Prompt : Could you please write something where haymitch in some way encounters one of the men who worked in the cells where Effie was kept. If you can make it plausible of course x

Might be a bit on the disturbing side. Well… This is THG and Haymitch does have a dark side so they come with their own warning. There is talk about torture also so considered yourself warned. This being said, I really enjoyed writing this.

Blood On Your Hands

The prison was elegant.

That was the first thing that came to Haymitch's mind when he climbed out of the military truck, his boots landing in a puddle of mud. Of course, it was elegant. It was erected in the periphery of the Capitol, still inside the city and was, for all intent and purpose, inescapable. The entire structure was made of a smooth contorted metal that gleamed under the pale winter sun. In reality it was a solid block, Snow wouldn't have risked it otherwise, no sewer entrance, no emergency exits. It blended with the other business offices towers around.

This sector of the city hadn't escaped the bombings and Haymitch was careful not to look too closely at the pits further down the street or at the still fuming collapsed buildings. The images of the City Circle were playing on a loop in his mind, making him clench his fists at the most inappropriate times.

Aster Everdeen had collapsed in his arms too when he had told her about Prim, just like one of those buildings…

It was unclear if Katniss would make it or not. The doctors were still trying to save her. Finnick was dead. Annie was in the hospital for monitoring. Johanna was fuming. Gale was hurt. Hazelle was giving him the stinking eye because her son's life had been in danger – and apparently if the kid had chosen to follow Haymitch's would-be daughter into battle that was his fault. Peeta, at least, was alright if a little shaken and a lot disturbed.

It was safe to say Haymitch's mood wasn't the best.

"You really think she's inside?" he asked Plutarch, who had been climbing out of the truck a lot more carefully. The Head Gamemaker avoided the puddle of mud.

"Honestly, I have no idea." the man sighed. "According to my sources, all prisoners previously held in the Training Center have been transferred here after the victors' rescue but it's a long shot."

Plutarch was hoping to find some of his agents inside but he looked grim. Haymitch didn't let himself hope. Effie Trinket had been lost for months, a part of him refused to believe she was dead because she was too stubborn to die but another part kept remembering he never had much luck with people he cared about.

The rebel soldiers saluted them and stepped aside when they entered the building, the captain of their division greeted them down the main hall.

"Sirs." the man nodded. Haymitch took a glance at him and sighed. Thirteen, through and through. "We encountered resistance but the situation is now under control. The guards have surrendered to President Coin's terms. They have all been rounded in the courtyard."

Coin's terms were meant to avoid further bloodbaths and to quicken the fights now that Snow had officially turned himself in. Most of the Peacekeepers had dropped their weapons after the City Circle bombings anyway, horrified by what had transpired and by "the Capitol's" cruelty but there were still some resistance in different places of Panem. Peacekeepers were scared for their lives, some hadn't seen the live feed and others were simply true loyalists.

"What about the prisoners?" Haymitch barked more than he asked.

"I have a man hacking their computers so we can check the logs, sir." the captain replied.

"You haven't freed them yet?" he frowned. "Identify some, at least? Shouldn't be too hard for most of them."

A lot of high ranked officials had been taken in custody when not outright killed. If they were lucky, most of the victors captured during the war were locked up in that place. He refused to think they had all been killed. His thoughts wandered to Alina who had joined Eight's resistance movement and who had been taken by the Capitol… Her kids and her husband had made it as far as Eleven and had stayed hidden there, he knew as much through Chaff's sister, but from Alina herself there had been no news. And she wasn't the only victor missing that they weren't sure to be dead.

"We can't afford to free them all, sir." the captain objected.

"No, we can't." Plutarch sighed before Haymitch could protest. "Believe it or not, there are people Snow had good reasons to keep under locks and keys. We need to prioritize medical attention."

"Sounds harsh." he grumbled.

"It's war." the Gamemaker argued. "And our medical capacities are being stretched thin at the moment." He nodded to the captain. "Take us to the cells. We'll see if we can ID some of the prisoners while your man work on the computers. It might be slow process but we might gain some time."

The captain nodded his assent and assigned two younger soldiers to them while he left to keep an eye of things. Those two were Districts, it was obvious at the way they held themselves. Six and Four, Haymitch was told when he asked. He relaxed a little, still feeling more at ease with District people than Thirteen's citizens or Capitols.

To access the cells, they had to cross the inner courtyard. There were a lot of soldiers in grey there, keeping an eye on their prisoners. The guards were docile though and didn't seem to want to cause any problems. For the most part, they were sitting or leaning against the walls, some were talking and others were smocking.

Haymitch's gaze was attracted to a pack of ten men who were standing apart from the main group of guards and Peacekeepers. It took him a moment to realize that it was less that they were standing apart and more that everyone was huddling away from them. He automatically slowed down his pace, ignoring the curious glance Plutarch threw him. Those ten men had white uniforms on, suggesting they were Peacekeepers but their uniforms weren't pristine, they were soiled with spackles of blood and, more tellingly, they were joking between themselves, two of them laughing at something another said, apparently having no care in the world.

Nobody else in that courtyard was joking or laughing. Talking yeah, but laughing?

They're not right in the head, a little voice whispered at the back of Haymitch's mind. The way they held themselves, their behavior… He had seen it before. In countless arenas. They were predators, some of those people whose power and brute strength slowly turned into crazy beasts who enjoyed pain and murder and who felt invulnerable.

One of them was laughing harder than the rest and it didn't take Haymitch long to decide he was the leader. The man was leaning with his back against the wall, a cigarette wedged between plump lips, tossing and catching a lighter every two seconds while he talked…

It was the lighter that made Haymitch's stomach twist. It caught the light. It was silver. What sort of Peacekeeper had the means to afford a silver lighter instead of a disposable one?

He made a beeline for that man, vaguely aware Plutarch was asking questions behind him.

He caught the lighter while it was still in the air and, surely enough, when he lowered his eyes, there they were. Her initials. E.T. in a flowery script that Finnick had carefully chosen for her. The lighter was scratched and a little battered and she would be furious because she had always kept religious care of it.

"What is it, Haymitch?" Plutarch asked, coming to a stop at his side, a little out of breath from the brisk walk.

The small weight of the lighter in his palm was unleashing something very dark inside Haymitch. He had avoided finding himself on the battlefield for this very reason. From Tactics and Special Defense, everything was clean and analytical, it was a game of chess and not the Hunger Games. But here, right now… Oh, it felt like being back in the arena…

He looked up at the man who was watching with a smirk on his mouth, the cigarette still between his lips. The Peacekeeper showed no trace of fear or apprehension. He thought himself safe because Coin's terms made it clear once captured they would be treated fairly.

Fairly. Haymitch could be fair.

He would ask. Once and once only.

"Where is she?"

The man shrugged, never departing with his smirk, talking around his cigarette like he couldn't care less. "Lots of dogs around. I don't keep an eye on every bitch."

Haymitch was not sixteen but he was still strong. And he was a Quell's victor with a reputation. The man's friends, he was pleased to notice, had edged back. Good. Easier.

"For the record." he warned Plutarch, putting the lighter safely in his pocket. "I tried fair."

"Haymitch, what…" the Gamemaker winced.

Their soldier escorts looked wary but they made no move to stop him when Haymitch grabbed the Peacekeeper and pinned him to the wall with a forearm crushing his throat, and they didn't move either when he plucked the cigarette from the man's lips and applied the still burning bud against his neck.

The guy cried out and Haymitch tried to pretend he wasn't feeling sick and slightly elated all at once. The monster in him had been tamed for a long time but that didn't mean he didn't remember the disgusted thrill one felt at besting an enemy. He had no qualm letting the monster out to play to protect people he loved.

"Where is Effie Trinket?" he repeated calmly, lifting the cigarette but keeping it close enough that the man knew he would do it again without a second thought.

"Haymitch, there's no need for…" Plutarch tried, looking green in the face.

Everyone in the courtyard was looking at them. No one made a move.

The Peacekeeper was glaring at him, gauging him, and Haymitch applied more pressure on his throat.

"Just to be clear." he growled. "Next time, I'm making you swallow it."

The guy wriggled nervously, his eyes flicking to where the rest of his gaggle was standing. He understood no help was forthcoming and licked his lips. "She's underground. I'll take you."

"Good boy." Haymitch mocked, taking his forearm off his throat but grabbing his arm to nudge him in one of the soldier's direction. "Keep an eye on him."

"There was really no need for this." Plutarch hissed, as soon as they reached the main building. "We would…"

"Shut up." Haymitch demanded in a low commanding voice. "Don't get all holy and mighty with me. I know what Hummingbird Operation is. You've got balls lecturing me with all the innocent blood on your hands."

The Gamemaker's jaw snapped shut and he remained blissfully silent.

They reached the first row of cells and Haymitch purposely didn't look at the faces peering out curiously from between bars. Those people looked healthy. He knew she wouldn't be there. Underground didn't sound healthy.

The Peacekeeper grew cocky once more when they entered the first elevator. His eyes were tracking Haymitch's every move, the smirk was back on his plump lips and Haymitch was too aware of the handgun strapped to his own belt and how easy it would be to use it.

"She's really your bitch, then?" the man chuckled. "'Cause, you know… We've been calling her that. Abernathy's bitch. She likes the nickname if you ask me… We trained her to respond to it. You should say thanks."

Plutarch was watching him with his lips pursed and obvious apprehension but Haymitch's face remained blank. The soldier who had a hold on the man's arm gave a firm shake that only made the Peacekeeper laugh.

It was useless to try and make him shut up, Haymitch could have told him. The man was too far gone. He was trying to provoke him, to gain some measure of power back, goad him into starting a fight probably just because Coin had promised fair treatment and that meant Haymitch would lose no matter what…

They had given him back his knife before he had left Thirteen. The familiar weight of it was wedged between his belt and his shirt, the blade flat against the small of his back. It was more tempting than the gun. Messier but more tempting. A knife had always been his weapon of choice as surely as Katniss would always pick a bow.

"She's my pet project, you know?" the Peacekeeper continued. "I'm in charge of the underground prisoners… They get special treatment."

Torture, Haymitch supplied easily, and the guard sounded proud of it.

The elevator doors opened and those cells weren't as clean as the upstairs ones. Fewer people looked at them as they passed and even less tried to beg for mercy. The man led them along a corridor.

"Awfully arrogant, your bitch." he snickered cheerfully. "First thing we did was stripped her naked." Haymitch took a deep breath and forced himself to look straight ahead but the guy must have caught on his anger because he kept on, still cheerful. "She looked a lot less arrogant without her fancy shit. Getting them naked does the trick for most people. I peed on her once."

Humiliation was an effective form of torture.

Haymitch briefly closed his eyes as they came to a second elevator and forced himself to remain still despite the shaking hands. He wasn't even craving a drink – alcohol could come later – it was the monster who was calling him, begging him to let him take over and finish this.

"She didn't know much." the Peacekeeper recalled almost fondly, pushing a button. "But she was fun to play with, you know? Don't worry though… We didn't step on your toes. She's not so attractive anymore. And we didn't know what she had caught from you. You know… Don't lay with dogs and all that shit."

Plutarch was looking more and more anxious now.

There was no need really, Haymitch could have told him that. The two soldiers didn't look nervous. They looked like they wanted to do the job themselves.

The elevator doors opened and the stench immediately assaulted them. Plutarch coughed and took a handkerchief from his pocket to press it against his nose and mouth. Dried blood, human waste, unwashed bodies, rot… A thousand putrid smells in between.

Haymitch wanted to throw up but he followed the Peacekeeper who didn't look in any way disturbed. He was probably used to the smell.

"Don't know how right in the head she is anymore." the guard chuckled. "Told you, she's my pet project. We got no use for her after you got the victors, you didn't take her so you didn't want her, we figured… I thought… Bad dogs are kept in cages. So we've kept her there. No contact. Fed her through a trap in the door and everything." The pride in his voice, the sick enjoyment of it all… "Here she is."

The cells in that place had no bars just metallic doors that didn't allow to see what was going on inside. The soldier from Four immediately inspected the lock but it was an electronic key card kind.

"Blow it up." Haymitch decided. "The lock, not the door. Plutarch, go take a walk."

"What?" the Gamemaker frowned.

Haymitch's only answer was to reach for the gun on his hip but it felt strange in his hand, unfamiliar. Once a monster, always a monster. He pulled his knife out. The Peacekeeper lost his smirk.

"You can't." the guard said. "Your President…"

"I didn't vote for her. She's no president of mine." he scowled. "Plutarch, go take a walk."

"Haymitch…" the Gamemaker argued, looking at the two soldiers for help.

The one from Six shrugged. "I've got a wife. If it was mine in there, I would cut the bastard's balls and make him eat them. The guy clearly looks like he's trying to escape to me."

"Now, that's an idea." Haymitch snorted.

The Peacekeeper grew white.

"I've got a girl back in Four." the other soldier said, carefully placing a small amount of explosive around the lock. "And I'm working. Don't see anything."

"Haymitch." Plutarch pleaded again. "Effie wouldn't want this."

He thought it over for two seconds and then scoffed.

"Will she want to know the guy who hurt her is dead? Hell, yeah, she will." he said. "Her problem will be that the blood's on my hands 'cause she knows what killing does to me. Thing is… I won't feel guilty about this one."

"Haymitch…" the Gamemaker pleaded again.

"What if it was Cardew?" he mocked. "What if that guy had tortured Cardew and had treated her like a dog and talked to you about it like he's going to come in his pants just remembering? You'd let him walk?"

Plutarch hesitated. And Haymitch knew why. He wouldn't have done it himself and he wouldn't have done it like that because Plutarch was the kind for elaborate plots and not the kind to wield a knife.

Haymitch was a monster.

He had never tried to hide or deny it.

The problem was solved anyway when the Peacekeeper, understanding he had lost, made a run for it. He didn't go far. Haymitch caught him and stabbed him.

A part of him wanted to make it last, to torture him like he had tortured her, to make him pay… But that was giving in a little too much to the darkness in him. That Effie would have never forgiven because Plutarch had a point and she wasn't like that. So he made a quick job of it and he still felt something satisfying when the man's eyes turned empty.

He had made an oath a long time ago that he would never kill again.

But there were exceptions for everything and there was nothing he wouldn't do for his family, no oaths he wouldn't break and no revenge he wouldn't achieve. He was savage when it came to the people he cared about – loved.

Effie was very much one of those.

When the lock gave, he was the first in the cell.

The stench was worse than outside and he gagged. He placed the crook of his elbow against his nose and pushed in, almost sure the guy had lied and all he would find was a rotting corpse. It was pitch black in the cell.

"Give me a torch." he ordered the soldier from Four who passed him his flashlight. The beam wasn't huge but the cell was positively tiny. He could probably have reached both walls if he had outstretched his arms and he couldn't stand properly because the ceiling was too low. The small circle of light found her knee first and he hurried forward, dropping to a crouch next to her body, fearing the worst.

"Effie." he called out, his voice breaking in the middle of her name.

She moved. It was the tiniest sign of life but he clung to it, dropping the flashlight and picking her up to bring her back to the corridor and its harsh neon lights so he could get a proper look at her. He thought it would be a relief to leave the atrocious smell behind but it clung to her body.

She tried to fight him off, which was good, he figured, because it meant she still had some fire in her, but she was weak and too light and he had no problem carrying her outside. He placed her down on the ground carefully, alarmed by her sudden whimpers of pain.

"It's the light." the soldier from Six said, anger and outrage in his voice. "Who knows how long they've kept her in there… Her eyes…"

"Easy." Haymitch murmured again and again as she thrashed against his hands. "Easy, Effie. You're safe. I've got you, you're safe. It's me. It's me. I've killed him. You're safe now. I'll kill them all if that's what it takes. But I've got you now. You're safe. Easy, sweetheart, easy."

It was like a switch had been flicked at that word. She stopped fighting.

"Sweetheart." he repeated, a lump in his throat, gently brushing her tangled hair back. It was tangled and dirty and clumps of it remained stuck between his fingers. She kept her head angled down, her eyes shut tight. "It's over. I've got you."

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her left one didn't look right, it was heavily bruised but it was hard to tell under the heavy coat of filth marring her skin. She was so thin he could count her ribs. There were some cuts oozing pus, some angry looking half-healed scars here and there.

He wished he could bring the Peacekeeper back to life so he could kill him all over again. Slowly this time.

He brushed his fingers along her jaw line, gently nudging her head up. She whimpered again when the light directly hit her face and he placed his free hand over her eyes to shield her.

"There's no life threatening injury." he said. None that he could see, at least. They wouldn't dispatch a medic unit for the wounds she was sporting. "I'm taking her back with me to the Mansion's hospital."

"That's VIP." Plutarch reminded him. "Alma won't like that."

"Alma can kiss my ass." he growled, carefully buttoning his jacket so she would be decent. "She's staying with me."

Her eyelids fluttered open and she sobbed in pain. That would be a problem. The neon lights were harsh but it was daylight outside and it was brighter.

"Can you see anything?" he asked her, waving his hand in front of her face. He got the answer when her eyes remained riveted to the corpse a few feet away. "He's dead." he promised her. "He won't hurt you again. Ever. I'll keep you safe."

He was aware he was sounding a little manic himself. He was a little manic. It was all starting to get a little bit too much. The dead friends, Coin, the fresh blood starting to clot on his hands, the smell of rot and decay…

Suddenly he couldn't wait to get out of there and he picked her up again, less carefully than he ought to. Her head rolled on his shoulder as if she didn't have the strength to keep it up. How much had they fed her? How often?

"It's okay, sweetheart." he whispered, pressing a kiss on her head. It tasted like death itself. "You hang on, Effie, I've got you."

She was mostly unresponsive and he wasn't sure she was even aware of what was going on around her. She pressed her face in the crook of his neck when they reached the courtyard, trying to hide her face. The captain rushed to him, asking questions he dismissed, telling him to go check with Plutarch.

He only relaxed once he was in the back of a car on its way to the Mansion, Effie safely cradled on his lap, her face still pressed against his neck.

"It's okay." he kept on repeating regularly. "When they've checked you over we'll get them to dim the lights in your room. You'll get used to it again. Baby steps, yeah? You're fine. You'll be fine."

She was far from being fine. She hadn't uttered a single word yet. She was obviously hurt and who knew what sort of mental state she was in. She had calmed down when he had called her sweetheart but it didn't mean shit, he wasn't even sure she knew who he was.

The answer to that last question came as they were nearing the Mansion.

Her hand tentatively rested on his wrist where his hand was splayed against her stomach, her stiff fingers slowly hooked around the golden bangle. His eyes were burning but he blinked and pressed his lips against her forehead in a long kiss.

"I'm sorry." he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry. Never meant to leave you behind. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I'm sorry." She shifted a little, angled her face up, her eyes still shut tight but following the sound of his voice. Her lips were impossibly chapped. She was dehydrated he figured. He brushed his mouth against hers all the same. Something uncoiled in his chest when she accepted his touch. "I've got you now. Nobody's ever going to hurt you again. I'll kill anyone who tries. I'll kill them all for you. I'll kill them, sweetheart."

Her fingers tugged on the bangle a bit, almost a rebuke. He chose to see it that way anyway, it might have been accidental. She knew how much he despised himself for the people he had slaughtered in his Games, for the kids he hadn't managed to save and for the collateral damages his victory had caused. She knew he felt dead inside because of it all. She knew killing again would destroy a little more of his soul, would break his heart that little bit further.

"I don't care anymore." he breathed out. "There's no winning. There never was any winning. Thirteen's no better than the Capitol. They've killed kids, so many kids… Younger than twelve even. There were toddlers in there and fuck, Effie, fuck… I've got a hand in this… I didn't know but I should have… Should have seen it coming… Should have…" He buried his face in her dirty hair, breathed in hoping to find her familiar smell but only found a stench that shouldn't have belonged on a human being. "There are no rules anymore. I'll kill for you. I'll kill for the kids. You're all that counts. I don't care anymore. I don't."

And it was scary to feel this desperate.

Despair and him were long acquainted friends but this was different. This was a free fall and if nobody caught him soon, he was scared of how bad the landing would be.

When he drew back, her eyes were open, her eyelids blinking fast and hard, her face creased in pain. But she was staring. Blue met grey and he felt a thousand things from ashamed to grounded.

He wasn't sure how much of that speech she had understood but her fingers left the bangle and rose to his cheek. She was too weak, her hand fell halfway there. He lifted it back to his face carefully, dropping a kiss on her inner wrist.

I love you, he wanted to say. The words were almost on his lips. She would probably not even remember it and the urge to say it was so strong it was constricting his chest.

He didn't.

He still thought he was cursed. Admit this and she would somehow die soon after.

He couldn't risk it.

She was too weak, too vulnerable. Too precious.

"I'll keep you safe." he whispered instead.

And he would.

If it was the last thing he did.