Hello all.

I know that this is not what anyone wants me to write. I'm not even sure if it will have much of an audience. But I recently finished the new Hunger Games book, Sunrise on the Reaping, and I was intrigued to enter the world again. However, I haven't read the original books in (oh gosh) almost a decade now and didn't feel comfortable getting into the minds and canon of the original series. Lucky for me, my brain is stuck on these kids from Recess anyway, so this crossover was born.

For readers who have never read the Hunger Games books, I tried to make it easy to understand without hitting those of you who may have read the books/watched the movies bored with context clues. I've dabbled in creative license with the lore as well, but the main gist of the country dynamic is the same.

I've always thought that Spinelli and TJ carried some traits of Katniss and Peeta (probably why these two couples were my OTPs forever) and so it just naturally seemed to fit as a crossover. Now I'm not sure if anyone else will indulge my little plot bunny, but it wouldn't get out of my head until I started to write it down. I've got all the major plot points outlined and it's different enough, I hope, that while there are callbacks to the original trilogy, I've done my job of placing the characters in the world, rather than the other way around.

For those of you wondering about Art of Balance, the next update is coming but, like I said, I got a little stuck with this plot bunny. I'm hoping to get the next chapter of that out soon, now that I've been able to explore this for a hot second.

Thank you for taking the time to read this self-indulgent AU. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Tender is the Trap

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society."
— Jiddu Krishnamurti

…

Part 1: The Tribute

…

Chapter 1

I wake up before the sun, darkness still flooding in through the singular window of the small box that's been my room for the last month. I debate rolling over. Reaping Day is the only day where we have permission to sleep in. The Academy keeps us on strict schedules, even stricter for its star pupils, and we are drilled to perfection. But I think the Academy realizes that most of us won't take the opportunity for rest.

Strategically, catching up on sleep isn't the worst idea. Extra rest could mean the difference between life and death if I'm the one representing District 2 this year. But the truth is none of us are capable of taking the easy reward. Our bodies may crave a few more minutes of shut eye, but our minds don't allow it. We've been conditioned to stay sharp and alert at all times. Many of us now don't even know what true sleep means. We all sleep like cats, with one ear perked up, always listening.

And, besides, I'm not going to the Hunger Games. At least not this year.

I shift toward the edge of the bed, dangling my legs so my feet barely graze the cold stone floor. I hiss at the chill and instinctively lift my feet, hesitating before planting them fully on the ground. The shock of the cold sends a jolt through my legs, evaporating any thoughts of going back to sleep.

The trunk at the end of my bed holds my clothes and the few trinkets I could bring from home. I dig through to the bottom, where my fingers brush against a thin strip of metal on a chain. I wrap my hand around it, clutching the familiarity of the dog tag, before slipping it over my head. The metal finds its home against my sternum, as close to my heart as it can physically get.

I don't bother with my neatly folded Academy uniforms. Today those are out of the rotation. My classmates and I will be expected to wear the clean-pressed clothes provided for special occasions – boys in their military-style garb and girls in crisp dresses that make us look strong but feminine. The students not asked to attend this special session will arrive from their villages in their best outfits, so there will be a clear divide between the Academy's favorites and their rejects.

My eyes glance behind me to the silver dress hanging on the door, but I avoid that as well. It's too early to change into my reaping dress. If I show up to the district square with a single wrinkle in the fabric, my day tomorrow will be nothing but punishment. So, instead, I reach back into the trunk for my own attire instead.

It's the first time I've worn my own clothes since arriving back at the Academy for our month-long pre-Games session for students expected to be among the current and future volunteers. All children, as soon as they start school, come to the Academy. Younger students, from age five until their first reaping, come for weekly sessions, interspersed with their village school education. After that, the Academy becomes a boarding facility. As the semesters pass, the trainers grade each student on their strategy, skill, and strength. Those with the best odds of survival move forward and those that don't are dismissed early to the Peacekeeper pathway.

I bring the collar of my red dress up to my nose, breathing in the floral scent of the detergent my mother uses for the wash. I turned sixteen this year and, because of that, I've spent more time at the Academy than ever before, but having my own clothes on brings me a little closer to my village. I'm the only one of my age to have been promoted to the final stage of the Games pathway, the rest of the students that I came with having been dismissed to other futures.

Once the Games are in full swing this year, those of us at the Academy will be coached as if we're training with the tributes. We'll have our own training center and we'll practice interview techniques. Once the Games begin we will analyze the strategies of the tributes. We'll finally be let out for break once the Games are officially over, the Victor on the train back to their district and us on our way back to our villages.

Wearing my own clothes reminds me that this year is almost over.

It's July, so I don't need it, but I also grab my leather jacket. I wrap it tightly around myself as I slip through the door and into the hallway. Wearing my jacket grounds me in the present, feeling more like armor than fashion.

Every door in the dorm looks exactly the same – sterile, cold, impersonal. If there weren't numbers under the peep holes, there would be no way of knowing which room was which. I take the elevator to the ground floor and push through the lobby doors, entering the cool morning darkness.

The crunch of rocks under my boots is the only sound around me and I don't attempt to quiet them. With no one to watch or judge me this morning, I can do as I please. And, right now, I want to hike to my favorite spot on the campus grounds – the top of the hill on the far edge of the boundaries. By the time I make it up the steep, rocky path, there is a small sliver of sun cresting over the horizon.

I collapse on the ground, my legs splaying out in front of me as I watch the sunrise. From my perch, I can see a majority of the District Center. The Justice Building, where the reaping will take place this afternoon, becomes aglow in the pinks of the early morning. Farther from the Center, there are patches of residential zones and then the rock quarries, where those of us who don't volunteer or become Peacekeepers or district officials will find their employment.

My village houses a quartz quarry, but neither of my parents work there. My father is a former Peacekeeper turned village official. He makes monthly trips to the center for council meetings. Occasionally our trips correspond and I can get an exception to leave campus to meet with him, but for the most part, I keep my distance while I'm at school.

I bring my hand up to finger the dog tags under the fabric of my dress. It's easier to keep my family at a distance – out of sight, out of mind. I need every ounce of my brain so I don't get killed in training. My throat closes at the thought and I press the palm of my hand fully against my brother's dog tags.

"You look deep in thought."

I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice and push my family from my mind. Gus chuckles and sits down beside me, his legs stretching twice as far as mine.

"I've finally surprised the great Ashley Spinelli," he boasts, giving an exaggerated bow to an imaginary audience. He smirks in my direction. "Think that means I'm ready to graduate?"

I roll my eyes and try my best to fight the smile trying to form on my lips. "See if you can surprise me on a regular day and then maybe," I tell him. "Reaping Day doesn't count."

"You know you shouldn't let your guard down any day, even Reaping Day," he tells me.

He sounds like our trainers, a mixture of the best former Academy favorites and previous Victors, whose sole job is to whip us into shape. Sometimes they use literal whips.

"Why not?" I dare, knowing it will push his buttons. "It's not like I'm going anywhere today."

His jaw tightens and he shakes his head, but doesn't respond.

Gus and I have known each other since we were young. We were in the same small group of five-year-olds on their first invited session to the Academy. The older students had all gossiped behind their hands, looking and pointing at the tiny blond boy who walked in the shadow of a towering man in full military garb. It didn't matter which village you came from, everyone in District 2 knows of General Griswald, the highest ranking military official and one of the only people with direct communication with the Capitol besides the Victors themselves.

Gus didn't appear like the prodigy of our most prized district citizen at the time. He hadn't grown out of his baby fat and his glasses constantly fell down his nose. He was quickly the target of our group, with some kids jealous of his unearned status and some kids wanting to use his connection to climb the ranks. In the cafeteria for lunch, Gus always tucked himself away at one of the small tables in the back, often used by staff for one-on-one meetings rather than large group meals.

I watched him from afar at first, unsure if a connection to him was a good or bad thing. But toward the end of the week, a girl in our group, Ashley Armbruster, had made a snide comment in his direction. The rest of our group had laughed and taken it as their permission to pick on him. Throughout the day, they tripped him, pushed him, and then, one of the boys had taken his glasses and was dangling them over his head.

I didn't think. I just let my instincts take control as I pushed the boy over, Gus's glasses flying across the room and shattering against the stone. The boy had broken his arm, but I had gained an alliance.

Gus now stands taller than most of our classmates, not quite as obviously broad as his father, but where he lacks brute force, he makes up in strategy. His hard work earns him a spot among the favorites, not his last name. With no doubt, Gus will be a tribute. Reapings in District 2 can last hours, with the eighteen-year-olds fighting for the chance to volunteer for the annual death match that pits one girl and one boy from each of the twelve districts against each other.

I would imagine that when it comes time for Gus to volunteer, his shout will only be followed by the wind.

He adjusts his position in the gravel, lying on his side with his head in one hand, using the other to draw doodles in the sand. His glasses, which he hasn't switched out for his contacts yet, slip slightly down his nose but he doesn't correct them. Instead, he focuses on his doodles as he starts to speak again.

"So, what happened yesterday–" he starts, but I cut him off quickly.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He picks up a pebble and rubs the rough surface between his fingers, inspecting it, and then looking over it to me. His face remains neutral but his eyes betray his concern.

"I'm just surprised you didn't react," he says. His tone has a warning in it and I grind my teeth in response. Trainer Gus is back. "You can't let her get under your skin."

I grunt and cross my arms tightly around myself. Yesterday, during sparring, Ashley and I had gotten into it again. The two of us have never held a high opinion of the other and it's well known that Ashley is expecting to be our district's tribute when we turn eighteen. Secretly, I don't mind. I'd love nothing more than to see Gus snap her neck in a legal murder. But she always knows just what to say to get under everyone's skin and I'm not immune.

"You will never be the final tribute," she said, quietly into my ear as we wrestled on the mat. "No one bets on a loose cannon."

I can have an issue with my anger. Our trainer this year has sat me out on more than a handful of occasions for losing my temper. It's not unheard of for students to die at the Academy – we are training with real weapons after all – but the trainers don't want intentional murders. Unfortunately, I've garnered the reputation of being a bit of a loose cannon, with no one quite sure exactly how I'm going to react at any given moment.

Typically, I would have flipped Ashley off of me and threatened to slice her jugular, all while the trainers flew over, blowing their whistles and pulling the two of us apart. But part of me knows that Ashley is right. When it comes time for our age group to volunteer, I know that Ashley Armbruster is the favorite. She comes from one of the most well known families in District 2, with money and class everyone else could only dream of – and she uses it and her pretty girl looks to her advantage.

Her skills are not as clean as mine, but her words are like venom. I think she could go far in her Games on manipulation alone.

I'm slowly starting to come to the realization that all of this training may be for nothing. Unless I can somehow weasel my way over an eighteen-year-old next year at seventeen, I'll be second in the lineup and second gets you nothing. I could, potentially, earn a trainer position, but otherwise I'm likely to be a Peacekeeper. My throat tightens and I bring my hand to the dog tags again. I don't want to be a Peacekeeper. I want to be a Victor.

"I'm just biding my time," I tell Gus, but the emphasis isn't there and he can tell.

"Just don't do anything impulsive today." He gives me a pointed look.

I snort. "Since when have I ever been impulsive?"

He glares at my sarcasm. "I'm serious, Spin. You make a spectacle today, take the attention off the tributes, and they'll put you on the stocks."

The stocks are for public humiliation. When someone steps out of line too far, they hang you from a wooden frame by the arms and ankles for the entire day of training. I've only heard of someone going to the stocks – some kid named Cratner. Rumor has it that the next day he was gone and no one knows where he is – banished to one of the outlying districts or possibly dead. Despite never seeing them in use during my training, they stay out as a warning.

"I may be impulsive, but I'm not stupid," I hiss. I smirk and pat his cheek. "I'll wait until the tribute train leaves."

Gus gives me a look that clearly says I've missed his point. "Just wait until tomorrow."

"Fine," I promise. "Only for you."

"Thank you." He looks pleased at my submission.

We head back down the rocky path together, Gus leading the way. I take my time behind him, savoring the fresh air before I'm stuck back in my dormitory box to prepare for the reaping. I grab a handful of rocks and skip them against the boulders that mark the trail, each one making a satisfying banging noise. Gus keeps looking over his shoulder, as if he's afraid to lose me, and stops when he gets too many boulders ahead to wait. I roll my eyes and shout.

"I can walk back on my own, you know." I toss a small round rock at the boulder ahead of me and the bang fills the silence. "I don't need protection."

"Maybe I just want company," he shouts back.

"Well, stop walking so fast!"

He crosses his arms loosely across his chest and taps his foot on the gravel to look impatient. I have one rock left in my hand and I aim for the boulder two ahead of my current location. I throw it like I would a ball, over my shoulder with force, and it hits the bottom of the boulder, a little south of where I had been aiming. However, when it lands with a small clang on the rocky path, something slithers quickly out from under a crack in the boulder and just ahead of me on the trail.

I hurry my steps and lean down, taking a look. The snake is bright green in color, about the length of my hand from the base of my palm to the tip of my longest finger. I pick it up and it sticks its tongue out with a pathetic hiss. A Gaulter snake. A Capitol Muttation gone wrong. The Capitol creates experiments called Muttations, or Mutts, designed for weaponry and defense – and also now frequently being used as dangers in the Hunger Games arenas themselves.

Gaulter snakes became a thing when a Gaul snake, named for some old time Capitol person, and a garter snake mated in the wild. The Gaul snakes were venomous and deadly, but garter snakes are relatively benign. The result was these small creatures, come to be known as Gaulter snakes. They're tiny and nonvenomous, like garter snakes, but are quite clingy and like to wrap themselves around things. To the average adult, the most they could probably do is cut circulation to your hand or foot. They're not big enough to wrap around your neck.

As if to prove my education correct, the snake wraps itself around my wrist, but doesn't squeeze. It looks more like a bracelet than an animal. I chuckle and cover it with my jacket sleeve. I'm technically not allowed pets in the dormitories, but this little guy could come in handy for after the reaping.

I bet Ashley doesn't like snakes.

"Spin, we're going to be late!"

I roll my eyes as I stand and jog down to meet Gus so he doesn't start to panic. Judging from the sun in the sky, we have hours before it starts. But Gus is someone who arrives to the reaping an hour before check in even begins, ensuring that he is all situated before the start time. The one time we had to stand in line for more than ten minutes, he started to sweat as if they would start the reaping without us.

We separate at the dorms, Gus going to his to change out of his Academy sweats and into his reaping best, and me to mine to don my dress. I slide out of my leather jacket and red frock, standing in my underwear in front of the silver dress on the hanger.

I hate it.

The dress is fitted by a professional seamstress to highlight every curve and outline of my body, but it's tight and itchy with all the jewels and accents. It hits just above my knees and leaves my legs bare to the tops of my fancy combat boots. These boots are merely for fashion as they are completely impractical for training or survival. They're barely comfortable to walk in. I go to grab a pair of socks out of my trunk and instead of the gray standard issue Academy socks, I take a pair of my own. They're red and orange striped, soft as a bunny's fur. I slide my feet into them, then my boots.

The very tips of the socks stick out over the boots, a small stitch of red in an otherwise perfect metallic outfit. I tie my boots to keep the sock visible. I'm sure I'll do sprints tomorrow for this, but I don't care. At least I won't have raw marks on my legs from the boots themselves. The snake on my wrist doesn't move and from a distance looks almost like a piece of jewelry, which I'm also not supposed to have. So, if I'm going to go down tomorrow, I might as well be comfortable.

When Gus meets me at the lobby, he glances at my boots and groans, but says nothing. He has learned to pick his battles.

We check in and then are separated into the designated areas of the district square. Gus joins the other sixteen-year-old boys on the right, while I join the girls on the left. From what I've seen on the recaps, most of the other districts arrange their kids from twelve to eighteen, with the youngest at the front and the oldest at the back. If we did that, we would have chaos. So we put our oldest in the front, where they can duke it out to get on stage and the rest of us can back up, giving them space to decide on the tribute to go. Even if a twelve-year-old is called, the first scream of volunteering usually hits before the kid has even taken a step out of their section – then the lengthy scuffle begins.

A mini-bloodbath before the real one. The only difference is no one dies. Usually.

The hot sun beats down on us while we wait for everyone to check in. Our district is large and so only the kids and local adults fill the square. Non-Academy kids hop on trains from their villages as if it's a field trip and head home after, sometimes while the Academy boys are still squabbling. Their parents hardly ever show up and just collect them at the train station at the end of the day, watching the reaping from televisions or in the local village squares together. The Academy families, at least for the eighteen-year-olds, typically come, as do those who live in the District Center. That way, on the recaps we still look like a full square without having every single member of the district in one place, packed in like sardines.

I glance over to the boys and Gus gives me a look, pointing a few rows in front of me. Ashley stands at the very beginning of our section, right behind the first row of seventeen-year-olds, while I've taken up a spot toward the back, surrounded by non-Academy girls, just to keep my distance. He shakes his head, using his finger to motion in front of his neck – another warning to not do anything to her before the cameras cut. I nod my head just to keep him from stressing.

Right on time, with everyone checked in, the doors to the Justice Building open. Our mayor and our two mentors for this year step out, followed by all our previous Victors, most of whom are Academy trainers. I make a face. The female mentor this year, Muriel Finster, is as old as my grandmother and won her games back in the very beginning. Her techniques are most likely antiquated and ridiculous. I pity the girl who volunteers this year and wonder if any of them are rethinking their decisions. Probably not – we're an overconfident bunch. Some of us think we can win without help at all.

The mayor reads the script as is mandatory per Games rules. He reads the Treaty of Treason, which describes how the citizens of the districts rebelled against the Capitol in a war and how, when they lost, the Capitol instated the Hunger Games as punishment. Every year each district sends a boy and girl to fight to the death until only one survives. That tribute is named the Victor and they bring wealth and good fortune back to their district, as well as pride and glory from the Capitol.

District 2 has no want for Victors – we have more than any other district in the seventy-four years of the Games history. Our success has built our district into the haven it is – well-fed, well-treated, and well-prepared. Though we're not supposed to train, the Capitol has always turned a blind eye to our Academy and its secret. Once our tributes arrive in the Capitol, they typically form alliances with the tributes from Districts 1 and 4 and that alliance is called the Careers. Because that's what we are. Career Tributes. We train our whole lives for this one moment: the reading of the names.

Our escort from the Capitol steps out from behind the mayor, taking his place at the microphone.

"Shall we begin?" he asks, and the crowd cheers.

He smiles widely, his mouth full of teeth shaped like daggers, and then walks to the female bowl. He digs his hand in and makes a big show of it, swirling it around multiple times before taking a slip and waving it in the air like a trophy. He walks giddily back to his microphone and opens the slip, reading it himself before speaking.

I glance toward the front of the crowd, wanting to see who calls out first to volunteer. It's been a while since someone's been really badly injured at the reaping, but I'm hoping there will be more than hair pulling this year. Something crazy so that when Ashley and I have our showdown, I won't be cast off as a Peacekeeper in some outlying district for misbehaving. That would be my worst nightmare. Alone and isolated in a district far away on a twenty-year service contract. I wouldn't put it past the trainers to send me to somewhere ridiculous like 8 or 9 where I could go crazy in relative peace. I don't think they'd be cruel enough to send me to District 11, where they sent Vito all those years ago.

My fingers graze his dog tags at the same time as the escort shouts my name.

…

Notes:

Again, thank you for reading! Enjoy the show.