A/N: This is just a short story I needed to get out of my head, before starting to publish my more important Hayffie project. [I'm still working on it, but it should be uploaded soon, I promise.] I hope you'll like it nonetheless! It should be around 3 to 5 chapters long in total, methinks.

Feel free to leave a review, it'd be fantastic!

Serve God, Love Me, And Mend.

Chapter I.

"Haymitch, we have to leave, now!"

Haymitch turned to see Beetee, his eyes wide open, reflecting a mix of fear and madness that made his skin crawl, for it reminded him too much of his own. His cheek was cut wide open, and his stomach was drenched with red stains. Haymitch really hoped they belonged to someone else.

"We can't stay any longer, Haymitch! Gale was now the one shouting at him, breathless. Peeta is not going to make it out alive!

Gale was also severely injured, as Haymitch could tell from the way his shoulder was twisted. He was right, of course. They all were. It was time to leave.

-I know that, Gale! I know that damn well!

He suddenly stopped in the middle of his tracks, deciding for a new course of actions.

-Beetee, Gale, take Peeta with you and leave with the others! Plutarch, with me. We'll take the last corridor and join you afterwards."

Plutarch nodded, and they both quickly exited the dark room, running toward the last cells. With ragged voices, they both called for survivors, despite knowing very well the threat it represented. The corridor stood silent. Haymitch called again. The only thing they could hear were the hurried footsteps of more peacekeepers, dangerously heading closer.

"They are right after us, we have to leave, Plutarch said calmly.

It was one of the things Haymitch had always appreciated about the former Gamemaker; no matter how desperate the situation was, he would always remain collected. It was a relief. Suddenly, a faint, muffled sound resonated in the empty corridor. It had not been clear or distinct, but Haymitch was convinced it had been real.

-Wait! Have you heard that?

-There was nothing, Abernathy. These are apparently all empty. Come on, we need to get out of here!

The noise occurred a second time, a little more clearly. Haymitch felt himself shiver. It was not a call for help, it was a horrified shriek. Whatever was happening in this cell probably would haunt his nights forever.

-Shut up, Heavensbee! Can't you hear? There's a fucking person in there!

-The Peacekeepers are closing on us; we have no choice, Haymitch! You know the rules; it's collateral damage.

Haymitch felt something snapping open inside of him, as he seized Plutarch by his collar, his voice low, sounding almost like an animalistic growl.

-Never again. I've been in the Games, P. I've killed enough innocents for a lifetime. There will be no more "collateral damage". Not while I'm around. These shrieks belong to a person, and I'm not fucking getting out without them.

He finally released his grip. Plutarch was looking at him, and for the first time, just for an instant, Haymitch saw fear in his eyes. It disappeared almost instantly, as Plutarch pressed his hands onto Haymitch's shoulder, to calm him done.

-Fine. I get it. I'll stay with you; I get it. Let's go."

Haymitch was grateful for the man's simplicity. He wanted to thank him, but there were other priorities. At this very moment, every second counted. Plutarch tossed an explosive toward the door of the last cell. The door blasted open with a loud bang, before disappearing in a cloud of white smoke.

Using his arm to cover his mouth, Haymitch walked through the cloud, swinging a long knife in front of him, a desperate attempt to protect himself. But when the smoke dissipated, Haymitch froze in his tracks, for the sight in front of him terrified him.

On the floor was a woman, barely alive, looking as pale as a corpse, her limbs covered in different shades of blood. A man was kneeling between her legs, one of his hands roughly crushing her mouth and nose, smothering her. His other hand was holding a dirty blade, which was pressed against her left breast, drawing blood from her.

With a shudder of horror, Haymitch realized the man was about to rape her, for he could see her faints attempts to resist him, to close the space between her legs, and he could hear muffled shrieks of sheer despair escaping her mouth, despite the man's hand covering it.

The woman turned her head a little, and Haymitch felt as if all the air had suddenly left his lungs. Time seemed to freeze around him, and he took a step back, for he had realized that, behind the tears, the blood and the dirt, the torn features he was looking at belonged to Euphemia Trinket.

Before he could even process what was happening, Haymitch had silently moved towards the torturer, and the long blade of his knife was buried deep within the man's back. However, Haymitch had made sure he wouldn't die just yet. The wound was fatal, but he still had enough time to make the man pay.

Haymitch dragged him by his collar, and shoved him against the wall of the cell. The torturer was groaning pitifully, the pain in his back already driving him to the edge of sanity. Suddenly, Haymitch violently kicked the man's crotch with one knee, making him shout loudly with pain, as he glided slowly towards the floor.

"Take her!

The man had talked in a hoarse voice, pointing at the trembling woman who was curled up in a ball, on the floor of the cell.

-Take that whore back, if that's what you want. She's all yours!

Haymitch looked at him, right into his animalistic eyes, before speaking calmly.

-What did you just call her?

The man only answered with another groan of pain. The next thing he knew, Haymitch's fist had violently collided with his jaw in an awful crack. The guard coughed, spitting blood, while Haymitch stood silent, glancing at him with nothing but pure hatred in his eyes.

-What did you call her, you bastard!

The man attempted to answer, despite the state of his jaw, but managed to emit nothing but a whimper. Haymitch felt his grip onto his knife tighten, as he stepped close to the man again, ready to slice his throat. But he stopped instantly when he heard the worried voice of Plutarch behind him.

- Hay, we've got a problem. The woman, something's wrong with her. She passed out."

Haymitch quickly abandoned his prey, pathetically whimpering on the floor, begging for mercy between spats of blood. Back to the dirt he came from, Haymitch thought cruelly. In one swift motion, he was by Plutarch's side.

Effie was still leaning on the floor, motionless, wearing nothing but a half-torn, dirty dress to hide her swollen body. Haymitch had to close his eyes for a moment, as he acknowledged the multiple scars and bruises, along with dried blood and burn marks, that covered her petite body.

Her face was nowhere better, covered in tears and smeared blood. Her eyes barely visible behind the awful dark bruises surrounding them. Her nose was oddly curved, and her formerly perfect lips were cut open along a long, deep scar which ran from her jaw to her opposite cheek.

Haymitch also noticed with horror that half of her hair had been ripped off her scalp, leaving blank patches of pale skin. Haymitch swallowed hard. His mind was racing, trying to connect the pieces together. He did not understand.

The broken wreck of a woman leaning in front of him was undeniably his former colleague, the unforgettable pink bubble named Effie Trinket. What on earth was she doing here? If there was anyone he had not expected to find here, it was her. Those were the Capitol's jails, for god's sake! She was from the Capitol!

"Who is she?

Haymitch didn't even turn his head toward Plutarch, unable to take his eyes off the molested body belonging to the woman he knew so well.

-Euphemia Trinket. You knew her -know her. He corrected himself; she was not dead yet.

-Oh. I didn't recognize her, Plutarch simply answered.

-But… She was one of them! She was from the Capitol, P! What the hell is she doing there! She's been tortured!

Haymitch hadn't realized he had been shouting his last words. But the display in front of him was too upsetting for him to handle. Never would he have imagined he would ever witness Effie in this state.

-It's our fault, Hay. Look at her chest."

Slowly, Haymitch did as he had been told. He carefully pushed the fabric aside, and suddenly, he understood. Just above her breasts, on the skin of her lower neck, was the distinct burn mark of a jewel, and, more precisely, a Mockingjay locket. The very same he had given to her as a token for remembrance, just before the Arena collapsed.

Haymitch gulped painfully, a rush of guilt invading his whole body, creeping into his very veins. It was his fault. The bastards had heated her necklace and then forced her to wear it against her bare skin. Then, as if it wasn't enough, someone had carved the word "Traitor" in capital letters, right in her skin, using the round shape of the locket as the "O".

"Oh, Effs. What did they do to you? He muttered to himself, before slowly facing Plutarch, who hadn't moved.

-It was my fault. Entirely and only mine. It was my fucking fault, one more time! And now she's gone and nothing will bring her back to m-

-She is not yet, Haymitch! Plutarch interrupted harshly. But we need to get her out, right now, or we all will be! Now is not the time to dwell on the past."

Haymitch nodded, kneeling closer to her. Without realizing it, he went to caress the scar with the very tip of his fingers. But at the very instant their skin touched, Effie let out a terrible shriek, her whole body arching at once.

She was shaken by irregular spasms, convulsing on the floor, as she desperately attempted to protect herself from an inexistent menace. With one hand, she scratched Haymitch's face. Despite her lack of nails, her strength in despair was increased; Haymitch felt she had drawn blood.

"Leave me -alone!

Effie was half-shouting, half-sobbing, still attempting to hurt her invisible assailant by clawing onto the air.

-Euphemia, it's Plutarch. We're not here to hurt you; you need to calm down. Plutarch was trying to soften her delirium by maintaining her shoulders firmly pressed against the floor.

-Don't- hurt her. Haymitch growled.

-Please, don't! I don't know anything, I swear! Effie was still shrieking.

-Effie, now, stop!

Haymitch had shouted, and it seemed to work for a moment. Effie covered her face with her bloody hands, still mouthing silent pleadings, but her spasms had stopped.

-Effs, my sweet. It's me. It's 'Mitch.

His voice sounded raw; he could barely talk, for he lacked saliva.

-We're not here to hurt you. We're getting you out if here.

Effie's eyes suddenly shot open, and she stood still and silent, not seeming to understand him. Without realizing it, Haymitch gripped her right hand firmly.

-Do you recognize me, Trinks? It's Haymitch. I'm here now, it's over, it's all over.

Plutarch was becoming agitated, and Haymitch realized he had no more time to sing her lullabies. It was their last chance to leave.

-Just stay calm, sweetheart. We're getting out of here alive, you and I."

He was about to lift her, when her gaze suddenly focused, their eyes meeting for the first time.

-Haymitch? But- You're dead! Am I dead? Is this death?

Her voice was thick, distorted, yet she talked quickly, as if she couldn't breathe. She coughed a little, and he felt her fingers closing around his wrist, returning his grip. She looked lost, almost mad. But the very touch of her was enough for Haymitch; he knew all hope was not lost yet.

-What are you doing in hell, Haymitch? I deserved it, but you- you didn't. She was crying again, glistening tears leaving traces on her dirty skin. I have prayed for you, I have! Why didn't it work? Why are you here, with me?"

Suddenly, her eyes rolled into their orbs, and she passed out again, retrieving into her own fantasy, her head falling limply at her side.

His whole body awakened with the fear to lose her again, Haymitch carefully lifted her off the floor before getting up himself. He slowly dropped her onto his shoulder, holding her tightly, one hand wrapped around her waist, and the other under her thighs.

He looked at Plutarch, before simply announcing: "Let's get out of here." Quickly, they ran away, dark corridor after dark corridor, toward the only exit left. Every few steps, Haymitch repeated two words to the lifeless body in his hands, like a desperate mantra. "Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive."

He didn't even know why he cared, but at this very moment, and no matter how disastrous his relationship with the former Escort had been in the years they had been forced to work together, there was nothing else in the world he desired more, than for her to stay alive. To have the chance to talk to her one more time, one last time. Tell her things he had never told anyone. Make her smile, laugh again.

Haymitch's thoughts were spiraling into his mind, when he suddenly caught sight of the exit door. At that very instant, Effie flinched in his arms. It was almost imperceptible, but enough to know she wasn't dead yet. The relief he instantly felt, along with the urgency of the situation, sent a rush of energy through his spine. He raced towards the door, Plutarch by his side, muttering a simple sentence against Effie's shoulder.

"We're getting out of here alive, you and I."

A/N: Well, I hope it wasn't too disappointing... It's kind of different from what I wrote before, but I hope you've still enjoyed it. Next chapter should be up during the week!

Thanks for reading,
Wil~