The Trigger Games- by OrangeNinjaAttack A/N: What would happen if Bella was Peeta's district partner, and Peeta fell for her during the games? What would happen if Edward was Katniss' district partner, and Katniss was constantly being saved by a flash of light? Well, I'm here to find out. I have no idea how this will end, and neither will you. WARNING: If you are prone to cliff-hanger death, then do not read - I can almost guarantee that each chapter will have a cliffie ;)
Twilight, its characters, etc, belong to Stephanie Meyer and Little, Brown and Company.
The Hunger Games, its characters, etc, belong to Suzanne Collins and Scholastic Press.
Introduction
(D3 Female POV)
I'd never given much thought to how I would die-though I'd had reason enough in the last few months-but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.
I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me.
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something.
He drew a slip from the bowl of names. I knew it was mine. My family had received a notice weeks ago, about our outstanding debt to the Capitol. We were told that if we didn't repay, then one of us would be reaped. I was the only child of age, out of myself and my brother. I was 16. He was already 19.
My friend Tressa Valencio was also at risk of being reaped. I didn't know what I would do if she was reaped. I didn't know what her family would do, either. She had a younger brother and sister. That's why I knew I needed to volunteer.
"Isabella Swan," pronounced the District 3 escort carefully.
(D3 Male POV)
I swear I was about to throw up. The girl I was in love with, had known since kindergarten, was going into the Games. I almost missed the boys' drawing, but then my friend, Trey Valencio, bumped me, because I probably had on my face what he called "the crush thoughts" expression.
"Peeta Mellark," spoke the District 3 escort into the microphone.
I promptly lost my lunch.
(D4 Male POV)
Today was the day that everyone dreaded. I didn't see the problem with it. I would be excellent in these Hunger Games. If I was reaped, I would probably win! Just walk up to their camp in the middle of the night and change them. Why not? That name was so cliched; Hunger Games. Come on already, we get that you're "starving" us. It was also ridiculous, seeing as I don't need to eat. Or sleep for that matter. If I was reaped, I would probably win! Just walk up to their camp in the middle of the night and change them. Why not?
There's just one problem. This one girl that I really like has been taking tesserae for all 5 years of her entrances for the Games. I fear that this is the year she will be reaped. But if she's ever reaped, I can just volunteer and save her.
(D4 Female POV)
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Prim's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip part of District 4, nicknamed the Net because we're sort of trapped there, is usually crawling with fishermen and women heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the salt out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Net. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 4, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get six or seven hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.
(D4 Male POV)
I watch her as she slowly jogs to the Meadow, taking her time as most of the District won't be awake yet. I feel jittery, even though it's not actually possible for me, because of the reapings later today. She could get picked. The amount of tesserae is accumulated over the years. If her name is entered once the first year, plus 3 more for food for herself, her sister, and her mother, and then 5 more times the next year... I do some calculations in my head. This year 80 small pieces of paper have her name on them. Her sister has one. By the time she's 18, the number will be 189. The odds are most definitely not in her favor.