Disclaimer: As much as I would love to be Suzanne Collins or the powers that be at Marvel, I am not. Therefore, I do not own these beloved characters, nor do I own the story lines, nor do I own really anything about this story.

Notice: I got this idea from ChristianGateFan's Ever In Your Favor and Gumby95's Tribute (over on DA). I did ask permission before borrowing the idea, with the promise that this will be strictly my own work, which it is. I stick to my promises. With that said, any resemblance between my work and theirs is completely accidental and I am NOT trying to steal their wonderful works of art. Please do not accuse me as such.

Notes: This story is FRIENDSHIP ONLY, though, if you really want to, you can read it as pre-slash or slash… but it's meant strictly as friendship. Actually, there will be no romance at all in this story.

Chapters are song titles, taken from The Hunger Games soundtrack and somehow relate to all of the chapters.

This story is basically the lovechild of The Hunger Games (both the movie and the book) and X-Men First Class (the most recent movie)…

The Mutant Games

Chapter 1: Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

It was silent, save for the soft songs of the birds in the trees above Charles' head. He crept through the forest carefully, his footsteps falling quietly on the leafy carpet.

His prey walked a few feet ahead of him—a large doe with a limp. Charles had been tracking her for some time, ever since he had left the meadow.

The deer paused to take a sip at a small pond. Charles' breath caught as he swiftly raised his bow, aiming carefully.

He took a deep breath and held it, preparing to release the string.

The birds stopped singing.

A loud growl filled the air, accompanied by a strong, sudden breeze. The doe looked up in alarm, before taking flight.

Charles let out a hiss of anger as he shouldered his bow and ducked under a bush for cover. He recognized the hovercrafts of the Capitol anywhere. They were on their way to District 12 to set up for the Reaping.

The hovercraft passed and the birds went back to singing.

Charles let out a heavy sigh of frustration, knowing that the doe was long gone, vanishing down unseen game trails that he could never hope to follow.

With one last glance around the small clearing, just to make sure there wasn't any remaining game stupid enough to hang out after the hovercraft passed over, Charles headed back to the meadow. With any luck, Hank's snares would have caught something so they wouldn't have to return to District 12 completely empty handed.

Hank was perched on a log on the far side of the clearing, his face buried in a well-worn book. A pile of squirrels, rabbits, and a handful of birds sat beside him.

Charles smiled at the familiar sight, glad that one of them had been successful. That pile would bring in enough money for some much needed supplies.

Hank was a tall, lean, fourteen-year-old boy. He had short, dark brown hair that was generally very neatly kept and intelligent blue eyes that observed everything from behind large, square-framed glasses.

The other boy looked up at the sound of Charles' approach, his narrow face splitting into a wide grin.

"Charles!" he greeted happily, shoving his glasses back up his nose. They tended to fall down a lot. "I was beginning to think you'd never show up!"

Charles crossed the clearing, dropping his empty game sack to the ground, before sitting down on the log next to Hank.

"I was tracking a deer," he replied with a shrug.

Hank's face fell slightly. "I take it you didn't catch it?" he asked.

Charles shook his head. "The hovercraft scared it off."

Hank sighed. "The Capitol is out to ruin our lives," he said gravely.

"Don't talk like that," Charles scolded. Even out here, in the middle of the woods, far from civilization, it wasn't safe to talk about the Capitol.

"It's true!" Hank protested. "Every single year, they take two of us at random and then kill us, Charles! And that's on top of the poor living conditions, where most of us nearly starve to death, and then the terrible work conditions that nearly get us all killed on a daily basis!"

It wasn't the first time Hank had ranted like this, nor would it be the last. All of what he said was true—Charles knew that better than anyone—but it wasn't safe for Hank to say those things. Especially today.

"What can we do, though?" Charles asked wearily, tired of constantly having to bring up this argument. "What can we do about it? The last time we tried rebelling, they erased an entire district off the map."

They had all heard about District 13, the last of the districts to attempt a rebellion. Ten years after the initial war had ended, District 13 had attempted to protest the cruel conditions the Capitol had imposed. The Capitol had responded by using nuclear bombs to completely destroy District 13 and all of its citizens. Occasionally, the Capitol would show images from the still-smoking remains, just to remind the other Districts what would happen if they decided to rebel.

Hank let out a weary sigh.

"I don't know," he muttered. "But it still sucks."

Charles understood. He had lost his entire family to starvation or the mines. But he also knew from experience that complaining about it did nothing except get others hurt.

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, before Charles remembered something.

"I almost forgot," he said, reaching into his game sack. "Alex gave us a Reaping Day present."

He pulled out the soft wedge of cheese, wrapped carefully in leaves. Charles couldn't even begin to imagine how much this treat had cost his oldest adopted brother.

Hank's eyes widened considerably. "Wow," he breathed. "Is that from-?"

"Farmer Frank's new goat? Yeah," Charles replied. "Alex said he was bringing home dinner, too."

The simple phrase brought a lump to Charles' throat and he looked away from Hank. He heard his adopted brother swallow hard and they both fell silent.

"How many times are you in today?" Hank asked quietly

Charles shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

He had entered twenty. Only six of those entries were mandatory—the Capitol required all mutant children between the ages of twelve and eighteen to enter into the Reaping. How old you were determined how many times you could enter. Charles' six were for his eighteen years. The rest were the result of the Capitol's twisted sense of humor. If you entered more times, you were allowed to bring home tesserae—a year's meager supply of oil and grain for each member of the entry's family. Charles had claimed both Hank and Alex as his family, though technically, they weren't related.

"Yes it does," Hank insisted.

Being fourteen, Hank was only entered twice. Both Charles and Alex had decided that they didn't want to increase their youngest brother's chances of being chosen.

Alex was nineteen and was now clear of the Reaping, though that didn't keep him for fearing for his younger brothers' lives.

Charles sighed. "Twenty."

Hank bit his lip, obviously trying to be strong. It didn't help that behind his large glasses, his blue eyes shone with anxiety, which Charles could see, even as his brother looked away.

"I wish you would let me enter more," Hank muttered.

"Forget it," Charles said wearily. It was an argument they had all had countless of times, but in the end, only Charles was allowed to take out tesserae. It helped that he was a telepath and could influence his brothers' decisions, something he didn't do lightly.

"I'm smart!" Hank protested. "I could outsmart anyone in the arena."

It was true—Hank's mutation was that he was a genius. His snares were proof enough of that. Not for the first time, Charles wished that they lived in a different world, where Hank's intelligence could be appreciated, not hunted down.

He resisted the urge to growl. "I know that, Hank. But the fact is, you shouldn't have to be involved in their twisted Games."

"Neither should you," Hank muttered. "Just because you can read people's minds doesn't mean you're dangerous."

The words brought a soft smile to Charles' face and he ruffled Hank's carefully styled hair to show his appreciation for his brother's words. Not everyone felt that way about Charles' gift—even among mutants, telepaths were feared.

The younger mutant let out a huff of annoyance. "We should be getting back," he said. "The Reaping is supposed to start at midday and we need to get to the Hobb before it closes."

Charles could still feel the frustration and fear flooding off Hank in waves, but the younger mutant was quiet.

The telepath rested a gentle hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed lightly, letting his appreciation be known.

They set off without another word.

The Hobb was always an interesting place to visit. As the main, undercover trading post for most of District 12, it was always alive with activity and people.

Charles remembered his first time here. It had been right after his father died and he had been desperate for money and for food. He hadn't had much to trade—a couple of half-starved squirrels and some ancient clothes that had once been his father's—but the people there had taken him in as one of their own.

Hank had started coming with Charles to the Hobb once he was old enough to hunt. He too had been fascinated by everyone there, and they had, in turn, accepted him as well.

The Hobb was quieter today. Several of the people who were regulars were scared off by the arrival of the Peacekeepers. It didn't matter if most of the regulars were Peacekeepers.

Charles didn't mind—it meant less people's thoughts and emotions to encroach on his carefully placed shields.

Hank and Charles separated once they entered the building. Hank had a list of things he wanted to get before the Reaping and Charles found that he always got better deals when he was alone.

Charles headed over to Greasy Sae, an aging woman who was always in search of a good, fresh-caught bird or two.

She offered him a grim sort of smile as he approached, showing off the fact that her two front teeth were missing. Charles smiled slightly in response.

"You got lucky, Xavier," she told him. "I was just about to close for the day."

Indeed, most of the people had already closed up their shops and left for the day to get their families ready for the Reaping.

Charles gave her a one-shouldered shrug in thanks as he held up the string of dead woodland creatures.

"At least I bring things to trade," he said.

Greasy Sae let out a booming laugh. "That you do, m'boy," she said. "That you do."

It took them about ten minutes to settle on an offer that satisfied both parties. In return for two squirrels, a duck, and a rabbit, Charles got some butter, oil, and a precious book of matches.

"May the odds be in your favor today, boy," Greasy Sae said as Charles turned to leave. "There are rumors floating about that this year's Games are going to be worse than normal."

It was the same thing said every year, but it never failed to send shivers down Charles' spine.

He thanked Greasy Sae for the trade and for the warning, before saying a hasty good-bye and leaving.

Hank was waiting for him by the entrance, carrying a book and a small parcel. When Charles asked what it was, Hank merely shook his head.

"You'll find out later," he said.

Charles sighed, opting not to pick the answer out of his younger brother's head. "All right," he said. "C'mon, let's go get ready for the Reaping."

Alex was already waiting for them when Charles and Hank arrived at the small, two-bedroom house a few minutes later. His pinched look of anxiety instantly faded.

"It's about time you two showed up," he growled.

Hank muttered an apology as he dumped his hunting bag on the table and headed for his room. Charles merely shook his head.

"It's not the end of the world, Alex," he chastised. "And Hank's more than a little nervous about what's happening today. Lay off."

Alex ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just…with the Peacekeepers and all…"

"Yeah," Charles murmured. "I get it."

And he did. It was the same way he felt every time his older adopted brother went into the mines with the threat that he would never return.

It was worse today, though, with the added bonus that this could very well be the last time they ever saw each other.

Charles shoved that thought out of his head.

"I should go get ready," he said, setting his bag down next to Hank's.

Alex's anxiety was back.

"Charles…" he began, but trailed off.

The younger mutant nodded once, not needing to be a telepath to know what Alex was going to say.

"I'll make sure he doesn't go," he said.

"I'm more worried about you," Alex said softly.

Although Alex was the oldest in their little family, it was Charles who was the head of it. He had managed to keep them alive and mostly well, pretty much single-handedly. Alex did what he could, but they both knew that without Charles, neither he nor Hank had much chance of surviving.

Charles shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said. "Don't worry about me."

He hoped if he said those words enough time, then he would start to believe them, too.

The air of solemnity nearly suffocated Charles as he followed the large crowd of people to the square. It had been like this every Reaping without fail, but Charles doubted it was something he would ever get used to. For the past seventeen years, he had been forced to feel and hear everyone's thoughts as they went through the horror of losing yet another pair of children from their district, knowing that one, if not both, would never return.

A soft hand gripped his, reminding Charles that he wasn't completely alone in all of this. He turned, a soft, somewhat pained smile gracing his face as his eyes met Hank's.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his blue eyes wide with concern.

Charles nodded once. "I'm fine."

He looked disbelieving—for he alone knew just how much this event affected him—but didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say. The Reaping and the Games themselves were something that couldn't be helped, no matter the emotional backlash.

They had reached the square. Charles didn't even need to have his eyes open to know this—the level of anxiety and fear skyrocketed as the dozens of children aged twelve to eighteen were organized into semi-orderly rows.

Beside him, Charles could feel Hank's unease pouring off of him, no matter how much he had tried to get a handle on it. Charles didn't need to be a telepath to read it—he was his adopted brother, after all, and he knew Hank better than anyone else.

Ignoring the protests of the Peacekeepers and the other children attempting to get into position, Charles stopped walking and crouched down beside Hank.

"Listen to me," he said softly, drawing her close to him. "Your name's only in there twice. There's no way you're going to be picked."

"But what about you?" Hank whispered, tears shining in his eyes. "Your name is in there twenty times, Charles."

"Don't worry about me," he said firmly. "I'll be fine."

Hank shook his head. "You're a liar, Charles Xavier."

Charles gave her a slight smile. "I've never lied to you, Hank McCoy."

A tear slid down his slim face, reminding Charles forcefully of the fact that no matter how grown-up he behaved, Hank was only fourteen years old.

This isn't fair, he thought, not for the first time.

"I don't want to lose you," Hank murmured.

Charles hugged him tightly. "You're not going to lose me, Hank," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He prayed to whatever god that might be listening that he was right, that both of them would be saved in this reaping. They were the only family they had. Charles' father had died from a mine explosion after Charles was born, his mother had drank herself to death six years later. Hank's family abandoned him when he was two, when they realized they had too many mouths to feed. Charles had found him in a drainage ditch when he was seven and they had been together ever since.

Hank took a deep, shaking breath and pulled away from him, wiping his tears away on the hem of his shirt. Charles longed to just take his hand and run for the woods, to get the hell out of here before anything bad could happen to them, but he knew it was futile. Not only because there were hundreds of Peacekeepers around, but because there was nowhere for them to run.

Charles and Hank were separated by the Peacekeepers. Charles was sent to stand with the other boys his age while Hank was sent near the front to stand with the rest of the fourteen-year-old boys.

The square, which was generally an empty, desolate place that people avoided like the plague, was crammed with the entire population of the district. Large screens were hung from the buildings, and a banner was strung up over the Justice Building welcoming everybody to the Reaping.

A stage had been set up directly in front of the Justice Building. On it stood a microphone and a table with two glass jars. Charles knew that the jars held the names of the children who would be picked to go to the Games. The one on the left held twenty slips of paper with his name on them.

A short, pink woman stood behind the microphone. Everything about her, from her excessively curly wig to her ridiculous shoes, was pink. It contrasted sharply with the drab, gray and white tones everyone else was wearing.

But it wasn't just the outfit that made her stand out to Charles—it was her mind. Whereas everyone else's was bleak and frightened, hers alone was excited, manic almost. Clearly, she enjoyed this horrible spectacle.

Her name was Effie Trinket. She was in charge of the Reaping, and looking after the tributes once they had been picked.

There was a gentle tap on the microphone and immediately, the entire crowd fell silent. The anxiety level doubled and Charles could barely breathe under the sheer weight of it.

"Welcome, welcome, to the 74th Mutant Games!" Effie crowed. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

She stood there awkwardly, until she realized no one was going to clap.

"We shall start with a short video that came all the way to you from the Capitol!" she said.

The video began. It was the usual story—the humans and mutants were at war over half a century ago, nearly destroying the entire planet. The humans were victorious, thanks to a couple of well placed biological bombs that threatened to erase the entire mutant population while preserving the human one. As punishment for their uprising, the mutants were separated to twelve districts. Every year, the districts were forced to offer up one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to fight to the death in a televised show called The Mutant Games. There would be one winner, and that winner would bring a year's worth of food and other supplies home with them.

It was despicable. Unfortunately, as a telepath, Charles was forced to enter into the Reaping, which was the way the 'tributes' were decided. Hank, as a genetically-enhanced genius, was forced to enter, too. The human children, forced to live out here in the districts to help keep the peace, were allowed to enter if they chose.

None of them did.

Effie was smiling as the video completed.

"Isn't that just marvelous?" she asked. Ignoring the stony faced replies, she added, "That gives me chills every single time."

When there was no response, Effie sighed.

"Right. Shall we get on with it then?"

She was still smiling. It disgusted Charles, more than the Games themselves. It was because of people like her that the Games were so successful.

Effie was speaking again.

"Ladies first!"

She reached into the jar and the anxiety in the square increased by tenfold. Charles' breath caught as he attempted—unsuccessfully—to shield himself from it.

Effie pulled out a piece of paper.

"Our first tribute from District 12 is…" she paused for dramatic effect. "Katherine Pryde!"

A girl around Charles' age and height stepped forward, looking anxious. She wore a simple blue dress and fancy black shoes—like everyone else, she had been forced to dress up for this. Her long, light brown hair was swept back into a carefully, coiled braid that showed off her round face and dark brown eyes.

The square was silent as she walked forward. Only Effie was smiling.

Charles had only talked to Katherine once, a few years before, when he had been trading a couple of squirrels with her mother for thread. She was a nice enough girl, if unusually chatty for someone in District 12. Charles vaguely remembered her telling him about her life story, though he had forgotten most of it over the years.

She climbed up on stage, giving Effie a weak smile. The older woman responded with a broad grin that sent shivers down Charles' spine.

"Welcome, welcome," she said. Turning back to the crowd, she added, "How about a round of applause for our first tribute?"

There was a small smattering of clapping that died quickly. No one was too thrilled about any of the children going to the Games.

Effie let out a weary sigh, clearly annoyed with having the least interesting district of all time.

"And now," she announced. "For our boy tribute."

Charles was almost flattened by the sudden spike in apprehension in the square, which heightened his own. He gritted his teeth together.

Effie's hand reached into the bowl and pulled out a single piece of paper.

"Our second tribute from District 12 is…"

Breathe, Charles reminded himself.

"Hank McCoy!"

No!

He was barely aware of the fact that he had screamed that out loud as Hank emerged from the throng of fourteen year olds.

"Hank!" Charles yelled, pushing the other boys out of his way.

Hank turned, his blue eyes wide with fear.

"Charles!" he called back. He broke into a run, meeting Charles halfway as the other boys finally moved out of the way.

Peacekeepers swarmed them, pulling them apart. Hank let out another yell and struggled against the people holding him.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The words were out of Charles' mouth before he had the chance to really think about them.

Everyone turned to stare at him. Effie's mouth was hanging open.

Hank stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Somewhere behind him, Charles could feel Alex's terror.

Charles swallowed hard and once more repeated himself.

"I volunteer as tribute."