Tributes are from xQueen-Of-Applesx (Adelissa) and santiago. poncini20 (Avens). I hope I did them justice!

Avens uses they/them pronouns and a lot of their backstory and motivations revolve around their identity. As with Red, this will not be the extent of their character at all. I'm focusing on it in the Reapings because it's prevalent in their backstory, but it definitely will not be the prominent focus of their character throughout the story.

Also, in Avens' chapter: if you know anything about sports, throw out that knowledge because none of that will be useful here. I know nothing about athletics, so I kind of made my own system for Panem.


District 11

Adelissa Baek, 17


Working in District 11's fields is a lot of work with very little reward, but you don't have much of a choice here. If you're not rich, the only options for jobs here are working in the fields and a few factory jobs, but the factory jobs are fairly dangerous because of the equipment, so very few people opt to work there. The only people working in the factories are the ones who are physically unable to work in the field, either because they're elderly or disabled.

I'm lucky enough to only have to work here on weekends. A lot of kids my age have to drop out of school to work full-time, but my family's lucky enough to have enough money to allow me to still attend school on the weekdays. I'm not very scholarly, but it's nice to have a break from the hot fields during the week.

Unfortunately, today I'm working in the fields. It's beginning to get cooler, but it's still pretty hot in the fields this time of year.

I wipe the sweat off my brow as I pluck another bushel of carrots from the ground. Carrot-picking is a pretty miserable job, but it's still better than the job Ren used to have. My older brother Ren worked in the cornfields, which is one of the worst jobs you can get. Usually when you sign up to work in District 11, they assign you to a random field, which means Ren got stuck in the cornfields because of bad luck. Ren never had very good luck.

The cornfields provide some shade, unlike my carrot patch, but the job is very dangerous. Tracker jackers love to build their nests inside the cornfields, and several times throughout the year, workers will stumble upon nests. Needless to say, they rarely make it out alive after finding the nests.

"Hi, do you need me to submit those?" somebody asks. I look around and see a dark-haired girl about my age pointing to my nearly-full basket of carrots. Another girl stands beside her, holding a few baskets of carrots in her arms.

"No," I scoff. When we fill a basket, we're supposed to submit them to the Peacekeepers under our name. It's how they keep track of how much work we're doing to make sure we fulfill our daily quota.

"We're turning in people's baskets for them. I'll just submit it under your name. What is it?" she asks.

"I'm not telling you," I hiss. She looks taken aback.

"How will I submit it for you if I don't know your name?"

"I'll do it myself," I respond. "Now leave me alone."

The girl raises her eyebrows and walks away. Her friend follows, bowing under the weight of the baskets. I hear one of them whisper about how rude I am. I roll my eyes.

I don't care if people think I'm rude. I know I'm crass sometimes. But at least I'm not naive. I've learned better than to trust people in this District. Everyone in District 11 is looking out for themselves, and I know that first-hand. Those girls probably would have taken my basket and submitted it under their own names. Why wouldn't they? It's kill or be killed. No good comes from being nice.

Ren was too nice, and he's dead now. So I don't care if people think I'm rude, or if they think I'm heartless. At least I'm alive.

The bell rings, signalling the end of the work day. I stand up and my back cracks from all the time I spent hunched over. I grab my full basket of carrots and follow the mass of workers to the submission desk to clock out. The line is long, but I manage to slip in about halfway down the row.

"Hey!" the middle-aged woman behind me yells indignantly.

"I don't care," I snap. She shuts her mouth, which I'm glad about. Sometimes I cut in front of people who are far too much like me. They're too stubborn to just let me cut in front of them.

When I reach the front of the line, I notice that in the neighboring line are the girls from earlier. The girl with the dark hair is carefully reciting a list of names as the other one lifts the baskets on the table. I raise my eyebrows. I suppose they are giving people credit for their work. Nice of them to do, but also quite naive. They won't survive in this District.

"Adelissa Baek," I say as I place my basket on the table in front of the Peacekeeper. He marks it down and tells me I'm free to leave.


The house is dark when I enter. I first assume my parents haven't gotten home yet, but then I see my mother splayed out on the couch. She's deep in sleep, still wearing her clothes from work.

"Dad?" I call, not minding if my volume wakes Mom up. Nobody responds, so I suppose my Dad hasn't gotten home yet.

I shake Mom's shoulder and her eyes flicker open.

"Wha-"

"Do you want me to make dinner?" I ask.

"Did I fall asleep on the couch?" she asks, rubbing her eyes. "I was feeling really tired today. A woman at work asked me about Ren. She asked if he really did it. I didn't know what to tell her."

"No! You should have told her no!" I scream, stomping my heel on the ground. I can't believe Mom wouldn't try to defend her own son's innocence. I always do. "Anyway, do you want me to make dinner?"

"No," she sighs. "No, no, I'll make it. You can relax."

Mom sits on the edge of the couch and pulls off her work boots. Her tan skin is stained with dirt. I hope she remembers to wash up before making dinner.

"Lissa… You know I love you, right?"

"I know."

Mom catches me off-guard and pulls me into a hug. "Please don't get Reaped," she whispers. "I can't lose another one."


District 11

Avens Rosendale, 18


"May I introduce the top athletes of District 11 this year…" the announcer, Mrs. Selby says through the microphone. Her assistant, some scrawny kid I don't know the name of, holds the three medals. My eyes find the gold one, which is glimmering in the setting sun. I've won lots of medals, but this one is particularly important. If I win this tournament, it will confirm me as the best athlete in District 11. Mom and Dad would be really proud if I held that honor.

My coach, Terran, pats me reassuringly on the back. He knows how bad I want this; after all, he was the one who trained me nonstop all year. Terran promised me I'd have a very good chance of winning, but I can't help but feel a tinge of doubt in my stomach. Am I really good enough?

This particular tournament has really tough competition. It's a really big deal, especially for District 11. The goal is to find the best athlete in all of District 11 regardless of age, gender, or sport. They brought in professional judges from a bunch of different Districts to score our general athletic ability in our chosen sport. Supposedly the highest would win. Which means that I'm competing against full-grown adults.

"In third place, we have Lana Fortier competing in baseball…" Mrs. Selby announces, and a big cheer erupts. A tall, dark-skinned girl walks up to the stage where the scrawny kid fits the bronze medal around her neck. I clap politely, but I can't help but feel my heart fall as the most achievable award goes to someone else. "In second place, we have Damek Hartman competing in football…"

A lighter cheer goes up, the audience clearly less enthusiastic about Damek's victory. A buff adult man walks up to the stage grinning smugly as the silver medal is placed around his neck. I sigh, not believing I have a chance of achieving gold. I know I'm good, but better than the entire District? I glance over my shoulder and to my surprise, Coach Terran is smiling widely. He gives me a thumbs-up, which I half-heartedly return.

"And finally, in third place, we have… Avens Rosendale, competing in track and field!"

My heart leaps in my chest when I hear my name. Terran roars in excitement beside me, but I'm too shocked to make a sound. I rush to the stage, getting there in mere seconds. I'm not one for smiling, but I can't help but grin as I feel the golden medal being placed around my neck. I clutch the cool metal in my hands, not wanting to let go in fear there has been some mistake and it will be taken from me.

"Now, Avens, the judges scored your athletic ability as a 3417, which is practically unheard of for someone your age," Mrs. Selby starts, but I don't hear the rest of her praises. My mouth drops open at the number. 3417 is higher than Hermes Bollard, the best LGBTQ athlete in all of Panem. Have I just usurped his title?

As if answering my question, Mrs. Selby states this fact to the crowd. Photographers snap pictures of the three of us and people applaud in the crowd. My eyes immediately scan for my parents, whom I invited earlier today. My heart flutters in excitement when I think of how proud they must be.

My eyes drift over the entirety of the audience, but I don't see anyone who resembles Conisia or Islon Rosendale. A sickening realization fills me. They didn't come. My mood immediately drops.

I didn't think it was possible for them to not care about this, but I suppose it's within their character. After all, how much attention have they payed to me since I first came out as nonbinary to them? They've always been bad about attending my award shows, but they haven't showed up once since I came out. What will it take for them to pay me any sort of attention?


Unsurprisingly, I'm not greeted by anybody when I enter my house.

"I'm home!" I call, to no response. I roll my eyes. I know that they're home, and I'm very confident they can hear me from any room in the house. I wander into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad are seated at the table, eating dinner. Dad glances at me when I enter. Mom doesn't even look up from her plate.

I help myself to the leftovers sitting on the counter before joining them at the table. I take the medal off and set it in the center of the table. Neither of them comments on it. My hand clenches around my fork in frustration. Why won't they just say something?

"I won," I finally say. "I'm the best athlete in District 11."

It's a long time before anyone says anything. Finally, Mom asks, "Did you win any money?"

I restrain myself from groaning. I received a check for $1,000, but based on how my parents are acting, I'm tempted to keep it for myself. Why should they get the money I earned if they don't even care about me?

"Yeah, I won $1,000," I blurt out. Mom's eyes light up at this.

I'm no longer hungry. I toss the check at Mom and snatch my medal off the table before storming upstairs to my room. I slam the door behind me and throw myself on the bed, absolutely exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of a day.

I bury my head into my soft pillow, trying to restrain the tears that threaten to spill. I don't want to cry. I don't like crying. Instead, I pull the baggie of weed from underneath my bed and start smoking the stuff. I immediately to calm down a bit. My parents know about my drug usage, but they sure as hell don't care. I let them find my weed on purpose just so they could show some semblance of concern. That was a bust. Mom just confiscated it and told me it was inappropriate and she didn't want people to think she has a "druggie son".

It seems like every time I try to do something to get them to notice me, it backfires and it ends up proving they care even less about me than I initially thought. There's a picture of us on my mantle from when they actually cared. Mom's smiling, Dad's smiling, and even I'm smiling. Mom has her arms around me, and the love in her face is clear. What would it take for them to be happy for me again? What would it take for them to feel proud of their child?

The idea hits me like a freight train. Maybe it's the weed kicking in, or maybe it's my emotions taking hold, but suddenly I want nothing more to win the Hunger Games. After all, what parent wouldn't be proud of their Victor child? Maybe if I Volunteered and won, we could be happy again. Maybe I could feel some love from my family again.

Just like that, my plan is set. I'm going to Volunteer for the Hunger Games.