Panem Pyrrhia AU (The Hunger Games)

== What To Know About This AU ==
All the tribes are on pyrrhia, but that's okay because in this AU, the funny dragon contiment is much more bigger.
One of the districts is gone, as in never there in the first place. This doesn't apply to the district that was destroyed in the original books (being District 13) as it was removed later.
The district that got obliviated by the Capitol is now District 9 instead of 13.
Primrose survived, along with Cinna and the other children that originally died along with Prim.
Katniss becomes president and does one final Hunger Games with Capitol children.
=== Each Tribe's District ===
IceWings - District 1
MudWings - District 10
NightWings - District 3
RainWings - District 11
SandWings - District 6
SeaWings - District 4
SkyWings - District 12
HiveWings - District 5
LeafWings - District 7
SilkWings - District 8
=== Districts Not Used ===
District 13
==== BeetleWings - District 9 ====
== Story ==
pls note that i just copy and pasted text from the books and inserted goofy dragons. That means I am the one paying healthcare for Katniss, Primrose, and more.
== Part 1, "THE TRIBUTES" - Chapter 1 (PLS DONT READ THIS I WILL REWRITE THIS WHEN I HAVE TIME FOR NOW THIS IS NOT CANON TO MY AU) ==
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My talons stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the soft leaf 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.
I swing my legs off the bed. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I grab my panther-skin forage bag, which still has a couple old berries at the bottom. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats, cats, or even scavengers (though we'd most likely see it before it got in), sits a perfect little sugared grasshopper wrapped in mint leaves and with a tiny piece of chocolate. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I steal one last look at kind Prim before slipping outside.
Our part of District 7, nicknamed the Woods, is usually crawling with lumberjacks heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Dragons with sore legs and stiff wings, many who have tried to pull the wood chips away from their bodies. But today the 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 Woods. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the forest, in fact enclosing all of District 9, 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 annoying scavengers who have a tendency to sneak around stealing food. But since we’re lucky to get two or three 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 forest here.
As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the scavengers out of District 9. Inside the forest, there's food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before a tree fell on him. I was just a small dragonet then. A couple years later now, I still wake up screaming for him to run.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more dragons would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming the Woods would never have been allowed. In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 9 if trouble arises. 
“District Nine. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 9, about the dragon who rules our contiment, Pyrrhia, from the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hollow, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin torepeat my words and then where would we be?
In the forest waits the only dragon with whom I can be myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my snout relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.
“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy panther started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the panther because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt. I even kept a part of the pelt to make my forage bag.
“Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.
“Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?”
“Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me luck.”
“Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. “Thank you, Gale. We’ll have a real feast.”
Suddenly Gale falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Jewelspeaker, the maniacally upbeat NightWing dragoness who arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping. “I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.
I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Dark orange scales, and- three moons!- we even have the same flaming bright amber eyes. But we’re not related, at least not closely. It's just that we're both half SkyWing, father's side. 
That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light green scales with pinkish red streaks and green eyes, always look so different from me. 
My mother’s parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake.
But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.
Once, on a full moon festival, a young SandWing dragoness I suspect was from the Capitol was, as my mother put it, "being paraded around in jewels and ruffles while the common dragons watch, starving."
Category:Fanfictions
Category:Fanfictions (Fanon)
Category:Fanfictions (Incomplete)