Saigon Kane, 17

District 11 Tribute

The scorching summer sun was beating down on us as we slowly made our way through the vineyard, putting up poles and stringing nets. Usually on the day before Reaping Day we had the afternoon off, but a flock of crows had been stealing grapes and the vineyard owners were making us put up nets.

My t-shirt was soaked with sweat and my friend Noel's face was dripping. I had to stand on my tiptoes to secure the nets and my feet were aching in my boots. And we still had several hours to go.

Jack, the older man who was working alongside us, let out a heavy sigh.

"We really should be paid extra for this," he grumbled.

"Don't let the boss hear you say that," Noel cautioned. "He'll be pissed."

"He's too lazy to be out here on a hot day," I said angrily. "He'd rather sit on his butt and smoke his pipe than make sure his workers are satisfied."

"Saigon!" Noel gasped. "Be nice!"

"Why?" I hissed.

But before I could say more, one of the supervisors came over.

"Why aren't you working?" she asked.

"We were just taking a breather," Jack explained. She raised an eyebrow and I frowned. She looked unfamiliar; she was clearly a new hire who thought she could boss us around.

"Well, you've had long enough," she said. "Get back to work."

"We've been talking for less than thirty seconds!" I protested. "And it's boiling out. Don't you think we should get a water break or something?"

"You can have water once you finish this row," she snapped. "Don't make me get Mr. Rhoades."

"We won't," Noel said frantically. "Come on Saigon. We don't have much more to go."

The supervisor smirked as she walked away and I cursed under my breath. District 11 wasn't a bad place, but if you weren't born rich, your life was a constant grind. And I was sick of Mr. Rhoades and his hand-picked lackeys making us miserable and not even paying us enough to make up for it.

The sun had almost reached the horizon by the time we finished our assigned rows. The supervisor hadn't allowed a water break and I was absolutely parched. I waited impatiently in line for the drinking fountain and greedily gulped down the lukewarm when it was my turn.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out near Mr. Rhoades's office. The supervisor from before was yelling at someone, who was clutching their cheek. As I got closer, I saw that it was my sister Esper.

Esper just turned fourteen and was already in her problematic teenage phase. She and her twin Rosemary barely got along anymore and Esper was always in trouble. She'd clearly angered the supervisor and gotten herself slapped.

"We worked overtime!" Esper was saying. "And we'll get our extra pay! This is illegal!"

"What you'll get is fired," I snapped, pushing through the gathering crowd and grabbing Esper's arm. "It's time to go."

"Hey," she protested, trying to break free from my grasp. But I refused to release her and began to drag her away from the supervisor. "Saigon, they can't do this!"

"Yes," I growled. "They can. And you're just going to get hurt if you fight it."

I lowered my voice as I spoke to her. We didn't need to cause more of a scene than she already had. But Esper seemed determined to start an argument.

"You're such a coward Saigon," she said, trying to jerk away from me again. "You don't stand for anything."

"I stand for protecting my little sisters!" I yelled. "Now, please shut up. I'm hot and tired and hungry and I'm done arguing with you." I released her arm and stormed off. Surprisingly, she followed.

Freya Thatcher, 13

District 11 Female

I hummed intentionally offkey as I made my way down the plain beige hallways of the nursing home. I was carrying a tray of food in my hands, careful not to let any of the soup spill out. It was for Mr. McGregor, and he was quite tidy.

After knocking on the door, I entered his room. The elderly man was sitting in his bed, watching the news on the television mounted on the wall. Only a few of the facility's rooms had televisions, and those were usually the rooms the Capitolites patients chose. Mr. Igor charged extra, but for them it wasn't a problem.

"Hello," I said, my voice quiet. I didn't necessarily like speaking loudly, but I knew it was important to be heard. My mother's boss hit her frequently, and my sister said it was because of her soft voice and mild mannerisms. It made me angry.

"I brought lunch," I said, catching the old man's attention.

"Oh! Thank you Frida."

"It's Freya," I told him, placing the tray on a wheeled table and moving it to his bedside. Once he was situated, I stood by the door.

"Is there anything else I can assist you with?" Mr. McGregor shook his head and I opened the door.

"Alright. Enjoy your lunch, and I will be back with your medication in an hour."

Of course, he wouldn't need his medication in an hour. He'd be dead by then. I'd stirred some ground-up cherry pits into his soup; enough for a lethal dose of cyanide. He'd reached the end of his days, and it was time for him to pass on. The poor man couldn't leave his bed and took more pain medications than anyone else in the nursing home. His time was limited as it was. I just sped up the process.

It was something I'd been doing for about a year now. Many of our patients were at the end of their lives and ready to move on. Many of them were in pain. And I didn't like to see people suffer.

Though my cause was not fully noble. I knew that. Our facility got a payout every time a patient passed. The money I'd earned from the six deaths I'd caused was enough to give my family a break from the fields, pay our bills, and even indulge in a few luxuries. My sister Rhyme could go to the gym and buy hair dye. My dad could spend time with his friends. My mom could afford to buy chocolate.

And Malachi Igor didn't suspect a thing. My boss was an odd, nervous man, but he was generous to me. He gave me a chance to prove myself at this job, and I had. I was a valued employee and he had no concerns about my… chaotic nature.

I learned a long time ago that the systems put in place to support people were not sufficient, and that people were not kind or accepting. So I wouldn't give them peace. If I could frighten someone, I would. I knew I was off-putting, and I embraced it. I didn't necessarily want to cause pain, but if I had to, I would. I couldn't be stopped.

Tiber Trott, 28

District 11 Escort

District 11 was such a disgusting, miserable place. It was my third year escorting their tributes and I still wasn't able to comprehend how I had been saddled with such a pathetic district assignment. My parents told me I would get District 1, and here I was.

It was hot and dusty and everything smelled gross. I was sweating through my bedazzled white suit and my jewel-green hair was frizzy, which messed up my perfect pompadour. I hated it here.

The door to the Justice Building opened with an awful screech, which made me wince.

"Sorry," a booming voice said. "We really need to get around to oiling the hinges."

"You don't say," I said through gritted teeth. Chaff let out a bellowing laugh.

All of the victors were unbearable, but Chaff was the worst. He was loud and obnoxious and was almost always drunk. If I had to choose a favorite, I'd pick Zayd. He rarely spoke and always kept to himself. But he was over eighty years old and didn't mentor anymore. This year I would be stuck with Chaff and Scythe.

"Is everything alright?" Seeder asked. I felt my eye twitch as I forced a smile.

"Yes. Everything is great." I desperately wanted to give these idiots a piece of my mind, but if I was ever going to get promoted to a better district, I had to at least try to be nice.

"So, it must almost be time," I said, pushing between Seeder and Autumn to get to the door to the stage. The cameramen were still setting up. I frowned.

"What, are you eager to get away from us?" Chaff said, coming up behind me and clapping me on the back. I grunted at the impact.

"Yes, actually," I snarled. I was officially at the end of my rope. Seeder drew a surprised breath and I rolled my eyes. Didn't they realize how aggravating they all were?

Mercifully, the cameraman gave me my cue. I snatched up my microphone and went out onstage. Everyone looked hot and miserable… just like I was. I tried to add a spring to my step, but it didn't matter. Nobody cared.

"Hello District 11," I said. In my head, I could imagine crickets chirping. "We're here to celebrate the glorious Hunger Games, and to select the lucky tributes who will represent your district in this years' Games. But before we do, I have to welcome your past victors to the stage."

I didn't bother clapping, but most of the crowd did. Zayd led the procession to the chairs, and Chaff brought up the rear. Once they were seated, I forged on. I was ready to get this awful day over with.

"We've got a short movie to watch, and then we'll do the exciting bit," I droned. "Please pay attention. It's the least you can do." Then I turned to watch as the short film about the war and the institution of the Games began to play. I tapped my foot impatiently. It was important that these dull outliers were reminded of their past crimes, but it was boring for us escorts to watch it every year.

It ended with a musical flourish and this time I did applaud. However, most of the crowd did not. I resisted the urge to sigh or roll my eyes. They were so disrespectful. No Career district would behave like this.

Without bothering to say more, I marched over to the bowl to my left. I was ready for today to be over with. I picked a slip from the top and read the name aloud, trying and failing to keep the grumpiness out of my voice.

"Freya Thatcher!"

For a moment, everything was silent. And then someone began to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. A 13-year-old girl with dark skin and a short ponytail stepped forward, giggling uncontrollably. I looked around awkwardly. What was she doing? Was she insane?

By the time she climbed the stairs and reached my side she was more composed, but the occasional giggle would slip out. I inched away from her before practically running to the other bowl.

"Saigon Kane!"

This time, the tribute behaved much more normally. Another dark-skinned person with a ponytail came forward. They had big brown eyes and bold eyebrows and looked absolutely shocked. But they joined Freya and I onstage with no fuss.

A wicked smile crossed Freya's face as she locked eyes with me. Then she stepped forward to shake Saigon's hand. I barely managed to repress a shiver as I announced their names to all of Panem.

"District 11, I give you your tributes: Freya Thatcher and Saigon Kane!"

Hi everyone! We did it! We made it through all of the intros for Lay Me To Rest! I'm so excited to be moving onto the next section of this SYOT, and to be able to explore the tributes even more! Thank you to simplynovaa for Saigon and Paradigm of Writing for Freya. Oh, and to LadyCordeliaStuart for Tiber. Just as a note; Saigon is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns. Unfortunately, the reaping slots are canonically gendered, so I wanted to make it clear what their pronouns were. I don't expect anyone to be a jerk about it, but if you're thinking about it, just don't. Seriously. Anyways, please leave a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter! It was certainly fun to write.

Questions

1) Did you prefer Saigon or Freya? Why?

2) Now that you've met all the tributes, do you have an early victor prediction?

3) Who was your favorite escort? Why?

Have a nice day, be kind to each other, and never stop reading!

- Fiona