a place for all of my headcanons, solos & story ideas for Seeder and District 11 from The Hunger Games series. book & movie based ideas. trigger warnings for canon typical violence & mature themes.
admin is 21+, uses the tag homebound or you can call me naysha. she/they pronouns for writer, she/her pronouns for muse.
new to navigating tumblr for roleplaying purposes, so please bear with me as i figure things out! i’ll always have tags for specific content, so it should be fairly easy to navigate my profile. i won’t roleplay here, this is just kind of a place to post my rambling. you can find my real roleplay account here! thank you in advance for your patience & for listening to me yap!
overseers, fieldcalls & the distancing of community: HCing intra-District dynamics
okay i think i’ve mentioned already that i think District 11 is heavily influenced by Black american culture. i think it’s inspired by enslaved people/sharecoppers in the deep south & how they revolted constantly against plantation owners & then later Jim Crow laws. i also don’t think Suzanne made those connections accidentally.
however!!! these are just HCs!!! i am not Suzanne Collins’ bestie & i don’t know what’s going on in her mind when it comes to the world she’s built. these are just some headcanons that i’ve made because District 11 & how close it resembles the history i’ve grown up learning is very interesting. if you don’t agree that’s totally fine. but i just think about how …
… during the slave era, overseers were often poor white men put in charge of driving output from enslaved laborers. while these positions often proved to be more lucrative than attempting to cultivate farms themselves or find employment in a environment where labor could be sourced for free, they came alongside a lot of pressure.
due to intense demand put on them from the wealthier plantation owners & feelings of being jilted out of the opportunity to accumulate their own wealth vis a vis ownership of their own slaves, overseers had a tendency to resort to unnecessarily cruel or debilitating punishments. they viewed enslaved people as subhuman, and so treated them worse than animals.
most overseers where white. but some plantation owners had Black overseers. it was thought that enslaved people listen better to someone that looked like them, and show the plantation owners in a sympathetic light for giving a Black enslaved man such a enviable position.
but it would actually just further divide the community. providing a Black enslaved man with better clothing, housing, food and privileges in exchange for him losing favor with the collective. the disdain he’d be viewed with in turn would widen the gap, and he’d become so resentful of being ostracized that he’d be unlikely to take the whip/gun and turn it onto the real enemy: the plantation owner. he could become as violent & self-serving as his white predecessors, and crack down harder on the people that used to be his community out of jealousy or hatred or betrayal.
“so what does this have to do with District 11?”
well. my theory is that there were a select few people in the district that were used as overseers for the various crop fields. it was seen as a “promotion”, and they were called “superintendents”. these men & women would be elevated to positions of power over the other people in the District, and given more pay along with better housing/food/clothing. their families would often be spared from having to work the fields themselves, and they would be considered the “lower middle class” of the District. the only people richer would be the peacekeepers, the handful of people that ran stores, and the politically elite that worked in the justice building.
but these “promotions” would be seen by the rest of the District as bootlicking to the Capitol, and selling out to the people that actively starved & oppressed their District. to take one of these superintendent positions would be to forfeit their position in the community, but to deny it would be to deny their families a chance at a better life.
a few superintendents turn to substance abuse to deal with the weight of the decision, and some become recluses from shame. but some become cruel & contemptible.
on the contrast, there is a position in the district known as a “fieldcall”. now fieldcalls have different demographics depending on the crop they’re assigned to. the fieldcalls that work in the orchards, for example, are usually children because they can climb faster & higher than a grown adult would be able to. fieldcalls in the sugar cane fields are usually the taller people in the district—mostly men, but the occasional woman too—so that they’ll be visible over the tall-growing cane leaves. the job of a fieldcall is mostly in the name—they’re there to call the start & end of the day, and they tend to lead the work hymnals that people in District 11 sing to pass the work day.
these “sorrow songs” are useful for a lot of things. they were a way that the people of District 11 kept their culture & their spirits strong even under ruthless injustices. a powerful form of musical expression and resistance, District 11 would use these songs for everything from plans of revolt to ending a work day to mourning as a community. the cleverness & musicality of being a fieldcall is a highly respected position, as they’re usually the main source of important information for the rest of the District. it’s a heavy burden & respected honor to be the position of a field call.
and whereas being a superintendent is a title bestowed by the Capitol & is treated as such, the fieldcall is a position given to someone by their community. all it takes is a strong singing voice & a little spark of cunning for people to then look to you for the music & as a source of information.
of course, how the District treats superintendents is exactly what the Capitol intends. and i can picture there always being a strong tension between fieldcalls & superintendents. someone ostracized by their community vs someone openly revered by it.
just… the idea of fieldcalls having a tendency to be targeted by superintendents, and then Rue (who says she whistles to let people know the end of the work day) being killed by a Capitol figurehead (Marvel being from a Career district) kind of gave me the idea & now i can’t stop thinking about it.
rated M for Mature themes, drinking & heavy petting towards the end. nothing explicit, but to be safe, mdni.
╭────༺ 𓄼 ❀ 𓄹 ༻────╮
they say music from Tillman’s juke joint could be heard all the way in the Capitol on a Saturday night. Seeder never much cared for the implications of that, not even when she was a young girl and the Capitol was more of a shadow that went bump in the night than a real tangible threat. she cared for it even less these days now that she knew intimately that it was the second. but even she couldn’t deny there might be some truth to it.
she can hear Bud Tillman fiddling his heart out when she leaves the Vineyard. the sound of good music and the smell of folks cooking good food carries her through the district. kids zip by her laughing, promises of the one day off from the fields lifting the collective spirit in the atmosphere.
tomorrow her District will be casket quiet, and she’ll likely be tending to the aftereffects of drink ﹠ merriment by her lonesome. tomorrow, she’ll be a Victor from one of the Big Houses again. the omen of bad times that every winner of the Games inadvertently became to their people.
tonight, she will be Seeder Howell. with her red lipstick and her red organdy dress and her shiny red heels. going to see her gal and drink until she’s warm in the cheeks. tonight, she can have the luxury to pretend to be fourteen ﹠ young again.
there’s a group of men throwing dice outside the juke when she approaches. a few of them tip their hats to her politely, sidle out of the way of the door so that she can slip through. Lia seems to have been waiting on her to come and gotten into the shine while she did—she’s bombarded with gangly long arms and the stench of peach moonshine. it’s heavy on her breath and in her clothes—a sign that it’s one of those nights where she’ll be hitting the bottle hard ﹠ lamenting it for days after. for once Seeder can hardly blame her.
“Seeder! you came!” her younger sister effuses, eyes sparkling. the tip of her nose is blush red already, bright against her pale skin. during winter days, her sister could blend right in with those dark-haired folks that worked in the justice building from District Two. but in the summer her tan would come back full force, all warm taupe shining in the sun, and they’d look nigh identical again. Seeder ducks out of her younger sister's grip, though she accepts the offering of gin from her. Lia barely notices—appraising the semi-sheer red frills on her dress. “you look damn fine, girl.”
“watch your mouth,” she chastises absently, eyes scanning the room. searching for someone, for—
—she spots her behind the bar. her short cropped curls sticking to her face with sweat, stains in the pits and the collar of her cotton button-up. one of her suspenders must’ve snapped recently, because the leathers are mismatched colors but still holding up her favorite charcoal gray pants.
Tully Tillman is the only Tillman girl that always insisted on wearing pants. since they were kids. on reaping day, when their Mama’s forced them to go to a repast, on birthdays and New Years too. there she’d be, with her short curls cut by her ears, wearing a pair of her fathers hand-me-down shirts and suspenders. Seeder remembers thinking she was odd for it when they were kids. but now her face splits with the joy that is found in familiarity, and she carefully picks her way through the crowd—promising Lia that she’ll catch up later.
she drops the gin on a random table as she nears the ramshackle counter and pin-cushion stools they call a bar. Tully notices and laughs at her—high and pretty like the music from her Daddy’s fiddle. it sets Seeder’s heart to fluttering in a funny way; beating fast, sounding something like those big ceremonial drums from the Capitol.
“i need a drink,” she shouts over the din of dancing and music and her own heartbeat pulsating in her ears. Tully glances to the abandoned gin, now being happily sipped on by what Seeder believes is one of the field-calls.
“you had a drink.”
“i wanted one from you,” Seeder responds, leaning on the bar. Tully carts her eyes over her, smiles big and broad like she always did when she caught her being slick. already, the apples of her cheeks look swollen with her affection. she has dimples when she smiles, and they make her look cute ﹠ youthful again. Seeder can feel herself grinning just as wide. “hi, by the way.”
“hey yourself,” she responds, before reaching over to pour up something white and cheap and eye-watering. she spills a bit of syrup from some jarred cherries in it before sliding it over. “i’m happy you came.”
a scoff from Seeder, her index finger tracing lazily around the sticky rim of the glass. the drink is more of a formality—it was well known that Seeder Howell didn’t come out to the Tillman juke just to drink. she got plenty high off of this right here; talking to the handsome woman that served the liquor. “aw, c’mon. y’all act like i don’t never go nowhere.”
“‘cause you don’t,” Tully responds, turning to mix another drink for a waiting patron. she can hardly keep her gaze off of Seeder though, leaning every so often to catch a glimpse of her thighs through that translucent red fabric in her skirts, and it burns her chest up something fierce—blazing hotter than any gin or shine could ever be. “you stay cooped up in that big ol’ house, making other folks' problems your own.”
“well, it’s the least i could do.” whether she means keeping a safe distance from those she cares about, or sacrificing all of her free time to the people of the district goes unsaid. Tully gives her a sympathetic look nonetheless. “i’m glad to see you, too.”
“nothing else could’ve made me happier. and you’re looking fine as frog hair—you gonna dance with me tonight, Miss Howell?”
“oh, come on now. you know better than that,” Seeder dismisses, taking another sip of her drink to busy her mouth from speaking unnecessary platitudes. they were something of an open secret, she and Tully. folks didn’t give them too much grief because the Howell’s and the Tillman’s served the District well in their own ways. but she knew better than to go inviting disdain by broadcasting it. besides, she couldn’t be sure that there was never anyone looking. her sister and her predilection to keep having babies was bad enough. she didn’t need to worry about her girl, too.
being at the juke was already a terrible idea. but at least she could pretend she was there for her sister, and she ﹠ Tully were less close in theory than in reality. taking her partner to the dance floor—no matter how much she wants to—is practically begging for problems. “i got two left feet, and they’re both ‘bout as heavy as stones. i’d stomp all over those pretty toes of yours.”
“girl like you stepping on my toes? don’t threaten me with a good time,” Tully teases, finally finishing up the drink for the man that’d been waiting. he gives them each a scornful look and then spits at Seeder’s feet—having obviously overheard their conversation, and not liked it a wit. the yellow spittle lands on her shiny red heels, thick and viscid on the patent leather. Tully’s face wrenches up with fury, but he’s already backing up towards the crowd of people dancing. “hey now! show some damn respect to the lady!”
“T, don’t,” Seeder hisses, grabbing her arm to keep her from coming around to the other side of the bar. the two women exchange a loaded look—one pleading, the other enraged. the last thing she needs is for a fight to kick off over a pair of shoes, especially not ones she could quickly wipe off with a wet rag anyhow. she’d come out tonight to steal joy for herself, and she wouldn’t have her one night cut short behind Tully’s pride. there’s an entire conversation had in just that one glance, and eventually the other woman settles down—leaning on the sticky wooden bar to get closer to her.
“you don’t have to keep taking that.”
“please, not tonight,” she responds instantly, taking sips from her drink. it’s strong, and it waters her eyes with every mouthful. but its effects are instantaneous, and she can feel the liquid heat pooling in her belly. dark eyes flit over to the stage, where Tully’s father is working the fiddle. he’s accompanied by her older sister on a janky old piano, and the two of them have the whole joint up on the floor. sensing an opportunity to change the subject, she gestures towards the pair with her jar. “Bud ain’t losing his touch, is he?”
“nope. still sounds as good as he always has. that man might just fiddle himself clean off Death’s roster,” Tully agrees, which earns her a derisive snort and a side-eye. “what? you don’t think he could?”
“girl, what are you talking about? can’t nobody swindle themselves out of death—you sound silly even joking about it,” giggles Seeder, tearing her eyes away from the stage. the shine must be loosening her lips in a dangerous way, because she adds, “death and the reaping. two things that're gonna come around every time, whether we want them to or not.”
“maybe not.”
“Tully, what did i just say?” groans Seeder. “i don’t even know why i said that. forget i brought it up.”
if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. that was the problem with loving a woman like Tully Tillman. she had a strong sense of justice, big ideas of right and wrong, and nowhere to put all the rage she felt when things were unfair. whether that be misplaced disgust at something innocent like their love, or the injustice of children being used as fodder to be slaughtered year by year. she couldn’t help herself but to talk crazy. the only miracle was that when Tully got to talking, folks were usually too drunk to pay her any mind. perks of being a barkeep. she had just enough good sense to wait until she was behind that bar on Saturday nights—but that was usually where her sense ran out.
and it didn’t make it any less dangerous. didn’t change the way cold dread would wrap its spindly fingers around Seeder’s lungs and squeeze every time she heard her talking like that.
she’d seen people swing in the orchard for days for offenses far less severe. if they found out Tully was talking about treason, Seeder can’t imagine what torment they’d dream up. she still saw Pearla’s headless body when she went to sleep some nights. the way her sister's legs had twitched uselessly in the air before they’d drawn the rope up again and butchered her.
it takes a few moments to pull herself from those macabre memories and recognize that the muffled buzzing in her ears is Tully; she’s still talking, voice going all pitchy on the ends like it does when she’s excited. Seeder blinks herself back to the present. “—some man came by couple of nights ago, said there was a Peacekeeper getting folks out of the District on the supply trains—”
“Tulip,” Seeder hisses, grabbing the older woman’s forearm and pulling her clean across the bar. their faces are so close their lips could touch, and a few nearby tables make faces of derision at what looks to the drunken eye to be a display of affection. but all of that is whited out with fear. talk like that didn’t just get folks hanged anymore, either. especially not if they were seen with Seeder. it got them tortured, it got them arrested, it got them—
—her eyes are welling up before she realizes it, and Tully places a hand over the one Seeder is gripping her with.
“hey, hey,” she whispers. “i’m sorry—i’m talking crazy. i won’t mention it again. i promise.”
“you’d better not. not to anyone. not ever.”
“not ever, you have my word.”
the grip Seeder has on her eases up, and she sets down her glass too. “you have something good here—with your daddy, with your sisters, running the juke. good enough. don’t mess it up being stupid ﹠ chasing trouble.”
Tully’s voice is churlish and petulant when she looks up at Seeder through her eyelashes. “you chase trouble.”
“you know what,” Seeder suddenly exhales, pushing herself away from the bar. there’s something bitter welling up in her throat, tastes sour like homemade wine and waters up the back of her tongue like she wants to vomit. “do what you please. i ain’t your mama. but leave me ﹠ mine out of it. i got enough to worry about.” the real contention of the night. why Lia was knee-deep in the shine already, why Seeder had wanted to see Tully ﹠ take her mind off of things. and likely why the reaping had been so heavy on her mind that just a little liquor had brought the words tumbling forth.
Althea had turned twelve that year. Seeder had stayed in the house with drawn blinds while her sister and her family celebrated in their home away from her. her face too stark an omen of what a twelfth birthday meant to the Howell family now. Seeder had attempted to spare them any dour reminders by staying away.
yet still a brand new dress, a pretty shade of apple red with a basket-weave bodice, had arrived in the post to her sister’s door for their niece. Seeder hadn’t ordered it, but they all knew well enough who had.
that man had just taken that girl’s mother from her last year, and was making the threat to take her, too, if Seeder wasn’t on her best behavior. a cruel ﹠ merciless god threatening destruction for the barest hint of sin.
and she would be pious to appease him, because there was someone else within touching reach, now. Seeder had not a single rebellious bone in her body. her night terrors had already been tinted apple red, familial oak-brown eyes blinking back at her from the dark. she hated the games as much as anyone else, but there was no room for brash mistakes this year or five years down. and Tully, love her as she does, is a big bright blood-red mistake waiting to happen.
there’s been enough bloodshed on her behalf. she can’t bear the idea of another, even less than she can bear the thought of never seeing Tully again for her foolishness. she knows she doesn’t mean the ultimatum the second she says it. but she needs to make the point.
while trying to slide off of the barstool, Seeder stumbles a bit in her heels. she’d drank more of that moonshine than she’d thought judging by the half-full jar, and it seems like the alcohol had settled in quick. she didn’t drink much as it was, and the Tillman’s served paint-thinner in a glass. despite how furious she is at her, Seeder leans into it when Tully wraps a steadying arm around her waist. life was lonely enough, and oftentimes just as short. there is no room for stewing in anger. at any rate, Tully seems to have been rightfully chastened by Seeder’s menacing to course-correct her behavior.
warm calloused hands slip around her waist—too intimate for friends, too public for safety. despite the contempt thrown their way in curled lips and furrowed brows, nobody is as brash with their displeasure as the man from earlier. it doesn’t change the anxiety she feels humming quietly under the blanket of liquor in her system. had she been a little more sober, she might’ve shooed the woman away. instead Tully safely guides Seeder out to the back entrance where wild bushels of dropseed grow unkempt off the porch, and she lets her. the two women manage to stay upright long enough to get down the steps, but then Tully gives one impatient tug at the hem of Seeder’s skirt and they go tumbling down in a heap of limbs ﹠ laughs. tall grass and black willow trees act as cover enough in the nightfall. satin-soft laughter leaves Seeder’s chest despite her earlier indignation. her rage at Tully’s recklessness is curtailed by the feeling of those hands traveling up under her skirts.
she swats her hands away, rolling her head lazily over to look at the woman beside her. in the moonlight, Tully’s dark skin glows with undertones of midnight blue. she looks iridescent and beautiful and timeless and the rest of her anger slips out of reach when they lock eyes.
an amused grin, her voice soft ﹠ low so as not to be overheard by anyone that might be stepping out for fresh air. “you trying to feel me up?”
“nobody can see us through the grass,” Tully murmurs, leaning in to sip a kiss. Seeder obliges just the one—because she knows that it’s true, they’ve done this enough times before—and then jerks back. “oh, come on now. don’t be like that. i said sorry, and i meant it.”
“you’re feeling mighty reckless tonight,” responds Seeder, rolling over onto her stomach. the grass tickles at her exposed clavicles and her ankles and her thighs, too. but she doesn’t lift up from it. instead she folds her arms over Tully’s breasts, rests her chin on her wrists. “i can’t afford to lose nothing else. i ain’t strong enough for that.”
“you’re not going to lose me. i’ll be on my best behavior,” Tully whispers back, plucking a blade of grass from her hair. “you still love me?”
“i still love you.” she leans up and presses her lips against Tully’s, and steals more than a sip of a kiss. her lipstick makes their lips stick together, slows their kisses down until they can barely separate their lips. moments like this can make it all feel worth it, sometimes. the meticulous distance she kept, the way she worked so hard to sneak around. they could never marry, or raise babies, or live together in that big empty house she had in the Vineyard. but they could keep what they had as theirs. real, untouched by the Capitol or any judgmental gazes, reserved only for themselves.
when Seeder pulls away, and Tully looks up at her with those big, oil-dark eyes, she knows the way her heart hammers is her sign that it’s worth it. “no more man with the trains. you hear me?”
Tully leans up. presses a kiss to her exposed shoulder. “yes ma’am. crystal clear.”
a sigh escapes red lips. she turns her head, her girl kisses a path up her neckline. the feather-light feel of chapped lips on her jaw, of warm rough hands resting on her hips—Seeder melts right down into a puddle. she can’t believe she ever thought she’d play at being angry with this divine, magical woman. “and no more of that crazy talk. i won’t see you swing in this lifetime or the next.”
“no, you won’t,” rumbles Tully, the bass of her voice humming against her cheek.
“i’m serious,” she pulls away to insist, and that earlier indignation flares up. the idea that she’s having their sensuality turned into a distraction sours the moment in her stomach. but her girl knows her too well, because the sincerity in her next words ease her back down into the embrace.
“i know you are.” brawny arms snake around her middle. she mouths another kiss into her neck. “you look mighty pretty while you’re doing it though. stay the night?”
“i can’t.” too long of an absence would raise alarm bells. even tipsy, she thinks about every variable. being escorted out to cool down by a friend was one thing, disappearing for the evening and turning up at sunrise was another.
not even Tully’s sweet kisses ﹠ reassurances can turn off the side of her that worries. that desperately scrambles to carve something nice out for herself in this world of evil and keep it close. even if it means she only gets it in tastes, in fleeting moments with itchy grass pressing into her knees.
“stay the hour?” proposes Tully, hope coloring her voice. Seeder smiles down at her, presses the flat of her palm against one of those dimpled cheeks.
up until the 65th Hunger Games, a timid young girl from District 11 held the title of youngest ever Victor. fourteen when she was reaped, fifteen when she was pulled from the arena, Seeder Howell had perhaps some of the lowest odds of winning. so how’d she do it?
the bloodbath.
the first thing Seeder saw when she rose up onto her pedastal was white. white everywhere, as far as the eye could see. snow. on the sparse trees, on the ground, on the mountains, covering the oddly rocky looking cornucopia. she was familiar enough with it—it snowed every now and again back in District 11. sometimes if it snowed enough, they would all be given the day off from work. Seeder knew about keeping warm, about huddling close for body heat and eating hot & hearty pork stew so that it’d stick to your ribs. but she wasn’t back home, and she hadn’t made any alliances.
but Monie had the Careers, and she hadn’t anticipated living long anyways.
despite what the Capitol chose to believe, Seeder was smart enough to make sense of her surroundings in the sixty second countdown. the arena was a completely frozen over tundra blocked in by towering mountains. the cornucopia itself was actually designed to resemble a mountain, with slippery jagged edges covered in snow—it’d be hell to scale, if someone wanted to make the attempt. the only weapons available that she could see were ice picks, knives and axes. all of the tributes were dressed in waterproof snow jackets, fingerless gloves, thick fuzzy socks, snow boots, and night-vision snow goggles. from what she could tell, there was no food to be found in the cornucopia… and no food to be found around it, either.
Seeder knew that there was nothing at that cornucopia she needed. nothing worth the risk of dying slow and bloody in front of her Mama & sisters at least. the second the gong went off, she turned tail and bolted. deep into the woods, far away from the sounds of battle that could be heard behind her. she didn’t grab anything for supplies, didn’t want to risk it.
with the blizzard whipping like tiny knives against her face, Seeder just knew she needed to find somewhere to make shelter & stay warm.
by the time the worst of the carnage is over, she’d found herself somewhere to hunker down for the time being. a little cave in the side of the mountain, protected from the worst of the blizzard. that night, she paced around her freezing cave until she heard the anthem. all day she’d been worrying over how she would get to Monie, how she would help him find food and water when he was surrounded by people that wanted her dead.
nightfall brought along the realization that she wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. there are plenty faces in the sky that night. but the only one that means anything to her is Monie’s. his visage stares down at her from the starlit skies and Seeder’s heart plummets.
her only reason from turning tail from the bloodbath was to stay alive to help him. with Monie gone, she didn’t see much of a purpose in living. but she didn’t see much reason in running back to throw herself on someone’s blade, either.
day one.
by morning, Seeder has decided two things. one—it’s smarter to try to sleep through the day. attempting to sleep the previous night had almost had her freezing to death, until she’d eventually decided to find a tree and start climbing to stay warm. she’d spent the night scaling that tree up and down, generating body heat until morning rays had brought her warmth. two—if Monie was dead, then District 11 would have no victor this year. but suicide would play right into the Capitol’s hands. she’d have to survive by hiding. if she didn’t come across anyone, she was less likely to have to give up her pact. do no harm, but take no shit.
day two.
it took a couple of days for her to get the hang of the arena. while out trying to stay warm one night, she stumbled across rutabaga and turnips. with nothing to start a fire she had to eat them raw, but it resolved the issue of food. Ollie must’ve had some money meant for Monie, because he sent her an empty canteen, too. Seeder packed snow into the canteen and set it up in a tree—letting the sparing rays of sun melt it down to drinkable water.
there would occasionally be canons. but nothing ever came her way, and she never went looking for nothing either. it seemed there was enough drama going on elsewhere in the arena that the gamemakers had been able to forget about her.
day three.
it’d been a waiting game, after that. Seeder knew better than to stay in one place for long. the blizzards made it so that would be impossible, anyways. and she knew that she couldn’t go much longer without something to protect herself. not necessarily from the other tributes, but she’d seen foxes running through the snow with blood-stained coats. she managed to break a sharp enough branch off of a tree, and unearthed a few berries from beneath a layer of snow. pokeweed berries sprouted up beside bushes of blackberries. she’d smeared the former onto her branch with her gloves, and tucked the latter into her pocket to eat later. extra careful not to get them mixed up. she’d seen kids back home succumb to pokeweed, and though it was a peaceful death, it was always a tragic one.
day four.
at the base of a tree she’d scaled, she’d found an abandoned lighter. most of the butane in it had been all used up, but there was enough leftover to make another fire or act as a light source. Seeder had pocketed the lighter, but refused start any fires no matter how cold she’d gotten. she’d watched the skies, seen the trails of smoke high in the air. she knew one thing—if she could see theirs, then someone would be able to see hers. still the lighter was a handy find, and those growls in the night had started getting closer and closer to her trees. if anything, she thought she’d be able to set one of those carnivorous foxes alight.
happy birthday to me, she’d thought.
day five.
though Seeder initially ran away from the cornucopia, when she survived her birthday, she switched trajectory and started moving toward it. she knew that the gamemakers would force her that way eventually, and didn’t want to see what they’d have in store to do it. the day after her birthday. she’d had a handful of those blackberries to celebrate making it to 15, and had even treated herself to hot water by holding the canteen over the lighter for a few seconds.
she’d been walking on the sunshine of another day of survival when she’d heard it. a groan of misery, not to far away from her. despite warning bells going off in her head, instinct had drawn her to the sound. back home, if she or her sisters heard someone in distress, they went towards the sound—not away from it. help first, ask questions later. if her Mama had been watching her and saw her run away from someone in need, Seeder knew she’d have a chewing out coming her way.
so she’d crept through the brambles. had gotten good at being light in the snow, stepping flat-footed so that it didn’t crunch so much underneath her boots. that’s probably why the boy from 3 hadn’t noticed her until she was already too close for defense.
he was tall, lanky, older than her. she didn’t remember his name nor did she know anything about him besides the little ‘3’ printed on his coat. she could see he’d been beat up badly. he’d gotten into a fight with the boy from 7 on the second day, and while he’d won, the tribute had managed to slice open his chest bad enough for him to catch an infection. district 3 had successfully managed to hide out, but both he & Seeder knew it was only a matter of time before the mutts found him or the infection took hold. besides, with his canteen empty and dehydration creeping on him, there was no way he’d survive against an able-bodied tribute.
“i don’t want to die,” he’d said, shivering as Seeder had crushed up the pokeweed berries.
“it’ll be just like sleeping. here, i’ll hold your hand.”
and she had. she’d slipped him the berries, helped him wash it down with some of her warm water. and she’d held his hand as the poison did its job—first paralyzing his muscles and then his heart. Seeder had waited until he was really gone, until the canon fired. then she’d apologized, closing his eyes indefinitely. she’d hummed a going away hymn like they’d done at funerals back home while she kissed his forehead, and then stripped him of his coat and socks. he also had a bloodied ice pick, another canteen for holding water and dried jerky on him—she thinks he initially got that from a sponsor—which she took as well.
day six.
Seeder slept beneath that boys coat and used his socks as gloves the next day. she didn’t go anywhere and the gamemakers didn’t force her to, either. she felt nothing but despair at breaking her rule, at taking a life, even though she knew it was the humane thing to do. it wasn’t until she was sent a meal—pork stew and fried cornbread—that she’d been able to stop feeling sorry for herself. she ate her dinner from home, whispered a thank you to whoever had sent it.
day seven, eight & nine.
the next three days went by in a haze. of scrounging for root plants, rubbing poison into her ice pick, bundling up in the trees as best she could to evade the foxes. Seeder knew that her time to live was coming to an end. most of the tributes had died in the first few days. she suspected dehydration had taken out the others, and there were only three left to her knowledge.
day ten, final day.
when the canon went off, alerting her to the fact that she’d made it to the final two, Seeder had begun gathering her meager supplies. she’d planned to run away from the other tribute for as long as possible, but the carnivorous foxes had finally caught up to her & they had different plans. one had managed to take bite at her arm, whilst she’d caved in the ribcage of another with her pick. but Seeder knew better than to try to fight off the mutts.
she took off running.
the last tribute standing so happened to be from District 4. a tall, beefy boy that she’d seen chucking tridents like they were cornstalks. both tributes were being chased down by the mutts, but Seeder had one advantage—that boy had just come from another fight to the death and was enduring days of starvation. he was tired. though he had locked eyes on her and switched trajectory to chase her down, Seeder had been faster and far more energetic.
the only thing she thought to do was climb. so she bolted towards the cornucopia, using her ice pick to get herself up onto a ledge. the foxes snapped at her ankles, one took a good chunk out of her achilles tendon. but she just forced herself to keep climbing, adrenaline & instinct overriding the notion that she had never intended to live this long.
the boy from 4 tried to have the same idea, but he didn’t have the luxury of practice that she’d had. he wasn’t a fast climber, he was exhausted, he was hungry and he was dehydrated. after she pulled herself up to the top of the cornucopia, she’d reached down her hand to help him, but he slipped on an icy foothold attempting to reach for her and didn’t have the strength to catch himself before tumbling down into the pack of foxes.
Seeder watched and listened as the fox mutts ripped the boy to pieces in front of her. he was pulverized into nothing but red meat. she couldn’t look away even when the boy stopped screaming and the only sound left was the mutts teeth scratching against bone.
as his canon went off and the trumpets blared, she couldn’t help but feel a blood of sick pride in her chest.
“i didn’t play your stupid game!” she’d sobbed. “i won ‘cause y’all couldn’t beat someone that refused to play!”
Seeder was crowned the Victor of the 31st Hunger Games with only one kill credited to her, one of the fewest amounts of kills in Hunger Games history. at the time, she was the youngest Victor alive—only four days turned 15.
up until the 65th Hunger Games, a timid young girl from District 11 held the title of youngest ever Victor. fourteen when she was reaped, fifteen when she was pulled from the arena, Seeder Howell had perhaps some of the lowest odds of winning. so how’d she do it?
reaping day.
Seeder Howell was reaped alongside Admon ‘Monie’ Griffin. Monie was seventeen years old, had spent all of his time in the fields since he was ten, and could swing 50-pound bags of potatoes from one end of a row to another. rumor had it that he slapboxed with the other boys for fun, and could throw a mean left hook.
in comparison, Seeder was fragile. she was short for her age already, made even smaller from malnutrition. and though she could lift a woman nearly twice her size & had well enough knowledge of herbal remedies, she didn’t stand a chance if it came to a fight. her Mama had kept her from the fields until she was old enough for reaping age. she had three years working, and most of it was spent climbing high in the trees to pick fruit.
before that day, Seeder had only ever held a blade to cut an umbilical cord. she didn’t know the first thing about hurting anyone, and she truthfully didn’t want to learn.
do no harm, but take no shit. that was always what her mother had told her about surviving in District 11. and after tearfully hugging her family goodbye, Seeder knew that she would do just that. do no harm to any of the other children, and take none of the Capitol’s shit.
train rides.
their mentor, Oleander, had already begun to lose half of his mind from old age. Seeder & Monie both made a pact to try to stick together, trade whatever information they could find with each other. she knew that she would never make it home, so she promised to do everything she could to make Monie look like the viable contender. if anyone was going to spend their money on District 11, she wanted it to be for him. she didn’t know anything about him, had never even seen him before, but she knew that his family needed him more than hers would need her.
chariot rides.
they were dressed in potato sacks, with sad stale flowers pasted their chests. Seeder’s potato sack dress was tight even on her thin frame, and could hardly come down over her thighs. Monie hadn’t even been given the luxury of a shirt. she hated their outfits deeply, but figured it didn’t matter much what they looked like because no one would be paying attention to them anyways.
during their Chariot Rides, she kept herself tucked behind Monie’s broader frame for some modesty. she didn’t want her Mama or her sisters to see her wearing that no-nothing dress on national television. she hid from the jeering crowd while he crossed his big arms over his bare chest and smiled at them. inadvertently, Seeder had made him look both strong and kind. likable. it was the only instance throughout her entire time spent in the Capitol that she played a hand in the smoke & mirrors involved with the Games.
she was more than happy to let Monie wave to the people, while she did her best to hide her face from them. she didn’t want any of those people looking at her, sizing her up, trying to calculate how she’d die pretty for them.
training days.
after their Chariots, Seeder bowed out further from participating. during training, she would spend hours at the plants section. learning how to dig underground for root vegetables and the best ways to differentiate between poisonous and edible plants. things that she’d already known from her time spent in the fields, but knowledge that might be useful in keeping Monie alive. she didn’t touch the weapons, despite her fellow tribute suggesting that she try to find at least one she liked. and she didn’t talk to the other kids, not even when Ollie found enough sense to encourage an alliance.
Seeder did watch the Careers. she watched Monie interact with them—arm-wrestling and laughing and playing pranks on the other tributes. she hoped that they would invite him to an alliance, at least at the beginning, so that he could stand a better chance.
training scores.
when she was sent to show the Gamemakers what she’d learned, Seeder knew better than to make any real attempt. they barely had any interest in her, and she certainly had no interest in proving anything to them. they’d set out a long banquet of dinner for the Gamemakers—back when they still felt safe eating near the tributes while they scored them. Seeder walked right up to one of the vases, emptied the centerpiece of its flowers, and sat down to make daisy chains. when it became clear that she would do nothing else to grab their attention, the Gamemakers dismissed her. she took her daisy chains with her, but they were confiscated when she got back to her floor.
Monie scored an 8. he said he’d shown them how good he was with his fists, taking one of the dummies to beat it to stuffing in front of them. Seeder scored a 4. when asked what she’d done to earn such a low score, she shrugged and said, “I didn’t do nothing.” which was about as much truth as it could’ve been.
the interviews.
by this point, even Ollie had given up on her. their escort, their stylists, all of them had written Seeder off as a lost cause. no one wanted to sponsor her, no one thought she was worth the effort. Monie was their Districts big hope, and Seeder was happy for him. for the interviews, their escort encouraged Seeder to play down her intelligence—make it seem like she was mentally handicapped or even just not that bright, so that perhaps there would be someone willing to throw her a few dollars out of sympathy. but she was really encouraged to talk up Monie. Seeder was just fine with that.
for her interview dress, she was placed in a floor length gown with floral embellishments & a basket weave corset. it was hand me downs, apparently, from two years before. but standing in the bright red fabric, Seeder for the first time felt worth something. and she felt a small spark of hope. not that she would win—she knew she could never win—but that she still could at least still make her name known. she didn’t want to win, but she wanted to do something to tell the world that what was happening wasn’t right.
so Seeder did what any reasonable girl would do. she did as her escort was told, played into the idea of being ditzy District bumpkin who didn’t know her right from her left. when Caesar asked her what she thought of the chariot, she pretended that she had no idea what a chariot was & said she liked those horse drawn carts well enough. when Caesar asked her how she enjoyed Capitol food, she admitted that she hadn’t known half of the things they gave her could be edible. when he asked about her District partner, she complimented how Monie could lift her right over his head with just one arm. called him brave & strong & funny to boot.
and when Caesar asked her if she had a strategy—or if she even knew what the word strategy meant—Seeder pretended to be surprised and said, “oh, i didn’t know this was some kind of strategy game! i thought we were just supposed to kill kids!”
the Capitolites ate it up while she pretended to be a dunce. but she made sure to look in the cameras, so that Snow and all the rest that knew better could hear it for what it was loud & clear: a direct condemnation of people turning the massacre of innocent children into a game show.
Monie & Ollie knew it the second she stepped off that stage. she’d signed her own death warrant. Seeder quietly advised him to stay away from her in the arena, should the gamemakers see to it that she was punished for such insubordination.
night before the games.
the token Seeder had from home was an embroidered handkerchief. it was rare that her mother could get her hands on colored thread, but she made a point to find some each time one of her girls became reaping age. the handkerchief had yellow & red carnations embroidered onto it, with Seeder’s initials and birthday. four days from that night, she’d be turning fifteen in an arena. if she could make it that long, if she could survive to her fifteenth birthday.
the next morning, when she’d found that her arena outfit consisted of a coat and winter boots, Seeder knew that she wouldn’t be seeing that fifteenth birthday.
at the very least, she was comforted in one thought. District 2 had given Ollie a ring before they’d gone to bed the night before. they wanted Monie in the Careers. so he’d be safe in the arena; safer than Seeder ever would’ve been.
so i have a lot of thoughts and theories specifically about district 11 & their culture. i pull a lot of my inspiration when world building for them from southern black american culture, especially during the 1920s era. but one of the biggest things i’ve been considering is their fashion.
with the upcoming met gala theme being Black Dandyism, i’ve been doing a lot of reading into the concept of the Harlem renaissance & fashion as a method of resistance. and i think it resonated with me especially with District 11. in the books, Suzanne describes color as something that’s hard to come by & an anomaly in District 12. that’s why the Covey girls stand out so much—they have access to colored fabrics that the rest of the district doesn’t.
and given that there’s a history amongst poorer classes of holding onto their own sense of propriety by emulating & then spinning what the 1% does, i think District 11 would really fully embody Black Dandyism to the fullest during reaping days.
even if it’s already expected of them, dressing up in their best of their best to show up to the reaping would be a very subtle but effective middle finger to the Capitol. the narrative that propaganda constantly tries to push is that the District people are animals, heathens, the unwashed masses in desperate need of taming from the Capitol. but it’s difficult to maintain that narrative if you pan over the square and see folks dressed like this
and that extends even to how the tributes are dressed for their interviews & chariots. it’s a subtle form of oppression, the way that District 11 (or any of the lower Districts, but specifically District 12 as well) are constantly shafted with boring & uninspired looks for the Chariot rides. given that historically they are two of the most rebellious districts, it’s a form of humiliation to then make sure they look their worst at all possible times.
so if D11 Victors then start popping out wearing things like this after their games
it’s a statement. it’s rebellion. it says “you tried to keep us down, you tried to stamp out our pride & our spirit, and you failed”.
now objectively i know that District 11 is incredibly poor & overworked & they likely don’t have the means to source what our standard of well-dressed might be in our world. but within the context of their world, i imagine they dress to their standard of well-dressed. their suspenders might have mismatched straps, their shoes might not be shiny and have holes in the soles, their shirts might have patches of different colors from where they’d used tablecloths or handkerchiefs to fix them. they may not have a tie or any jewelry to wear. but they’re wearing their best of the best, because they refuse to be labeled as anything but human.
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
2087
titsay
baratheonpilled
stormborns
discoholicmusic
izzy806