{A Separate Peace} [Onyx]

IF THERE’S ONE THING THE Capitol seem to have an obsession with more than the annual slaughter of twenty three innocent children making the present unforgettable, it’s never letting go of the past. I’ve walked the corridors in the evening for the past few nights, and always seem to find myself presented with a new decade’s worth of Tributes, all staring out of wooden frames with smiles glazed on their faces, all certain of what the photo signifies – the final sealing and dealing of their death sentences. I scrutinize every expression, from the cocky Careers to the queasy-looking Seam children and everyone in between. Occasionally, I’ll come across someone I remember from a video on the Train journey here or in a recap movie, but mostly it’s just curiosity, and some dark thrill deep inside myself, that keeps me searching for more.

To think that the children photographed, some my age or younger than me, are dead – existing only in these photo frames and in their families’ memories – is chilling and exciting. Looking at their portraits so closely seems almost forbidden. I think about Beatrice and Hope, both of whom had siblings in past Games, and wonder if they would feel anything different if they came to look at these visual archives. How would I feel if I was looking at Harmon staring out at me, some vacant appeal for help that will never come in her own eyes? It’s strange to think that in a Quell, where you’d expect the children to be more terrified and more despairing than in previous years, the number of volunteers was astounding. We each had our own reason, some of us with more justification than others, but each was confident at the time that we were doing the right thing. I wonder when our own photo will be taken, and if the volunteers will have started to regret and lose hope like all the rest, their resolve shattering and their fear plain on their faces.

Iago Izar-McClaine is an example of one of the tributes who I can never imagine growing any less confident. He walks with an arrogance, a lust for chaos that’s sometimes unmatched by even the half-insane Career children. It’s the sort of mindset that assures his survival in the Games. So young, like all of us, and yet the potential for victory is so clear. It’s how I’ve felt about him since the first time we spoke, a fleeting bout of small talk across the table of the first aid station. As a result, when I turn a corner in these Halls of Fame and find him sitting and staring at one of the photos, I’m taken aback. His face is a mixture of contempt and intensity, and something else, too. Nostalgia?

I walk towards him without thinking about how he might react to someone else finding him in the vulnerable state. Slowly, silently, I sit down next to him, resting my palms on the bench and curling my fingers over the edge. The embossed plaque below the frame proudly presents to us the Tributes of the 63rd Annual Hunger Games. Twenty-four panicking children between twelve and eighteen about to enter the arena. Twenty-three who won’t come out again. My eyes find Cricket Antoinette, even now shining with subtle confidence the same way that Iago usually does. From the twelve the Gamemakers gave her to her magnificent, carnivalesque fights alone in the arena, the whole of Panem could tell that this was a winner.

The two tributes from Eleven in the photo look similar, with the same small lips and dark skin that most of the District shares. I voice the question that’s formed in my head: “brother or sister?” before I can stop myself. Iago volunteered, I remember, for another kid who shared his surname. Family seems so important to him, when otherwise the boy gives off an air of hostility and heartlessness. I can only hope that my question has broken through that mask, and that he’ll humour my curiosity, and not chase me off with sharp words and cold countenance.