Tradition
The victors had a tradition. The day after their newest member was announced, Haymitch would buy three bottles of vodka. They would gather in a room without cameras and microphones, and talk in soft voices.
They would talk about the twenty-three, but not of the victor. The tributes, but not the games. The Victors would talk and talk and cry and talk some more until the cold names weren't names anymore, but living, breathing people who had lived tragically short lives. Then, they would drink each and every one of them away.
In those not-quite funerals, the first talk of rebellion sprang up. The revolution was planned in a small storage room in the Capitol.
After the war, someone found the room, and pasted tiny headshots of every dead tribute on the walls, complete with their name and district. It was the memorial of the victors.
In truth, there are more memorials, trapped inside pages of notebooks that were carried and protected and hidden away.
![[Moving to Galatea] What We Never Healed](https://cdn-gcs.inkitt.com/vertical_storycovers/ipad_b00b828931c645f2eccdf3396cb15498.jpg)
