Summary: Brittany never questioned her life, or the Games. She accepted that competing in the brutal brawl to the death- and winning- was an inevitable part of her future. But now, for the first time ever, she has something to lose; something she wants that she can never, ever have- because in the end, if she wants to win, she will have to kill her… AU. Hunger Games!Brittana. THAT MEANS VIOLENCE KIDS

WARNING: Because of the nature of this story, it will have GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND DEATH in it. It's the motherfucking Hunger Games, man. There's be some killing. Also, what's a story of mine without sex? That's right, not mine. LOL But since this IS written by me, expect some of that at some point.

A/N: Hiiii! :D So, a long time ago, I thought about writing this story, but then I couldn't really think of a premise that I liked. Then, back in November in preparation for the release of Catching Fire, I rewatched The Hunger Games, and an idea came to me literally in the middle of the movie. And so, this story was born, and I got off my ass to write it for BFWFF.

Which sucks, because it required SO. MUCH. RESEARCH. UGH.

And before anyone accuses me of making this exactly like every other Hunger Games story out there, I would like to point out that I had a reason for the things I chose to do in this story, and that it is also 99% compliant with Hunger Games canon! I didn't just pick stuff because "it sounded cool."

The chapters will be short, and I'm hopefully going to post pretty frequently until it's done. It should be less than ten chapters. I'd like to have this story finished by the end of the month, buuuuuut… lol. It's me. XD

Anyways. Please head the warning. There's gonna be a lot of violence and death.

Also, if you don't know anything about The Hunger Games, ummmmm do you live under a rock?

That being said, enjoy, I suppose. 8)~

You see the wooden club seconds before it bashes your skull in.

You're just barely able to twist out of the way, narrowly avoiding what would be a very painful and probably life-ending blow to your head as your opponent lets out a scream of rage. You leap back, out of his reach, and regain your footing, readying yourself to dodge another attack- an attack you know is coming.

The male tribute from District 7- you have no idea what his name is, but he looks like he's made of plastic- lunges at you, bringing his makeshift club- which is really just a heavy piece of wood- up to take another swing for your head.

As you swiftly dodge another blow, you size up the situation. Plastic's District of origin explains his choice of weapon, and why he was waiting to ambush you in the trees, but he's slow, and-

"Stop moving!" He cries desperately. He swings again and you study his stance- he's off-balance, especially on his left side. His center of gravity is too high. His club is just a bit too heavy for him to comfortably swing, giving him less control over it than he should have. He turns and swats wildly at you with it, his breaths coming fast and heavy through his gritted teeth. Sweat trickles down his forehead.

He's scared.

And he's getting sloppy, you realize, as he misses you by an even wider margin. His club clips the edge of a tree trunk and bounces off, leaving him wildly off-center. You would pity him, except you hear your father in your head.

They deserve this, Britty. They suffer for a reason.

Your gaze hardens, and as Plastic raises the club high over his head to hit you with it- to kill you with it- you make your move. You lunge into his personal space, so that you're pressed up against him- he can't really hit you there- and without any preamble, reach up to snap his neck.

He staggers back, of course. He struggles to get away. But you stay with him. He drops his weapon. And that's when you know it's over.

You trip him. He hits the ground on his back and begins to crawl backward, to get as far away from you as possible. His back hits a tree; there's nowhere else for him to go. His eyes widen with fear. Tears have begun to drip from his eyes. He's whimpering, holding his hands up, begging-

It's pathetic.

You pick up his discarded weapon. It is heavy, but you raise it carefully.

"Please," Plastic begs, whimpers, sobs. You shake your head, silent. He started this. He attacked you. He would have killed you if he could have, but he couldn't. He can't.

But you can kill him.

You will kill him.

You raise the club higher, and without any more delay, bring it down quickly on his head.

He would have killed you.

He screams, writhes.

Again.

They suffer for a reason.

He stops screaming.

Then again. You hear his skull crack. The cannon sounds.

Then you stop. You drop the club like it's a snake. No need to hold onto it. No need- you have a knife. You could have used that to finish him, but you have an unspoken rule. Your opponents deserve to die exactly how-

Something hard hits you in the side, tackles you to the ground. You hit the forest floor, feeling twigs poke into your back, leaves crunching beneath your weight. A fist connects with your head once, twice, and you block the blows quickly, twisting beneath a body that's smaller than your own. You look up, your vision still a little blurry from the hits to your head, and struggle to determine who it is, who's-

You gasp.

It's Santana.

She brings her fist back to hit you again, but the angle is wrong. You know she's not a fighter, not like you. When she punches you again, you grab her wrist with your opposite hand and pull hard, yanking her off balance and sending her hurtling to the ground beside you. She scrambles, kicks you. She gets you hard in the stomach, and you punch her, splitting her lip. Blood gushes down her chin. You can hear her breathing; it's not heavy, not like Plastic's was. She's not whimpering as she struggles against you. Santana seems a lot calmer, a lot more resigned to her fate.

Her fate that she's now forced on you.

You tried so hard to avoid her in the arena. You don't want to kill her. But now she's sought you out. She's forced your hand.

It's you or her.

You finally gain the advantage- you're bigger and stronger, after all- and straddle her, drawing your knife from its sheath at your side.

You could open her up right here. You could cut her throat, watch her bleed out-

No.

You'll end it quickly. You don't want her to suffer.

You press the knife to her throat.

And you think back to how you got here in the first place.

This year is different.

You've known for a while that it would be; for the past few years, there's been talk of change coming, an ominous energy creeping, buzzing into the everyday routines, rumors shared in hushed whispers slinking to every corner of Panem. The Districts didn't communicate with each other normally, of course, but when the Capitol wants to spread word- spread fear- it doesn't whisper it.

This year marks the 25th annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games occur every year like clockwork, so the fact that it's happening again this year doesn't surprise you. Maybe it was a little premature to be discussing the next Games so soon; it seemed like the victor of the 24th had just finished his Victory Tour when the news dropped and President Sylvester made the announcement that this year would be different. You remember the President, dressed in a blood red suit and equally horrifying matching make-up, smiling that cold, heartless smile as she took the podium and spoke into the microphone, into your home television, into your very soul, it seemed. She has a creepiness to her, an emptiness, like her insides consist of a black hole that swallows all shreds of warmth, of light. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as you watched her present the news, present what set the 25th Hunger Games apart from the other twenty-four.

A new year, she said. A new year, and a new Games. She called it the Quarter Quell, and she claimed it had been instigated, drafted, legislated, whatever, before- when the Games were first created, when the charter was first written- to keep the reminder of the Districts' rebellion- betrayal- fresh… as if the yearly slaughtering of 23 children in an arena wasn't a fresh enough reminder.

The Quarter Quell, she explained, would happen every 25 years, and would not be bound by the rules of the normal Games, so that it could teach a "special" lesson. You felt your stomach sink at the label; this is supposed to be your year. You don't need any more "special" lessons. You thought this was going to be just like any other year, but now there might be additional rules or challenges. You had no idea what the Quarter Quell did or what it meant, much like the rest of Panem. There had never been a special Hunger Games before.

That announcement had been months ago; the Capitol had milked the suspense and speculation and fear for all it could, and now the day has finally arrived- the day when President Sylvester will announce just what the "special lesson" she'd mentioned previously will be. So as you sit in front of your TV with your father and mother, watching the broadcast which will indicate how the tributes will be chosen for this special Hunger Games, you have to admit you're a little nervous. Whatever President Sylvester says will affect you directly. This is your year. You're ready.

As the President opens her speech with the usual stuff she says every year- boring talk about the Capitol, the betrayal, blah, blah, blah, you can't help but roll your eyes a little. You've heard it all before. Twenty-five years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the Capitol, there was a War, and now the Games- and only twelve districts- remain. You're only eighteen- not old enough to even know what life was like before the War, and you're not sure how you feel about any of it.

Your father, a retired Peacekeeper, talks about the Capitol as if it's the greatest thing to ever exist. He'd been around before the War- lived through it and fought in it, even- and, after serving as a Peacekeeper for the required twenty years, settled down to raise a family. You'd been born a year after he'd met your mother- the 7th year of the Hunger Games, it's the only way you know to tell time- and he'd taught you since before you could speak about how great the Capitol is.

"They're lucky, Britty," he'd tell you nearly every day. "The Capitol is generous and forgiving. It could've wiped them all out, just like it did with District 13. The Hunger Games are an easy punishment."

"I thought you said District 2 remained loyal to the Capitol during the War," you'd said once when you were too young to know better. "Why do we have to participate in the Games if we didn't do anything wrong?"

"Most of our District remained loyal, but not all. The Capitol rewards those loyal to it." He waved his hand to indicate your house, your possessions. "It's been good to us. Just remember, Britt- it's an honor to win those Games. If District 2 wasn't included, the winner would be someone from a lesser District, and where's the sense in that? Just like Peacekeepers, someone has to take up the duty of keeping the others in line. That's why we volunteer to be Peacekeepers, and why our children volunteer in the Hunger Games. Those lesser Districts? Their kids? They deserve this. They suffer for a reason, Britt. Remember that."

And you have.

When you turned fifteen, you were enrolled in the newly-opened Training Academy, built to train children to volunteer for- and win- the Hunger Games. Not everyone who entered made it into the Games, since there were always more volunteers than spots. The old Academy had closed for the 17th year and been newly reopened the next year, and since it had, District 2 had won five out of the last seven Hunger Games, which proved that it worked.

The Academy wasn't technically legal, but as your father had told you, the Capitol rewards those loyal, and true to his word, the Capitol had pretended the Academy was just like any other school, essentially turning a blind-eye to the blatant disregard to the rules of the Games.

With the Academy open, and no shortage of volunteers, there was no fear in District 2- not like the other Districts. People didn't have to worry about their twelve or thirteen-year-olds being reaped; all of the volunteers were eighteen, making them older and stronger than most of the other tributes. It was the sacrifice of a few that made life less fearful for everyone. And with the odds in their favor, they oftentimes won, which meant that one of them would come home alive and there was no huge, apparent sacrifice. You wondered how any other District could not want the system your District had; but your father's words of loyalty to the Capitol came back to you, and you stopped wondering.

You spent three years of your childhood training in every type of weapon that would be available in the arena, and you'd done well. You were ranked at the top of every weapons category, and even your Training Mentor, Shelby, had agreed you were ready.

This is your year.

"Ladies and Gents, this is the twenty-fifth year of the Hunger Games," President Sylvester says, her cold, creepy smile in place and her eyes empty and soulless. You chew your lip, waiting. "It was written in the charter of the Games that every 25 years there would be a Quarter Quell, to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died and the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance."

You hold your breath.

"To remind ourselves that we must remain loyal to the Capitol, even in the face of opposition from our neighbors, from our friends, from our very families- and that we have a duty, a sacred duty, to the Capitol, and ourselves, to snuff out rebellion wherever it forms and report it; in honor of the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, and our nation's very first Quarter Quell, this year, the victors will be reaped- chosen, really- by the people of their respective districts."

You quickly spare a nervous glance to your father, who's sitting beside you on the couch, nodding in approval. Your eyes find his, which are a deep blue like your own, and you search his expression for a trace of disappointment, for any sign that President Sylvester's news is bad for your chances. You've known your fate since you were six; ever since your father placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and told you what the Hunger Games were, you knew somehow that you were expected to volunteer for them.

"Because we have a sacred duty, Britty," he'd told you. And you'd believed him. You've spent every moment training and preparing yourself for this, but this twist is unexpected, and you don't want it to screw up your plan.

When your father smiles at you in response, your nervousness melts away.

(Not once did it occur to you that you might lose.)

You take a deep, calming breath and stare at your reflection in the mirror. It's Reaping Day, and you've made all the necessary preparations. You find your cat, Lord Tubbington, and stroke your hand down his back a few times, bending to kiss his head.

"Bye, Tubbs," you say. "I'll be back soon."

He just blinks at you, so you offer him a smile and head out to the living room. Your father is dressed in his best suit, with his Retired Peacekeeper badge gleaming proudly on his chest. Your sister, Ashley, who's only eight, is wearing a lime green dress, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a beautiful pleat adorned with flowers. Your mother is dressed elegantly in a gown she bought especially for this occasion, and you smile. This is a proud day; your whole family is dressed up to see your name called, to see you become a tribute.

"I'm proud of you, Britty," your father tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder, and you bow your head a little in respect. He bends to kiss your forehead, and your mother fusses over your dress, which looks like shimmering blue granite.

"You look beautiful, honey," she says, brushing your blonde hair back from your eyes, and you thank her. She gives you a hug, and Ashley hugs your waist, and you steel yourself. You feel a little nervous- like what if you trip on the stage when your name is called or something?- but then you remind yourself that this is your year, that you have an image to project, and that it's time.

You follow your parents out to the center of town. District 2 is mostly composed of small little villages around the main city near a huge mountain. The villages are the poorer parts of District 2, but because of your father's status as a Retired Peacekeeper, you live in the city. Your mother, who's one tough lady, commutes to work, since she's a mason. As you walk, you vaguely wonder where you'll live once you win the Hunger Games.

The Reaping this year is occurring a little differently, since the people of District 2 are supposed to be "voting" for the tribute they want to represent them in the arena, but it's mostly a bunch of smoke and mirrors. The Processors all know that someone's already volunteered, so they go about their routines as if they all have somewhere else to be. The Peacekeepers stand in small clusters, laughing and sipping coffee. They're not worried about discontent. There is none. Again, your father's words echo in your mind.

The Capitol rewards those loyal to it.

You give your parents and sister one last hug good-bye, and make your way to the front, keeping your chin up proudly. Around you, some of the younger girls whisper and look at you in awe, and it makes your chest swell a little. They admire you; they want to be you. That's awesome. You're awesome.

When the Capitol Escort takes the stage, everyone claps. Her name is Sugar, and she's dressed to look like a cheetah, complete with a tail sewn into her pants and little cat ears on her head. She's fairly new- she's only been the Escort for the last two years, but her tributes have won both times, so she must feel pretty confident. You can't help but smile when she pumps her fist in the air a few times as she reaches the microphone and lifts it from the stand.

"Hell-o, District Two!" She yells, and the crowd cheers even louder. You smile wider. "Now, I've got to show you this video that you've seen every year, but it's literally the best, so let's watch!" She offers everyone a huge, cheesy smile and presses a button on a remote she's holding; the huge screen next to the stage flickers to life, showing the obligatory pro-Capitol video you know you've seen eighteen times, though you can only actually remember seeing it fourteen times.

When the video finishes, Sugar dances back to the middle of the stage and throws her hands up. "Capitol, holla!" Everyone cheers again, and she picks up an envelope from a table beside her. "Now, I now ya'll are just dying for me to draw the names, but let's be honest here- those aren't going to be your tributes, right?"

The crowd chants back, no! and Sugar nods, satisfied. You feel your stomach flutter with nerves. This is it. "Exactly. So let's just skip right to the good part!" At the crowd's approval, she tears open the first envelope and you feel your chest constricting with anticipation.

"Your female volunteer for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games and first ever Quarter Quell- Brittany Pierce!"

You release a breath of relief and make your way up to the stage. Around you, everyone's clapping, including your parents. Sugar pats your shoulder excitedly, smiling kindly and brightly at you. Up close, you notice she has black cheetah tear-track markings on her face, and whiskers. It's weird, but actually kind of cool. You wonder if maybe she'd get along with Lord Tubbington-

"And your male volunteer," Sugar says with a flair of drama, holding the envelope up to her face mysteriously. It piques your interest, because you don't know who the male volunteer is- you don't know who will be your opponent. She tears it open and says, "for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, blah, blah, blah… Jesse St. James!"

You swallow and look at him as he swaggers forward proudly to take his place beside you on the stage. You've never met him, but you know he went to the same Academy you did, and you've seen his name ranked high on the lists with yours. He's not going to be an easy opponent, but maybe you'll get lucky and someone else will kill him for you.

"District Two, we have our tributes!" Sugar yells enthusiastically, throwing her fist up in the air.

You smile.

Aiight, well. There's that.

Let me know what you think!

Or not, it's cool. :)

Brittana meet in the next chapter! See you kids there! :*