Author's note: This story would not be what it is today without the help from my friend and beta, papofglencoe! Thank you for you support and general awesomeness!

Contains graphic violence.

Peeta's marked all the places of interest on the map. We'll have to be careful with it, though, because a paper map is apparently hard to come by these days, and we don't want to make more trips to town than absolutely necessary.

I'm sitting on one of the chairs and he's leaning over the table, his arms stretching the fabric of his shirt perfectly. After that wonderful round of sex last night, I want him again. And again. And again.

He points to the prison that served as my home for eight years and follows the marked path to the outskirts of town. "He lives here. There's a supermarket a mile in this direction where he makes almost daily trips."

I give Peeta a look. He goes grocery shopping every day?

"See here?" He moves his finger to a spot not far from the supermarket. "The hob. Worst-kept secret in town."

"Hookers?"

"Yeah. And drugs. Whatever you want, you can find it there."

"Why am I not surprised?" And why does Peeta know so much about this? Was he a visitor there? No, he told me that he'd never done anything like that, and I believe him.

"He's a piece of shit. Did you think he'd stop once he's outside the prison walls?"

"Guess not."

"I pulled his schedule from the database, but that might've changed now after…" He drifts off. "Anyway, he alternates between the day and night shift. It's the day shift this week, so he's usually home by six."

Peeta points to another marked route on the map. "Every other day he takes a detour here. Except for weeks he works night."

"What's there?"

He hesitates. "You know I'll support you no matter what you decide, right?"

"Peeta." I put my hand over his. He's scaring me. "What is it?"

He looks down, refusing to meet my eyes. "A daycare. He has a son."

I stare at Peeta. I did not see this coming. He's the last person I expected to have kids. He shouldn't even be allowed to.

Does it make a difference? Should it? No. He made this life for himself—now he'll pay the price.

"The mother?"

"They're not together. She seems decent—works at the DMV, goes to yoga on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and does laundry on every other Sunday. No criminal record."

I bet this kid is in better hands with her than he'll ever be with Cato.

"You grew up without a father," Peeta says. "Do you want the same for this kid?"

"Peeta. The worst thing about not having a father was how my mother shut me out. We'll be doing this kid a favor, ridding the world of his father. And if he's lucky, his mother is better than mine. Maybe he doesn't see it now, maybe he never will, but Cato deserves to die for everything that he's done."

"Okay. Like I said, I'm with you one hundred percent if this is what you want to do."

"It's not like people haven't grown up without a parent before! Look at you. Your mom beat you half to death and your dad didn't care. And you turned out fine."

"I don't think everyone agrees with you on that one."

"Does it matter, Peeta? To me, you're perfect. Don't sell yourself short. Anyone else would have crept into a shell, not caring about anyone but themselves. But you didn't. You made something of yourself and that's the biggest 'fuck you' to you mother if I ever saw one."

Tipping my chin up with his fingers, he captures my lips in a kiss. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"If he decided to put a kid on this earth, maybe it's our job to keep him from tainting it."

"You're right."

Through the scope of the rifle we get a good view of his apartment. He's sitting on his couch, seemingly enjoying a TV show. He got home about an hour ago, and after warming something up in the microwave he's been parked on the sofa. We have to wait until dusk—we can't risk getting recognized.

Peeta's lying next to me, his arm brushing mine. The warmth he radiates calms me, anchoring me in the belief that we're doing the right thing. "You sure you don't want to just do it now?" he asks from the left of me. "It would be an easy kill."

"That would be a clean, humane death. He wouldn't know what hit him. What good would that do?"

He doesn't answer.

"Peeta? You're with me on this, right?"

"Of course I'm with you. Say the word, and I'll strangle him myself for what he did to you."

"I want him to know why he's dying. Otherwise it's pointless."

"Okay."

He's quick to open the door when we finally knock. He's wearing a T-shirt that says Correctional officer. Because badass isn't a job title. Please.

He looks at both of us in confusion before he recognizes us. There's a moment of silence before he speaks.

"You—"

Peeta punches him in the mouth before his next word. "You fucking piece of shit."

Cato stumbles back, almost tumbling over, and covers his blood-soaked mouth and nose. One of his hands goes to his pocket, but I put my gun his direction. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'll blow your fucking head off before you get your hands on that cell."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, I won't." His voice is weak, insecure, a complete one-eighty from when he used to rape me.

"Cato, Cato, Cato," I taunt him, because it's my turn. "You're a much bigger pussy than I gave you credit for. A gun to your face, and you're the biggest fucking pussy I ever saw."

"Two."

"What?"

"There are two guns pointed at my face."

"Well, you've got a lot of fucking nerve. Back up," I say, pointing my gun to his groin to make a point. The thought of getting his dick blown off must terrify him, because he staggers back. He thinks he's getting out of this alive. He's scared shitless, and I enjoy every second of his misery.

Peeta walks ahead of us, pulling a chair from the kitchen.

"Sit," he commands, but Cato seems unsure. "Sit the fuck down, or I'll cut your fucking balls off." The way he says it, without hesitation, lets Cato know he's telling the truth. He will follow through, and Cato understands it, sitting down on the chair. Instead of saying anything, Peeta straps Cato down, his legs and arms taped to the chair just like Thread was.

"You're a fucking—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Peeta punches him in the face again.

"Watch your mouth, or I swear to everything holy, I'll shoot you right now."

He seems to get the picture. At least, he stops talking back.

"Okay." Blood runs from his mouth and nose, landing on his sweater and forming a pattern that almost looks like a roadmap.

I stand in front of him. "You're a rapist, a predator, and a slimy little shit. You don't deserve to live."

He's not threatened by me. He thinks I'm weak, a nobody. When I talk to him his facial expression turns smug. Like 'okay, I'll humor you, babe.'

"You won't kill me." His words only confirm my suspicion.

"Okay, tell me. Why won't I kill you?"

"You don't have the guts. You're a pussy." He sounds just like Peeta's mother.

"Do you even know why she was in prison, Cato?" Peeta says immediately.

"Why the fuck would I care?" he says, spitting blood on the floor.

Peeta hits him again. On the nose. It must hurt like a motherfucker. "Because if you knew you wouldn't be so cocky right now. You fucked with the wrong person."

"I made a mistake with Thread," I tell him. "I don't think he understood why he had to die. But you, you will know exactly why I kill you."

"You? You killed Thread?" His voice shakes. Finally he seems to realize what a dire situation he's put himself in.

I take out the scalpel from my pocket, slowly dragging the back of it along Cato's throat. "He was in the exact same position as you are now, unable to move and shivering like the little pussy he is." I pause for effect. "Was." I fix my eyes on his—the shade is almost identical to Peeta's, but whereas his are strong, determined, sexy, Cato's are plain scared.

Suddenly he starts shaking violently, as if he thinks the tape will break. And what would he do if it did? Panic fills his features before Peeta points his gun at him. "Stay still, or this will be a lot messier than it has to be."

"What difference does it make if you're gonna kill me anyway?"

"True. But you decide if it'll go fast or slow. I can be very thorough when I break every fucking bone in your body." Peeta gets in his face. "And I'll enjoy every second of it," he adds slowly before pulling away.

"P-Please. I have a son."

This time it's me who punches him. Man, his face is messed up. Blood running from his nose—it's probably broken by now. Is one of his front teeth loose? Probably. "Don't you dare play that card. If you decided to procreate that's your fucking problem. Not mine."

I've never understood the long monologues in movies right before the villain tries to kill the hero. It only serves as a way for the hero or their companions to escape. Now, I can understand that need. The need to tell Cato exactly why he's dying. Otherwise, what's the point?

I'm not gonna drag this out, but he will know why he dies.

"You have no one to blame but yourself. You made me like this." That's not the entire truth—he's not the only one who'll get a visit from us, but it's better if he only blames himself. "You tried to tear me down. Beat me. Fuck me. It didn't work, and now you'll pay for it."

Realization and fear flicker in his eyes when I aim the gun at his forehead. There's silencer attached to it so it won't make too much noise. It won't be completely silent, but close enough.

"This won't change anything. You think you can change the system. You won't."

He's right—it won't. But that's not why I'm here. This is not a fucking revolution. This is war. I have nothing more to say to this fucker.

I expected to hesitate in this moment. I've killed before, but this is different. My hand on the gun doesn't shake, and the fear written all over Cato's face does nothing to deter me from this decision. It's the photograph behind him that does.

It must be his son. He's got the same hair color. Like Peeta's. I've never wanted to be a mother—why would I? Neither mine nor Peeta's made me want to seek that life. But if Peeta wanted it I would have gladly given it to him.

But I can't.

And it's assholes like Cato's fault.

So I pull the trigger.

I don't remember Peeta pulling me out of the house and into the car. I don't remember the drive back to the cabin. I don't remember him wiping my face.

The only thing I want to remember is his warm embrace as we lie on the bed. His fingers run up and down my spine, and I love every second of it. After getting rid of Cato all I want to feel is Peeta's closeness. Letting me know that there's is something good in my world, and not only darkness. That's it. That is all I crave.

I press my lips against his neck, feeling his pulse as I trail a path of kisses down his shoulder and arm.

"Thank you," I whisper against his skin. When I reach his wrist he grabs my chin, pulling me up to his mouth. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, and I open up for him. The warmth of his lips catches me by surprise, and I groan into his mouth as we kiss.

I slide my body over his and frame his face with my hands. He's clean-shaven, so my palms graze soft skin as I deepen the kiss. I love him. I love him so fucking much. I want to surrender to this man. Completely.

I don't break the kiss as he slides inside me. This is good. Everything feels so good. That's why I need to make sure.

"You don't hate me?"

"Why would I?" he pants in my ear. In that question he says everything I need to know. We're the same. I don't know what we are, but that's okay. We might be monsters, but why does that have to be a bad thing?

Instead of answering I thrust my hips against his. It's incredible. To be able to feel him. For real. I let him take control. Take control over me despite the fact I'm the one on top of him. He owns me. Whatever he wants to do to me, I'd let him.

Using his hands on my hips, he turns us both over so that his weight pushes me into the mattress. He doesn't rest his entire body on me, his chest grazing my nipples as he drives into me. It doesn't take long before we're both panting in a pool of lifeless limbs. This is where I always want to be.

We stay at the cabin for a couple more days, letting the worst of Cato's death cool down. It's difficult to know if the police have connected the dots about me and Peeta, and if so, if they're suspecting us of the murder.

Peeta's listening to the radio in the car, and when he comes back, he's furious. His neck is red, and his eyes convey pure rage.

"What's the matter?"

"They're making him out to be a fucking saint! Like he's a martyr, dying for what he believes in," he spits.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it fucking matters! He should be slaughtered by the media for the raping fuck he was."

"He's dead, Peeta. That's all that matters. That's what we wanted."

I get up from the bed to stroke his cheek. It takes a couple of seconds before he turns his head to me, and then a couple more before his face softens. He leans into my touch. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

He doesn't judge me for what I did to Cato—I know he supports me in everything. He's proven that time after time again. It's something else. "Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

He exhales. "I support you in this, Katniss. I really do. I won't rest until every one of those guards are dead, or whatever you want to do to them."

"But?"

"It's… I need to know."

"What?"

"Why ah… I need to know why she..." he drifts off.

He needs to know why she hated him so much. He looks broken. Like it's a weakness to want to know why his mother beat him up on a regular basis.

And we both know that there's only one person who might be able to answer that.

"Peeta. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I don't know. I… I haven't… I didn't want to make this about me."

Why can't he see? Why can't he see that this is pointless without him? I wouldn't even be doing this if it weren't for him. If he wants resolution, I'll give everything I can to help him. And I don't know what to say to make him understand it.

So I kiss him. I can't form into words how much I want him to get some form of closure, but I'll do everything in my power to make him get it. It's Peeta I live for. That's all that matters. He's all that matters.

The kiss is slow. Our tongues carefully seek each other out, and I press my hands to his cheeks, bringing him closer to me. I hope he'll understand what I'm trying to tell him. I love you. I'll always be here for you. Whatever you need.

When we break apart he presses his forehead against mine. "Thank you."

I don't know why he feels the need to thank me, but I don't fight him on it. Instead, I lock my arms around his neck, bringing him close to me.

He kisses the side of my neck. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

The hob is nowhere near how I imagined it. I'd have thought half-naked women would throw themselves at us, but instead most people keep to themselves.

Only one person, a woman with a ragged leopard suit and a bad dye job, approaches us. She's not sober, but I can't make out what she's been taking.

"Dear!" she pipes up, when she apparently recognizes Peeta. "Where have you been?"

"Had business to attend to," he simply states.

"Can I offer you anything? I know you've never been one for company, but my girls are always a treat." I doubt she even believes that herself. Judging by the looks of this place, most of her girls are junkies, hoping to earn a few bucks to score another fix.

"Actually, I'm thinking of that one." Peeta points to a blonde with her head between her legs—she looks like she's recovering from a hangover, but alcohol didn't make her this way.

"That one? You can have her for free. When she's not 'under the influence,'" she whispers the last part, "she's a nervous wreck. You're lucky if she can manage a decent blowjob." She turns her head to me, then back at Peeta. "If you want a threesome, I'd recommend another one."

"Thank you, but I want that one," Peeta says, ignoring the woman's advice.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you with these, sweet buns?" she asks, opening up the front of her shirt and revealing a pair of saggy boobs. I think she used to be pretty, but drugs and alcohol must have worn her down, and she seems to be completely unaware of it. It's tragic, really.

"As tempting as that looks, I have plans for the blonde." Peeta smiles at her. It's fake, but whatever she's been taking seems to cloud her judgment.

"She's all yours."

We approach the hungover blonde sitting by one of the dumpsters. I kick her foot, getting her attention.

Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin looks even grayer than it did in prison. Her cheekbones are more prominent, and I wonder how she's managed to stay on the heroin. I can't see how she'd finance it, because she can't be getting many customers. It doesn't look like she recognizes us, because if she did, she wouldn't look annoyed—she'd be scared fucking shitless.

Instead of saying anything, Peeta unceremoniously grabs her arm and drags her away from anyone's sight. Not that they would care what happens, but you can never be too careful. After we've turned into an alley Peeta shoves her into the brick wall. Now, she recognizes us.

"You thought you could get away with it? I fucking helped you. You were nothing before me."

Glimmer doesn't seem to know what to say. Good. There is nothing she can say.

But an uneven clicking sound approaches from the street. "Yoohoo!" It's the older woman from before, and her face drops when she sees the gun in my hand. She's close enough to see it but too far away for us to stop her from screaming and giving us away.

"Fuck," Peeta exclaims. Before I know it he takes the gun from my hand.

Three muffled shots. Three growing red stains on the leopard suit. She's dead before she even hits the ground.

Shoving the gun back into my hands Peeta says close to my ear, "We have to go. Do it now."

This time I don't hesitate.

I shoot Glimmer point blank between the eyes.

There's no time to contemplate what we did. We need to get out of here before someone sees us and calls the cops. From what I'd gathered from Peeta, the death rate in this neighborhood is high, and the police usually don't investigate as deep as they should. That's good news for us, but we still need to get the fuck out of here.

The car is parked not far from here, and we dive into it, me in the driver's seat and Peeta behind me. I turn the ignition and pull out from the alley. I can't get out of here fast enough, wanting to put as much distance between us and those bodies as possible.

"Katniss, slow down. We don't need any attention right now."

I don't understand how he can be so calm after what just happened, but I automatically release the pressure on the gas pedal.

"Sorry."

"It's all right. Turn right here," he instructs.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so I guess no one has found the dead bodies yet. But that's just a matter of time. If that older lady was some sort manager, her absence will surely be noticed pretty quickly.

Pulling onto the interstate, I finally let myself relax, but my chest tightens when I look in the rearview mirror. His eyes are cold, focused, and fixated straight ahead. "You had no choice, Peeta. We didn't know what she might have done. Screamed or—"

"I know." His voice is low. Hollow. "She should have left us alone."

I've seen that look before, but not on him. Icy blue eyes, filled with something I can't really describe. Then I see it. He did what he had to do, and he doesn't regret it. He knows he's not to blame.

"Right."

We spend the rest of the ride in silence.

By now, there's only one left, and he's not getting off the hook as easy as some of the others. He won't get a clean and easy death.

The surveillance on him is low—we mapped it out days ago. They stay with him to and from work, but other than that he's fair game. It's astonishing really, either how small their resources are or how little they care about the men and women who guard the inmates.

As soon as the familiar car drives away we move to the entrance of his house, and as soon as he opens the door I punch him right on the nose.

It doesn't hurt the way it used to. I guess it takes some practice before your knuckles grow accustomed to being pressed into other people's faces. Peeta's not long after, giving him another hit in his face that seem to knock him out.

"Good," I say. "Not so much complaining."

With Cato he needed to know why I killed him. With Hawthorne I don't have to tell him. He knows. That's why he's been protected by the cops. If the shithead guards had had the guts to confess what they've been doing, the police might have prioritized their resources where they were needed, but I'm not surprised they didn't. Piece of shit cowards as they are. And now they're paying the price.

Hawthorne finds himself tied up like Cato and Thread were. Peeta helped me pull him up to a chair and tie him up, but he's letting me do everything else.

"How much longer?" It's stressing, only waiting for him to wake up. Every minute is precious, especially since we can't be completely sure when his surveillance will be back. We've been tracking them for a while, but you never know when they change their routines.

"Don't know. Should be any minute now." Peeta scratches his nose with the back of his hand, the one carrying his gun. I want to tell him how much I love him for doing this for me, how much I love seeing him like this. This side of him, showing no mercy to my—our—enemies. Unyielding. Unrelenting. Strong. Devoted.

I don't know what to say exactly, but a groan from the chair interrupts me, whatever I was going to say.

"Good, you're awake," Peeta says cooly. "We've been waiting for you."

It takes a couple of seconds before Hawthorne gains his bearing, realizing what a predicament he's in. His arms flinch, as if testing the restraints of the duct tape that binds his wrists, ankles, and abdomen. It doesn't budge.

We've left his mouth free. For now.

Peeta's fists clench at his sides, his breath ragged—it's obvious how much he wants to hit the living daylights out of Hawthorne.

I make a mental note to let him have his way with this one before we leave.

I put my newly sharpened knife to his throat. "You won't be a nuisance, will you?"

Realization hits when he recognizes us. He knows what's happened to the other guards. Knows that they've paid with their lives, and he's desperate to make sure he won't end up our tenth victim. Or is it eleventh? Whatever.

Without a word, he only shakes his head slowly.

"Good boy," I say, patting his head for effect.

"Why?" is all he whispers.

"Why?" I repeat. "Why are you such a fucking coward? Why are you such a fucking piece of shit?" I scream in his face. "You tell me! You tell me why!"

I didn't expect to get so riled up about this, but a warm hand—Peeta's—soothes me as I calm down from the rant I just threw Hawthorne. His calm spreads through me as I try to focus on the task at hand. We can't stay here forever, so we need to make the most of it.

"He can't help himself," Peeta says in my ear, loud enough for Hawthorne to hear it too. "Whatever whore pushed him out her cunt must have hated him enough not to care what kind of man he became."

This gets Hawthorne moving, and his arms frantically start shaking, as if the tape is going to break.

Peeta chose his words carefully. Of course we know that he loves his mother more than anything. She's in the hospital. Lung cancer. Hawthorne sends all of his extra money to her, so his love for her is his weakness.

"I'm not afraid of dying." A pathetic claim. As if that will take away our power over him. Of course he's afraid of dying. In the end, everyone is. I've seen it enough times. Peeta's mom. Thread, Cato, Glimmer…

"Keep telling yourself that."

"What do you want? If you wanted me dead you'd have done it by now." He's not a total imbecile, I'll give him that. "I'm not stupid. I know what happened to the others."

"Do you?" Peeta asks without a care in the world.

"They're dead. You killed them. Without giving them a chance to fight."

He's got some fucking nerve.

"Not all of them. Did you see the burn marks on Marvel's leg? Did you see the cuts between Brutus's fingers?" Hawthorne looks at Peeta in disbelief. "No, you didn't, and I doubt they'll be telling you about it if they value their own and their families' lives." Peeta's not lying. We didn't kill all of them.

"The cops will be here any minute."

"No, they won't. We used your tactic." We're not bluffing. It was so easy to pay someone off to set off an alarm in a fancy villa not very far from here, and the cops will be all over that. Rich white people are always prioritized, and we take advantage. Like he used Glimmer to distract me. "She's dead by the way," I continue.

His eyes widen when he realizes that no one is coming to his aid. He's all alone. He's sweating now, small pearls of perspiration covering his forehead. If it's from fear or exhaustion, I can't tell.

Leaning forward, I swipe some of it off. "Are you scared?" I mock.

He doesn't answer. Instead the fucker spits in my face.

I barely have time react before Peeta pushes the chair, tipping it backward, and Hawthorne following with it. There's a cry of pain when the back of the chair hits the floor, and Peeta's all over him, the gun pressed underneath his chin.

"Do you have a deathwish, motherfucker? Do that again and I'll fucking kill you. And it won't be fast."

I quickly dry off my face with the sleeve of my shirt. Putting my hands on Peeta's shoulder, I try to calm him down. I'm pissed too, but we can't lose our temper. Not now. Not when we're so close.

"Peeta. He gets the picture."

He turns his head, looking at me. His breathing is hard, cheeks flushed and jaw clenched. We stand like that for a couple of seconds before Peeta releases Hawthorne. But before he lets go he spits in his face. Without a word he leaves the room.

What the fuck just happened? I've seen him angry before, but it's always been controlled. He's never lost his temper like that. I leave Hawthorne on the floor and follow Peeta into the other room. He's sitting down, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging.

"He's just trying to get a rise out of us," I tell him, sitting down next to him.

"Well, it's working," Peeta grits out.

"We're almost done. Let's finish this, and then we'll leave."

He exhales. "You're right." He takes my hand and kiss the knuckles.

Hawthorne is still on the floor, taped to the chair as we come back to the kitchen, and Peeta quickly pulls him up before taping his mouth too. Taking another chair and straddling it, he stares into Hawthorne's eyes. "Hazelle. Vick. Rory. Posy. What do all of those names mean?" he says calmly.

Hawthorne snaps his head to Peeta, the names getting his attention.

"It means that their lives belong to us and their deaths do too."

That's all we need to tell him. Their names. He already knows we have no qualms about killing, and knowing his family members' names is all we need to convince him that we'll be watching him, and that's the best torture in the world. He knows how easily we can get to people. We broke out of prison and killed several COs without getting caught. His family is an easy target. When his mother finally dies from her illness he's going to wonder if we had any part in it, and that's the sweetest revenge.

"Goodbye, Gale," I say before we're out of his apartment.

I don't care if he ever gets loose from the restraints. He won't be a problem to us either way. He loves his mother and siblings too much to risk it. Pathetic.

We've already loaded the car, so when we leave Hawthorne's apartment we're out of this fucking town.

Even if the cops show up at Hawthorne's apartment he won't say shit. He'll be scared for the rest of his life, and I can't think of a better retaliation.

Peeta takes my hand in his, squeezing it.

We're almost there.

Author's note: Thank you for reading! If you enjoy this story, please let me know.