Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, The Hunger Games or the small passages taken from Catching Fire. Those are the properties of Marvel and Suzanne Collins respectively.
Notes: What have I done. No, seriously, I love AUs and, for some reason, I really love Hunger Games AUs. I got this idea a few days ago, after a night spent watching Thor and Captain America instead of sleeping, but kept telling myself that writing it would probably Not Work Out Well. I never listen to myself. Oh dear. Nevertheless, I hope some people can glean some enjoyment out of this?
Further Notes: Rated T for inevitable violence and angst. This will be told from Steve's (Captain America) perspective. As many of the Avengers/Thor/Captain America characters I can fit in will feature. Pairings I'm not sure of yet, but there will probably be some eventually. I have not read any comics, only seen the movies, so I apologize for any ignorance in that department. I will do my very best to keep them in-character so I hope any readers will poke me with a stick if I waver on this front.
Essentially, this will be the story of The Hunger Games series with Collins' characters substituted by Avengers characters. So Katniss Everdeen won't be entering archery competitions against Hawkeye any time soon. That's another crossover entirely.
Prologue
"…this year will be the seventh-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"
"When the laws for the Games were laid out first, nearly seventy-five years ago, they dictated that every year, each of the twelve districts of Panem would offer up one male and one female tribute to take part in the Hunger Games, a glorious and historic fight to the death, to bring honour to their districts and remind us of the horror and fruitlessness of the rebel cause, and the suffering brought upon their fellows and the Capitol.
"…these laws also demanded that, every twenty-five years, the anniversary would be marked by a Quarter Quell…
"On the twenty-fifty anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.
"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.
"And now we honour our third Quarter Quell. On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.
"May the odds be ever in your favour."
The night before the Reaping, I dream that I am falling.
I awaken with sweat-soaked sheets twisted in my hands and the taste of fear glued to my back teeth. Even in my bedroom, well lit by a cruelly sunny day, my mind lingers on the final moments of that vision: the charcoal-grey sky, the blur of rock and snow, the jump of my stomach and the ache of my scream as I plummet.
It takes minutes for me to relax my fingers, let alone force myself upright. It's still early, I think—some hours still remain to be passed in sickening anticipation. My eyes burn with the need to curl back up under my quilt and deny the world for a little longer but, at this point, I know that sleep will never return.
I don't want it to.
Instead, I stand and cross to my wardrobe, pull on my heavy boots and a stretched old shirt over the ratty trousers I slept in. My father's leather jacket hangs in the kitchen, next to the back door. From this back door, I can survey a rolling green field and, distantly, the silver gleam of the chain-link fence that separates this side of District 12 from the wilderness. Bathed in sunshine, it looks deceptively pretty.
I steel myself and turn to leave through the front door. I will not return to this house again.
I am one of three inhabitants of the Victor's Village.
It is silent.
On any other day, at this hour, the district would be bustling, the people breathing in the shouts of workers and pedestrians as easily as air. On Reaping Day, families huddle in homes; the mines are closed; a sense of dread and grief hangs over the empty streets. Even this year, the people remain inside—perhaps out of respect for the three who will be chosen today.
It is quiet enough that I can hear the girl even a road away. She stands next to a ramshackle little house, in what is undoubtedly her best yellow dress, clutching two hands to her heart protectively. She's on the edge of tears.
"You shouldn't say things like that, Brock!" she's crying. The two dark-haired boys before her—her brothers, I suppose as I observe—scoff at one another before looking back to her.
"Don't be such a baby," one of them sneers, "You don't really—"
The girl stamps her foot, "I'm not a baby! You guys are being jerks!"
"Ah, you shouldn't interrupt," the other boy tells her mockingly and my hands ball into fists in my pockets, "You know what happens to little babies who are rude. They get shipped off to the Hunger Games—"
The call tears its way out of my mouth before I can stop it, "Excuse me,"
Three pairs of eyes flick to me and simultaneously widen when they realize who has just spoken to them.
"M-m-Mr. Rogers!" one boy yelps, "We—we didn't mean—"
"You shouldn't scare your little sister, boys," I say sternly, "Can't you see how you've upset her?"
The boys glance at their teary-eyed sister and then look away, awkward and chastised. I can't help but feel a small thrill of pride up my spine. I never have liked bullies.
"Sorry, Henny," a boy mutters and Henny noticeably perks up.
"That's okay," she says with such an air of graciousness and solemnity that it seems almost funny. Then she looks up at me with a sweet smile, "Thank you, Mr. Rogers!"
I grin back, "That's okay, Henny. And—" I hesitate. "—and you shouldn't listen to them. Don't be too scared about the Hunger Games."
Yet. She's still several years off of being entered into the Reaping and even then nothing's written in stone. But she misinterprets my words and her smile widens.
"I know, Mr. Rogers. You'd keep me safe," she chirps and then turns to her brothers, "Come on, Mom will be looking for us. Bye-bye, Mr. Rogers!"
I don't reply. I can't reply. Instead I watch the three small figures walk back into their old house and carefully shut the wooden door behind them. I stand there for a long while, thinking to myself, No, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't even keep myself safe.
Distantly, I hear the clock tower begin to chime. It's nine o'clock now, I guess. One hour left to go.
With a sigh, I begin to walk again, this time towards the Justice Building and the square. If there is one good aspect of the upcoming Quarter Quell, I decide, it is that the children this year are safe.
