Hi everyone! I know it's been a ridiculously long time, and i hope you haven't all forgotten about poor Ian Nelson... I mean Max. This epilogue is from Beetee's POV. It's a little bit different - I think of Beetee as a very intellectual man, and his thoughts reflect as such. I know many of you liked my portrayal of Beetee in as seen through Max's eyes, so I hope I don't disappoint.

For the last time, I don't own any of this. Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games and all of its characters. This story was inspired by and set in the universe established by the wonderful and talented Caisha702 and be-nice-to-nerds. If you haven't had a chance to read their stories, you really should check them out. I borrowed the title of this story from a chapter in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling. I'll add one more set of credits in the A/N at the end, but first, the epilogue...

Epilogue

Time is a mysterious and complex thing. On the surface, it is a subject with which everyone is familiar. Five minutes. Six hours. Two weeks. One year. When one communicates using these terms, he is easily understood. Yet it is impossible to explain how one's perception of time changes based on the type of activity in which he is involved. Scientifically, each millisecond is equal to the next, yet time always seems to pass faster when one is engaged in an enjoyable activity.

There is an ancient saying that many still believe which states that time heals all wounds. Yet it is quite clearly false. Chaff's hand will never grow back, no many how many years he waits. The psychological damage suffered by those who have experienced the horror of the Games will never be entirely healed, either.

It is also said that time is the fourth dimension. In a way, this is true. Yet it is quite unlike the physical dimensions of length, width and height. One can occupy a location on the three-dimensional coordinate plane, then one can move and occupy a different location, and then one can return to the original location, if he so desires. But one occupies all locations in time, from the beginning to the end of his existence, one after another after another. We cannot return to a previous moment, nor can we skip ahead. Theoretical physics states that time travel is possible, yet there is no evidence that humanity has ever or will ever achieve it.

Seventy-five years ago, the Dark Days ended with the Capitol crushing the District Rebellion. Of the thirteen districts, only one earned independence, and that independence came with the price of secrecy and isolation. The others were all led to believe that it was completely annihilated. Seventy-five years ago, the Treaty of Treason was signed and the Hunger Games were instituted.

Thirty-four years ago, a young boy by the name of Beetee – that is to say, myself – was selected from District 3 and managed to survive and win, with the help of a cattle prod, some wire, and knowledge of physics and electricity. In the years since, I have mentored or helped mentor sixty-eight boys and girls from my district as they were selected for the Hunger Games. Sixty-six of them perished.

But it is the most recent of the sixty-six, a boy by the name of Maxell, who stands out in my mind tonight. One year ago, he came here to the Capitol, a terrified child like all of the others, without any hope of success. But then he came up with an idea that far surpassed any of my own in its brilliance. His idea – to reactivate the land mines – gave him a real chance to compete, and I did everything I could to help him achieve his plan.

Three-hundred fifty-seven days ago, he convinced the Careers to let him reactivate the mines, and had all of Panem buzzing about his ingenuity. Everything was going according to plan.

Three-hundred fifty-five days ago, Maxell had the opportunity to kill a helpless tribute and he refused to take advantage of it. He won the respect of the districts, but lost the interest of the Capitol. And it would prove to be a disastrous choice for him.

Because three-hundred fifty-one days ago, the girl whose life Maxell spared danced through the minefield while Katniss Everdeen watched, giving her the information she needed to deduce that the supplies were mined. Then the girl from District 12 used her remarkable skill at archery to destroy the supplies and the minefield, ruining Maxell's plan. Three-hundred fifty-one days ago, the Career from District 2 ended Maxell's life because the minefield idea had backfired.

But the story does not end there. Three-hundred forty-one days ago. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were stunningly announced co-winners of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games, winning in a way that defied the Capitol and set off waves of hope and unrest in the districts. Maxell Dyson was forgotten as Katniss Everdeen became the name whispered and shouted as the rallying cry of the growing rebellion.

But not in District 3. In District 3, people remembered that Maxell made the first act of insubordination, using the Capitol's own weapons to his advantage. People began to whisper, "If Max could do it, why can't we?"

Such defiance does not go unnoticed by President Snow. One-hundred fifty-nine days ago, less than a week after Katniss and Peeta made their Victory Tour visit to District 3, less than a week after Maxell's parents and brothers were filmed weeping over his failure, there was an explosion at his family's home and repair shop. Maxell's mother, dead. Maxell's father, seriously injured. Their home and their livelihood, completely destroyed. His brothers were spared. Mattel was safely at school – he had three more years of Hunger Games eligibility left, after all. Intel, who I had come to regard as a friend, was at my home. The official explanation was that there was a gas leak. Unofficially, however, the message could not be misinterpreted: no act of insubordination, no matter how small, goes unpunished.

The act was meant to squelch any thought of rebellion, but it had the opposite effect. Unrest increased and increased until one-hundred twenty-two days ago, when District 3 had its first uprising since the Dark Days. Factories were bombed. Products were sabotaged. Computers were hacked and viruses spread. Instigators were executed if caught, but there were so many different attacks from so many different sources that the Peacekeepers couldn't maintain control of the district.

Ninety days ago, the Capitol tried another tactic to crush the hope of the districts. Ninety days ago, the Quarter Quell was announced, sentencing twenty-four Hunger Games Victors to a return to the arena. The motivation was simple: Katniss Everdeen, the lone female Victor of District 12, the rebellion's "Mockingjay", would be sent back to the arena, and she would die. Sentencing twenty-two other former Victors such as Wiress and myself to the same fate was merely an unfortunate side effect. (Or perhaps not so unfortunate, since many of us have been quietly resisting President Snow, in our own little ways.)

I am usually one to look at the big picture, but I wasn't too pleased with Miss Everdeen when the Quell was announced. Still, the event was the final straw for the Resistance, which decided that the time had finally come to move from secret planning to open rebellion. Seventy-six days ago, we were informed that District 13 had agreed to help evacuate the Mockingjay from the arena, along with any other tributes sympathetic to the rebellion. I am not privy to all the details of the plan, but I know that it centers around using the special wire that I invented in order to bring down the force field surrounding the arena. Until that moment, however, those of us who will return to the arena have pledged to do everything we can to protect the "Star-Crossed Lovers" of District 12, even at the expense of our own lives if necessary.

I must admit, I am not completely sold on this plan. There are far too many variables, far too many scenarios that result in Miss Everdeen's death, and with it, the aborting of District 13's rescue attempt. If the Mockingjay dies, all bets are off, and the Quarter Quell will proceed like any other Hunger Games, with one tribute being crowned Victor.

With that in mind, what I should be doing is preparing all my strategies for eliminating the other tributes, many of whom have become my friends over the years. Using my thirty-four years of experience to plan the traps that will kill Cashmere and Enobaria, Brutus and Mags, Priscilla and Johanna, Woof and Chaff… And even Wiress. My closest friend through all the years. The mere thought of having to murder her is unsettling.

But so however is the idea of risking, even sacrificing our own lives to protect the girl who was indirectly responsible for the death of one of my tributes last year. In the fraternity of Victors one eventually learns to look past such transgressions, but it takes time. Time, and the opportunity to get to know the new Victor personally as he or she learns to be a mentor in the years following his or her victory. I have yet to meet either Miss Everdeen or Mr. Mellark, to do more than glimpse them from afar on the Victors' stage in the Capitol, and again in District 3 during their brief Victory Tour stop, where they literally read prepared speeches with no emotion whatsoever. Tonight's Opening Ceremonies were the closest that I have ever been to the Star-Crossed Lovers, and I watched them closely. Both of them, but especially Miss Everdeen, seemed harsh and spiteful during their chariot ride of the city, dressed in stunning glowing outfits that resembled burning coals. The couple is truly fortunate to have such a talented pair of stylists. I look down at my own costume – a simple jumpsuit adorned with blinking LED lights. It's by far the most elegant costume ever designed by Perpenna, but it's nothing more than an attempt to imitate the District 12 stylists' visionary idea of using illumination to enhance the costumes last year.

But I digress. The point is that this "Mockingjay" has actually done little to warrant the investment of the entire rebel cause. But such is the reality of icons. When people are desperate for a symbol under which to unite and place their faith, it only takes one small act. One person, in the right place at the right time. That is what happened when the Star-Crossed Lovers threatened double suicide and manipulated the Gamemakers into allowing two winners for the first time in history. The timing was impeccable. The districts were primed and all they needed was one spark to set off the chain reaction of unrest. That spark could just have easily come from Lysandra Newton, the red-haired "Fox Girl" who was brilliant enough to survive by stealing food from the others, and made the Final Four despite refusing to end a single life by her own hand. Or the young man named Thresh from District 11, who stayed out of combat until his district partner was killed, and then fought the pair from District 2 to avenge her death, while sparing the young girl's ally – none other than our Mockingjay. Or my own tribute Maxell, who had the brilliance to commandeer the Capitol's land mines for his own uses. It even might have been one of the Careers from District 2 – the "other" pair of Star-Crossed Lovers in last year's Games. But fate chose the pair from District 12.

These two children know nothing about the Resistance that has been building for years. District 13 wants them solely for the purposes of being icons, rallying points for the other districts. Many of the victor tributes in this year's Games can provide far more in terms of tactical benefits. For example, I helped remodel the national television network, and I can provide invaluable expertise in both virtual and physical weapons design. Finnick and Cashmere are well-loved by the Capitol population and could be influential in turning them against President Snow's regime. The others have important knowledge about the resistance in their own respective districts and can help turn the tide in potential battles. However, all of this is irrelevant to District 13, and since they are the only district with the military capability to combat the Capitol, they are the ones calling all the shots.

I sigh and look around at my bedroom – a room that I last slept in thirty-three years and six months ago. Like all the other victors, I have been given an apartment in the Capitol, though I usually spend the Hunger Games in the mentors' quarters on the other side of this floor. But regulations stipulate that the tributes must use the tribute dormitories, so here I am. Almost seventy different boys have slept in that bed since the Training Center was built in the early years of the Hunger Games. Only three have ever used it again after their games were completed. And if I execute the plan, one way or another, these will be my final six nights here. Of course, the amount of sleep that I will get is yet to be determined.

But first things first. It is impossible to even think of sleeping while covered in makeup, sweat, dust, and the smell of horses. I step into what many here believe to be the pinnacle of human technology – the Capitol shower. It's the epitome of Capitol excess. One hundred and fifty different buttons for different options resulting in a staggering 1.4 quattuordecillion possible combinations for a customized shower – which is approximately thirty-three orders of magnitude higher than the total number of showers that have ever been taken in the history of humanity. In the Districts, many would be lucky to just have running water. If one was fortunate enough to have hot water, he would follow a simple routine and enjoy being clean. But here in the Capitol, one would never live it down if he or she took the exact same shower twice. I sigh, and punch in the same three buttons that I have selected for every shower that I have taken in the Capitol since being announced the Victor of my own Games.

I almost don't notice when the control panel starts to blink spastically, making patterns with the indicator lights for the selections. When I realize that something unusual is happening, I have to stare at the panel closely, since everything is blurry without my glasses. And when I finally understand what I am looking at, I am completely dumbfounded.

The indicator lights are forming the words to a message. It takes three repetitions before I am able to fully comprehend the text:

"DEAR TRIBUTE"
"OF 75TH GAMES"
"DONT GIVE UP"
"YOU CAN WIN"
"GOOD LUCK"
"DIST3 POWNS"
"TELL BEETEE"
"THANK YOU"
"NEVER FORGET"
"MAXELL DYSON"

Maxell Dyson, the brilliant boy who I mentored and watched die last year, has somehow managed to bend the laws of time and send me a message from beyond the grave. He must have reprogrammed the shower sometime during the week before he entered the arena. I cannot fathom how he managed to find the time, all while working out all the intricacies of the ill-fated plan that I helped design for him. His brother was not exaggerating the boy's talent.

Of course, there is no way he could have anticipated that I would be the one reading the message. He must have intended it to encourage the next child to be reaped, who would be facing the same terror that he had felt at the prospect of entering the arena.

I stand motionless under the deluge of warm water for the entirety of the shower program, my thoughts focused on this message that a now-deceased boy composed over three hundred sixty days ago. In this moment, it is as though a temporal portal has opened, allowing me to look directly into the past. I see Maxell's face almost as clearly as if he were standing next to me, his look of determination as he feverishly works on the circuits to reprogram the shower. Then I see him in the arena, setting up the land mines for the Careers while secretly building a remote control to activate and deactivate the mines at will. And I see his face after returning and seeing that the mines were destroyed, the devastation and hopelessness of the final seconds of his life before the Career from District 2 snapped his neck.

It doesn't end there. It's as if a dam has burst behind the portal, as one after another the faces of my former tributes enter my mind. Pixelle – Maxell's district partner who, like so many before her, didn't make it past the Bloodbath. Dolbee – a 17-year old with some potential who had the misfortune of running into the entire pack of Careers during their first hunt. Satella – whose gift of running turned out to be her curse as she never saw the canyon in front of her. There were Abbie and Oran, who paired up and were doing exceptionally well in the 69th Games, until Abbie decided to break the alliance early, betraying and murdering her partner. Abbie finished in second place, breaking Wiress' heart right at the end.

The faces continue flooding my mind. Luigi – the son of a plumber who made it into the top eight in a horrible year of thirst, before dying of a poisonous snakebite. Elsah – an only child who was killed at the Bloodbath by the eventual victor. Her father was executed after confronting her killer during her Victory Tour. The torrent continues faster and faster. Dwight and Hollis. Cecil and Chip. Dot. Ezra. Link. Trix. Nuvii. Beatrice. My district partner from my own Games. I can see them all, as clearly as if they were standing with me in this very bathroom.

And it doesn't end with the past. I see the faceless tributes of the future as well. Dozens upon dozens of them. All dead, all of them. Killed by this horror known as the Hunger Games. A realization begins to form in my mind: This will never end. One thousand seven hundred and twenty-five have already perished in the arena. And unless I do my part for the Rebellion and break the cycle, thousands more children will die for the entertainment of the Capitol. Even if I were to emerge as the "Victor of Victors", I would still be doomed to witness child after child marching to their deaths.

The realization begins to crystallize into a conviction. We are all slaves to the Capitol. In many ways, the Victors are even more so than the rest of the district population. If all does not go according to plan, if this rebellion does not succeed, I will die as I have lived the entirety of my life: as a slave. Whether it happens in the arena in the coming days, or back in District 3 after the years of my life are utterly spent, it will be the same. I will die as a slave. This plan of saving the Mockingjay, devised by District 13, this plan is the only hope that we have of a better future. With District 13's help, the Capitol can be overthrown. The Hunger Games can be ended.

So I will play my part. I will protect Katniss Everdeen and help bring down the force field. I will do this.

For Maxell Dyson.

A/N: Well, there it is. I hope you guys enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for all of your support!

Priscilla is the name I gave to the female morphling from District 6, as mentioned in my other story "Confessions of a Teenage Cannibal".

The list of former District 3 tributes (and their backstories) is a mix of names borrowed from some stories that I enjoyed greatly, as well as some names of my own invention.

Here is the credit list for the borrowed names:
Elsah: "The Beauty of Freedom" (and sequels) by Caisha702.
Abbie, Oran: "From Fearful to Fearsome" by be-nice-to-nerds
Satella: "Before They Fall" by akatrixie (although in that story she is actually the D3 girl for the 74th games. I just thought it was a brilliant D3 girl's game)
Beatrice, Cecil, Dwight, Ezra, Hollis: "Volts" by Heart the Squid. One of the best Beetee-POV's out there.