Summary: Peeta has to save Katniss. To save Katniss, he has to be part of the Careers. Sickening but necessary. And if Peeta wants to be trusted among the Careers, he has to become part of the gang. He has to kill. Horrifying. But essential. One-shot when Peeta finishes of the girl in the 1st book.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, all those rights are reserved to Suzanne Collins.

A/N: I was recently re-reading the Hunger Games again and the idea sort of popped into my head while I was trying to find inspiration for my Sherlock sister fic. Anyway, here it is, hope you enjoy. It's a pretty short one-shot. I don't usually write in the present or first person but because that's how the books are written I did it that way.

Horrifying but Essential

I have to save Katniss. To save Katniss, I have to be part of the Careers. Sickening but necessary. And if I want to be trusted among the Careers, I have to become part of the gang. I have to kill. Horrifying. But essential.

The others are arguing, as they always do. It's a non-stop, abrasive thing that would have been the straw that broke the camel's back and made me leave, but I can't. I can't because of Katniss. She's out there and I can't let the Careers get her. I've heard what they want to do to her and it's inhumane. Maybe wanting to save Katniss is a death wish, but I have to do it. I suck in a breath.

"Stop! We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I shout over their petty arguments. At least, petty for them. For me, it means I'll have to end a life in cold-blood in a few seconds. And that thought is terrifying. If Katniss could see me now, she'd be disgusted, I know it. She'd think of me as just 'a piece in their games'. Which I guess we all are.

I run back to the girl, all the while wondering how I'm going to possibly kill this girl. She has a family back home, a family who would cry, want me dead. How can I kill an innocent little girl, like I've seen the real Careers do at the Cornucopia? No! I stop myself. I have to think like a Career, act like a Career. I have to be a career. Otherwise, there's no chance that I will pull this off and potentially save Katniss. And the chances were slim to start with.

I see the dying girl and all my resolve crumbles. I drop down to my knees, next to the girl. How old can she be? Thirteen at the most, probably twelve. The youngest nearly always die first. That's just another cruel, unfair, horrendous part of the Games. She would have so much to live for, her life has barely started. All of our lives have barely started. All twenty four of us. And only one of us will get to keep on going.

And now she's dying and I can't do anything about it. I'm powerless. Powerless to save a little girl, how can I possibly save Katniss? I can't even comfort her, whisper meaningless words in her last moments.

Instead, I take her in my arms, "I'm so sorry..." I can't even bring myself to say 'It's going to be okay' because I know it's a lie, like everything in this godforsaken place.

"Mary," she whispers with a weak smile.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," I whisper back, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one else is there.

"Hold my hand, please," Mary whispers and I take her frail hand, squeezing it slightly and smoothing the hair off her face. The grip on my hand falters as her raspy breaths reduce to a slight rise and fall. "Thank you," She mutters, a tear falling from her eyes.

The canon fires.

I take in a shaky breath and close her eyes, gently placing her on the ground.

Suddenly, I realise the whole of Panem may have been watching. What will this have done for sponsors? Could this be an act of defiance? I'm supposed to be a Career, they never defy, they only follow the rules like puppets.

I run back to the others, who turn back way too quickly for it not to be suspicious. Knowing them, knowing that I'm from District 12 and knowing that we're in the Games, I would say that they were probably deciding when to kill me. After all, when Katniss is gone, they'll have no further use for me.

"Is she dead?" Cato asks me, glaring as he always does. I nod, not trusting myself to speak for just a second. I gulp inaudibly and force a hard look on my face,

"She is now." I say loud and clear, pretending not to care. It's harder work than lifting those sacks of flour, back home. "Ready to move on?" Without waiting for an answer, he walks ahead.

Compassion. It could kill me; literally. It's the Hunger Games, after all. This is no place for a soft feeling like compassion.

A/N: Like I said before, I don't often write in 1st person present so any comments or advice would be great. Thanks for reading!