was too blind too see.

                   In trying to protect Gale from what no one else cared to, Beetee in fact damned him. 

           sure i meant well,

           but look at what well-meant did!

            Tears spatter over his uniform, over the concrete, forming dark circles on the seas of gray. His hands tremble. To steady them, Beetee forces his fingers into fists.

                   This is pointless. Wholly, absolutely pointless. Gale is either dead or as good as, and Beetee’s attempt to save him was counterproductive; crying will not change that. Nothing will change that.

           so be it! so be it then!

            All he can do is learn from his mistake. And in this case, such a lesson calls for a promise, a promise to himself he’ll be damned to keep. 

           since i cannot succeed in saving you,

           i promise no good deed will i attempt to do again

           ever again

            From now on, Beetee acts only on the behest of his mind, not tyrannical governments or even his own heart. Such a mindset is the only way to truly protect those around him. Beetee tries to stand, to reiterate in posture the rigidity of his vow, but instead he crumples onto the ground.

“I threw a few things.”

Somehow, a laugh escapes the deep recesses of his soul. Gale likes to hear him laugh. What Gale doesn’t like are tears. Weakness. So Beetee will be as strong as he can be, to appease him, even though the arenas and the war and Wiress’s death and now Gale’s death have sapped what little strength he still possessed.

“I know what you’re thinking. Or what you’d be thinking if you could still think.” He hiccups. “I don’t throw things. I don’t lose control like that. Ever. Well…I did. You do that, you know?”

Another hiccup, and Beetee’s throat threatens to close again. He swallows, hoping moisture will keep it from sealing and locking away everything he feels the need to say.

“You make me do things I didn’t think I was capable of doing. Some of them are bad, like throwing dishware. But some of them…some of them are good. Were good, Gale.”

His mouth is a desert. Soon he will not be able to speak at all. Theoretically, Beetee should increase the tempo of his speech, to make sure he says everything he must, but he finds himself unable.

“Only no one seems to remember the good things. Except for me. I still remember the good things, soldier. I could…recall them all, in exquisite detail, were you to ask.”

His voice breaks, and when it returns, it’s softer, weaker, like a whimpering child’s. Gale would hate to hear him like this. To see him like this. Beetee should hang up so as not to disgrace himself further. He can’t.

“I’m almost glad you can’t ask, soldier. I don’t want to remember right now. It hurts too much.”

He swallows back tears, now. His throat is so tight his voice is almost a squeak, but Beetee forces himself to continue.

“So I threw a few things. Which isn’t like me, but it’s hard to be like me when you’re not here. I don’t know why that is. You…you’d say that’s stupid, or something of the like, but sometimes things are inexplicable no matter how hard you try and I don’t think you ever understood that. In a way…I like that you never understood that. I like that you investigated everything, and never gave up when you wanted to attain something, be it information or otherwise. I really liked that.”

His eyes prickle, and Beetee rushes on.

“It was just dishware, don’t worry. I…haven’t been using it much, lately.” He bites his lip. “I haven’t been eating much, see. I just…can’t…bring myself to. You would especially hate that, I know. You would probably shout at me. Tell me to take care of myself, because I’m alive even though you’re n-not, and I need to realize that you’d want it that way and stop wallowing about it. You’d say that you’re not worth the grief. That I’m stronger than this.”

Beetee presses his face into his knees for a moment, searching for words. Tears stain his pants. He didn’t realize he’d started to cry.

“And then you’d come back, a little later, though, and apologize for yelling. You’d put your chin on the top of my head and wrap your arms around my shoulders and tell me you’re sorry for being such an asshole. And I’d say that you’re not an asshole, and you’d kind of raise your eyebrows a little, and I’d laugh and admit that you are, but that it’s okay, because you’re my asshole. And then everything would be okay.”

Okay hardly escapes his mouth before the dam breaks, and a torrent of tears begins to spill from his eyes — not gently, but forcefully, grossly, the way a child sobs. He feels like a child, helpless and alone.

“Don’t you get it, soldier? I was supposed to die first! You were young and strong, you were supposed to l-live longer. I was supposed to die first, and you would g-get along without me because you’re s-strong enough to. Stronger than I am. You could easily get along without me. And I always supposed you’d eventually have to, and I knew it’d be okay because you could live without me. Perhaps you’d be devastated, but you’d get along.” Another gulp, and Beetee shakily exhales. “I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough. I’ve been strong for too long, Gale. I had you to be strong for me for a while, so I didn’t need to be strong anymore, and now I just can’t. And I h-hate it and I know you’d h-hate it but I don’t want to, either. I just can’t b-bring myself to.”

The line is dead. It seems to have been dead for almost three and a half minutes. Most of his words have been spoken to the empty air.

But still, Beetee concludes his message.

“I’m sorry, soldier.”

And then he throws the phone across the room. It flies into the opposite cabinet, and Beetee takes grim pleasure in watching it shatter.