"I'm sorry," the admiral said, "but they want to call whom?"

Mary herself had not been impressed at the news, either. "Dr. Wreath is fully in his right to call any witness he believes will help his client."

"But they are my officers! How can they testify for the other side?"

"If Dr. Wreath thinks their testimony will be valuable, he can call them." Mary switched her phone to her other hand. "That is his right."

The admiral sighed. "To be honest, Chief of Counsel, I don't see why they're being tried at all." Of course she didn't. "From what I saw, the Coast Guard fought a pretty clean war. Yes, there were some mishaps with neutral ships, but we got trigger-happy a time or two, too."

Maybe she should have been the one testifying, then. It would have been amusing to see the IDC leadership explode. "That is, most likely, what Dr. Wreath wants to hear from Thirteen's naval officers."

"It's the principle of the matter," the admiral said. "The atmosphere being the way it is, and with how there are elements complaining about Peacekeeper presence in our army-"

The admiral exaggerated. Yes, there was no shortage of voices complaining about precisely that, but they were drowned out by people who wholeheartedly supported the idea, to say nothing of those who didn't particularly care. Former Peacekeepers had to fill in questionnaires like anyone else applying for a government job, and those with acceptable pasts were allowed in. A precious few wartime recruits and conscripts went for that option, it was mostly career soldiers who knew no other trade. "If it is truly so bad, simply make it clear that the officers are acting of their own volition - or under subpoena, whichever one applies."

"I suppose I will have to," the admiral said unhappily.

The admiral would, indeed, have to - there wasn't much she could do about a subpoena. "I am glad that is settled," she said. "Have a good day, Admiral."

"You, too."

Mary ended the call and put down the phone.

"So, how did that go?" Joe asked.

"I think she feels more sympathy for her sibling-officers than for the people they massacred for trying to leave the country. And if any of these brass hats remember the incident with the Brazilian hovercraft, it will be a first." Fifteen years ago, it had been shot down in international skies. Snow hadn't even deigned to think about it.

Joe clapped a hand to his face. "Didn't people go by boat to Thirteen?"

"I don't think the Admiralty cares much about that." Mary took her pocketbook and crossed out the call. The governor of Thirteen would be calling in half an hour, wanting updates. "Not anymore. They're too busy being annoyed by how I'm insulting the noble profession of arms in my statements."

"You have an entire paragraph where you say you're an officer yourself and understand that it is hard to make good decisions under fire," Joe said, holding up a draft and pointing to that passage.

Now if only everyone didn't think that was so much window dressing. "I, for one, am mostly worried about how it will look like if Thirteen officers stick up for government ones."

"Everyone knows that the top brass sticks together," Joe pointed out.

Mary nodded. "I don't want to encourage voices saying that the armed forces are all the same. How are we to convince the world of the justness of putting Best and Verdant on trial when their fellow admirals act like nothing happened?" People had an astonishingly selective memory. If they didn't want to dwell on the fact that the Coast Guard had carried out reprisals, they simply didn't.

"By trying them?"

"I suppose," Mary said. "But I'm afraid people won't listen to what's being said."


Thumeka was not particularly shocked when Thirteen officers testified in Verdant's favour - she had known it was coming. A few of the VIPs in the audience did not look very impressed, and some of the prosecutors shook their heads, but that was all.

The witnesses recited what they had been called by Alli, Verdant's lawyer, to say perfectly, but Ilhan Dadin's cross-examination got them to admit that Thirteen had never made a policy of taking hostages, using slave labour in docks, or shooting prisoners of war once they were in custody.

Alli's presentation was good, in Thumeka's opinion - very good. He didn't say it outright, but he implied that Verdant, being from a desperately poor village, had actually been a victim of the government himself. And Thumeka had to agree that someone who went to military school at the age of twelve in such a repressive regime could hardly be expected to learn to think on their own.

But many had. Verdant had not. Thumeka had flipped through the prosecution's case against him, it was striking how fanatic he had been. He had made speeches praising the Hunger Games and calling for resistance until the end. Out of the entire dock, he had been the only one to attempt suicide.

Verdant had grown up in a hut with an earthen floor and no electricity or running water. When he had arrived at military school, he had been illiterate, freshly shaved bald against lice, and missing all of his vaccines. He had taken well to military discipline and done well enough in school to get into college. It should have been a success story of a person who managed to get into the only social elevator the country had had. Instead, it was the making-of story of a mass murderer.

When Verdant limped his way into the witness stand after two days of witnesses, he had an air of a C student who had studied hard and was now ready to accept their fate, whatever it may be. He had an unpleasant grating voice and strange-looking eyes. It took Thumeka far too long to realize that the only thing strange about them was their colour. The rest of the defendants had dark eyes, but Verdant's were an odd grey Thumeka had last seen in England.

Perhaps surprisingly for someone with no training in speaking, Verdant handled himself quite well in the direct examination. He did a good job of demonstrating that whatever he may have said, that had not been orders. Now Thumeka understood the deeper rationale behind the Peacekeeper witnesses that Alli had called. They said that they had carried out atrocities of their own volition, and here was Verdant insisting that his inflammatory statements had not been orders. The direct examination had to wrap up for the day after only five hours, as it was a Saturday, but Thumeka was already convinced that this case was not so easy as the others. But what would the judges think?


"I haven't done anything in so long," Yonatan Perry said, adjusting his cap and craning his head upwards. The air was quite cool, but he was wearing short sleeves. Rye had a sweater on and felt a bit chilly. "I don't know the last time I left the house."

"At least we're not the paralegals," Smith said with a shudder.

"Don't remind me," Hudson said to Perry. "I swear I die of envy every time Morrison steps out of the house."

And yet, at least they were not the paralegals. "Maybe we can swap," Rye needled her roommate. "I can dig through documents and you can cross-examine Lee."

"Actually, I'm fine where I am." Hudson checked her watch. "I think we're a bit early."

The assistant and associate prosecutors from Nine were all going to cheer on Carver, who would be playing in a boccia tournament this afternoon. Rye had started out unsure if she actually wanted to watch people play bowls for who knew how many hours, but Verdant's witnesses had exhausted her. Even watching bowls would be a good way to unwind, and if it really was so boring, she had her laptop with her for when Carver wasn't on the court.

For her part, Carver came back from every practice almost delirious with joy. The other players all had a similar level of disability, and it was the first time she was surrounded by so many people who understood her. Carver was learning new tips and tricks she had never suspected existed.

Carver had mentioned that the tournament had had to be relocated to a different gym, as a surprising amount of people had asked for tickets - it was pay-what-you-can, so most people would be going for free - but she hadn't mentioned that the place was a proper indoor stadium.

"Alright," Carver said, "I'm going to go sign in now."

"Good luck!"

Carver and Lope made their way towards a corridor. The rest of the prosecution team found their way to the place where they would be sitting. As always, they had the best seating. Looking around, Rye could see a massive amount of prosecutors, clearly intent on cheering on their colleague.

"I didn't know bowls was so popular in the Capitol," Perry said wonderingly, looking around the cavernous space. "I thought it was something rich pensioners play in their gardens."

"It's not," a person said behind them. Rye turned around to see who was talking. It was a rubble-woman, with dust-stained hands and a well-worn windbreaker. "I saw there was a sports tournament, so I decided to drop by after work. Not like there's much to do for fun here."

"I've got a relative in hospital with a spinal cord injury," the person next to her, an equally worn-out man, said. "He was always an athlete, so he's depressed he won't be able to do what he loves. Maybe once I tell him there's still a sport he can do, that'll make him feel a bit better."

After some waiting, the matches began. Rye knew the rules thanks to Carver - players had to toss small balls at a target ball and try to get it as close to it as possible, or knock out the other team's balls. Several matches were being played at once, as the courts were quite small and the stadium quite big, and Carver soon appeared, deep in discussion with a fellow player.

Players were sorted into divisions based on functional ability. Some players used their hands to throw the ball, others used their feet, still others used odd-looking devices on their hands or head to tell an assistant where they wanted the ball to go and then used the pointer to push the ball down a ramp. Rye thought of her great-uncle, who had been paralyzed after a fall as an adolescent. If he had had access to great healthcare and fancy assistive devices, would he have lived for more than two years?

Rye's contemplations were cut short by an official with a clipboard addressing her. "I recognized you!" they said - the prosecutors were in the very front row. "You're from that trial."

"We are," Rye said. "We're here to cheer on our colleague."

The official nodded. "I've been involved in this for years. Usually, the only people who turn up are relatives, trainee physiotherapists, and a few people who got curious. Is it me or did the entire prosecution show up?"

Rye scanned the front rows. "Many," she had to admit. "Sports are already very popular, not to mention that one of us is playing."

On the court, Carver was handed a ball by Lope. She carefully tossed it, and it landed close to the target ball. The prosecutors cheered, as did many others in the audience.

"The atmosphere here is electric," the official marveled.

Rye herself had never thought that bowls could be so fun to watch. The entire tournament took several hours, with Carver taking silver in her category, beating out nine other teams. According to the official, this was the most well-attended tournament ever, in terms of both athletes and audience. Rye was not surprised - playing bowls had to be more fun than sitting outside and watching everyone else clear rubble.

"Nice job!" Torres said, bumping fists with Carver. "You really wrecked them."

"Well, we can't all be Jinwe and win at everything," Carver said, rubbing her fingers over the small length of ribbon she had been given - in a time of total deficit, that was the most in the way of prizes that could be offered.

"So," Anna Goldfield said, "there's a bar I found not too far from here."

"Lead the way," Carver said. "I am so ready for a beer."

Bars close to the Justice Building were usually full of journalists, so they had to go further out, and risk colliding with people who did not like prosecutors one bit. Rye shuddered as she remembered the man who had attacked her in an alley. At least they were spared that when in a group.

The bar Anna Goldfield had found was a nice enough place, even if it would be freezing cold inside come winter. It wasn't too crowded, but neither was it empty.

"Good offerings," Hudson said appreciatively.

Rye looked at the blackboard. Certainly not too shabby for a Capitol bar. "Let's see what the house vodka tastes like," she said, digging out some money.

"Methanol?" Perry quipped. Noticing the bartender's glare, he quickly added, "Just kidding. I would like a shot, too."

"What will your helper be having?" the bartender asked Carver after she placed her order.

"Lope, what do you want?" Carver asked ostentatiously.

"Do you have any soft drinks?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Tea?"

"We can manage that."

Hudson started up a conversation with the bartender on the intricacies of distillation. Rye looked around the bar, noticing that there were holes in the wall crudely covered over with bits of sheet metal, cardboard, and broken brick. Being mostly underground had saved this bar from total destruction, but the building on top of it had been knocked down.

The drinks were poured, and the prosecutors sat down. "Alright, then," Anna Goldfield said, lifting her beer glass. "To our athlete!"

Rye raised her shot of vodka and gulped it down. It was quite good, though inexpertly made.

"This is really good," Carver said, sipping her beer through a metal straw. "I'd have thought the brewery would have been affected by the war."

"Everyone always needs beer," Rye said, taking a sip of her own beer. "Wow, this is good."

Perry threw his hands in the air in mock-outrage. "Beer after vodka? You can only raise the degree!"

"I was taught it's the other way around - you need to lower the degree," Feng said.

"I was just told to keep snacking," Husk Goldfield added.

"Now that is wisdom." Torres was already red in the face after having drained a glass of wine. He reached for the dish of cream cheese. "Where's the knife?"

"Right in front of me," Carver said. Lope passed it over to Torres, who spread some on a piece of bread. Rye studied the meager offerings and took a bit of dried fish. If it was actually fish, she'd be very surprised. It was salty, though, which was all that counted.

"So," Anna Goldfield said. "What do you think of our new governor and minister of health?" The interim governor had been formally elected and the deputy District minister of health had replaced the minister, who had retired for health reasons.

Rye drank some beer. "I think that I should also transfer over to the assistant Gamemakers' trial, if it means time to think about anything other than the trial." She was joking - she had actually voted in the elections - but only slightly. Her preferred candidate had lost, but the one elected was also perfectly respectable, if a bit more fond of populist rhetoric like promising to somehow give everyone electricity and running water within two years than Rye would have liked. Under Snow, he had been in and out of secret prisons, so Rye was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for now. If he hadn't messed up so far with the situation being what it was, he couldn't be that bad.

"Morrison, you should have called Castillo as a witness," Anna Goldfield quipped.

"Ha-ha." Anna Maria Castillo was living proof that if the majority had no access to healthcare, the rich minority still suffered, just not as much. She had contracted polio and smallpox when too young to be fully vaccinated, and as a result was one of the few members of the richest one percent to have been called 'Pocky' and 'Gimp' as a child - and adult. Rye had seen her referred to as 'Crooked Castillo' and 'Scarface' by journalists who didn't realize how offensive this was. Castillo had in fact spent weeks in an iron lung and months in a rehab hospital (Rye felt sick at the thought of her children going through the same thing), so her parents' income had saved her in the end, but it had not saved her legs, and she still walked with a cane and braces.

"I'm not sure if I like the Social Democrats," Husk Goldfield said.

"You are a lawyer from a family of lawyers, it'd be odd if you did," Feng pointed out.

Rye chuckled. Despite Paylor's promises, society was still as rigidly stratified as before. Having political parties just meant that all of them picked a niche and stuck to it.

"Hey, Torres, what do you think of the governor?" Smith needled him. The new governor, Elshan Dower, was shorter than even him due to having been born to poor rural people, though his beard made him look his age.

Torres giggled. "I'm finally taller than someone!"

"Don't sell yourself short - there's always Talvian," Carver joked. Rye shook her head at the pun and ate a few peanuts.

"Dower's pretty popular from what I can see," Rye said. At least, Barrow didn't seem to disapprove, and his political views were to the right of hers.

Perry nodded. "You want to hear a joke about him?"

There was a chorus of assents.

"Alright, so Dower and his wife are taking their children outside to play. Someone notices them and says - such proper young people, watching over their siblings like that!"

"Not funny," Torres grumbled. "I've had people think I was my older brother's child."

Rye suddenly realized that Perry had just told a joke about a politician in a bar, and nobody had thought anything about it. The realization brought a smile to her face. Nobody would have dared make the same joke about a governor before, but now, it was something you could do without thinking.

The country was different now. She just hadn't noticed the change. As Rye contemplated that, she felt as if a load had fallen off her shoulders.

"Is he also pocket-sized?" Hudson asked.

"I will end you," Torres threatened. It would have been scarier if he wasn't wobbling in his seat.

"Alright, who wants to bribe a guard to have them call Talvian pocket-sized?" Perry suggested, munching on a peanut.

"I'm sure they regularly do it of their own volition," Carver said.

Rye, still reeling from her realization, focused on drinking her beer. It had been so off-handed - but that was the thing, wasn't it? A joke about a governor being told without a second thought. She had spent so much time wondering what it would be like in a different country, she hadn't noticed that she was already living in one.


Antonius woke up and really did not want to get out of bed. It was cold in his cell, so cold that he had had to put socks on his hands to be able to fall asleep with them above his blanket. Antonius lay under the covers, not wanting to expose any of himself to the frigid morning air. He lay still even as the radio began with the morning news.

"Get up!" the guard at his door demanded.

Reluctantly, Antonius sat up, pushed back his covers, and took the socks off his hands. At least the cold woke him up somewhat. "Good morning," he said to the guard.

"Same to you," the guard said.

Since this was a Sunday, his morning routine was quicker - they did not get shaved on days when they were not in court. The stubble on his chin made Antonius feel unkempt, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Breakfast was not very good today - hot water, oatmeal, and a nutrient bar. Sighing, Antonius crumbled the bar into the oatmeal. The only effect it had was making the porridge even more glue-like.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Before he could stop to think about what he was doing, Antonius poured a little bit of the water into the oatmeal and stirred. Since the water was hot, it did not turn it into a lump. Now, the porridge was of a much better consistency. Antonius enjoyed eating it.

The sound of the gate clanging and the sight of the guard suddenly being attentive meant Warden Vance was here. Antonius swore to himself - he had a paper clip hidden where his shirt hood drawstring had been. He finished eating, washed out his bowl and spoon, and handed it back. Almost immediately, the door opened and the search began. Of course, the paper clip was found.

"Turn around," Warden Vance commanded.

Antonius turned around. He had long since stopped caring about being naked in front of fully-dressed people.

"Are you a human or a hamster?"

"Human," Antonius answered. Better to have it be done quickly than draw it out.

"In that case, why this hamstering?"

Had Warden Vance just made a joke? "Er-"

"Do go on, I am waiting."

"No excuse," Antonius admitted.

"I do not want an excuse - I already know there is none. What I want is the reason. What made you think keeping a potential suicide implement on you is a good idea?"

"Suicide implement?" That was the last thing Antonius wanted.

"I know you are not going to kill yourself," Warden Vance said. "But I cannot say the same for your codefendants. I do not want you handing them the tools needed to make me look foolish. So, tell me. Why did you take this paper clip?"

"I just did." It had been an impulsive decision.

Warden Vance looked at him in a disappointed way. "Are you forty or fourteen?"

"Forty-six."

"Then why do you act like a teenager?"

"I don't know." Antonius braced himself for more scolding, but fortunately, Warden Vance nodded and left.

Unsure of what was happening, Antonius got dressed quickly, put away his things and mopped the floor. Once he was done, he had some time to read a novel. The book itself was quite amusing - a Central European country kicked out its religious minority, regretted it, and decided to bring them back. The preface, however, had instructed him that in reality, a genocide had occurred some time after the book's publication, and there was no happy ending there. And with religious tensions in that area being what they were, the once-sizeable community in that country now numbered two middle-aged people.

Antonius did not understand why religion made people into enemies. Uncle Augustus' wife, Aunt Cassandra, went to church every week. The person she worked with the most (or rather, had worked, due to Depuration) was Sikh. And so? He could not grasp why what god or gods someone believed in was relevant to anyone but them.

Flipping through the final pages of the book, Antonius thought that this, at least, was one thing they were not accused of - fomenting hatred of a religious group. Scant consolation. He read the afterword, where the two remaining members of the real community wrote about their experiences. Antonius paused at a line that made him feel very uncomfortable.

The problem is, they don't actually miss us.

For some reason, that made him think about District Twelve. Did anyone actually miss it? Antonius certainly did not. Thinking that made him feel an unpleasant sticky sensation in his chest. He remembered Hawthorne's testimony and immediately tried to forget it. When he had found out, many years ago, that this was Snow's contingency plan, he had not even batted an eye - yet another one of the president's bizarre ideas, best nod along and change the subject. But they were people, and he could not even tell himself that at least it had been effective, because if anything, it had made everyone even angrier.

Of course, he was not going to say that on the stand. Antonius knew well who would be cross-examining him and his witnesses - Goran Briscoe of Six. He had once given up a life of cushy privilege to defend the penniless for free and make his living from teaching adult literacy classes, which paid a pittance. This was not someone who knew nothing about what he would be talking about. Briscoe had spent years living with workers and knew all of their complaints. He had even volunteered as a Games labourer to replace someone with TB, though fortunately, that had been before Antonius' time.

If Antonius admitted he regretted one action or another, Briscoe would figure out a way to extract a full confession out of him, of that, Antonius had no doubts. He needed to stay firm, to insist that he had done nothing that was not a normal business practice. Antonius opened his folder and looked at the answers he had written for the questions Shaw would ask him. They had settled that long ago and were now focused on preparing him for the cross-examination.

For today's meeting, Antonius had drawn up a list of possible mistakes he could make so that they could discuss how best to avoid them. Getting too emotional. Trying to protect someone else to his detriment. Allowing himself to be baited into saying something impulsive. Already, it was clear that whatever the prosecution had said, the judges were not going to blindly go off that. They would pay attention to not only Shaw's presentation, but Antonius' performance in the witness stand. That reassured, but it also terrified. News from other, lesser, trials reassured him that the judges were not there to stamp death warrants, but it would still be difficult to convince people like Daniel Chatterjee of his innocence.

Antonius half-heartedly flipped through his papers as the radio blasted a soccer match. One red card later, he was let out of the cell to go talk to Shaw. Folder under one arm, he went to the visiting room.


The incident with the cow was solved quite easily. The civilian offender was arrested, the MP dishonourably discharged and sent back to Seven to work on his family farm, and the cow itself - handed over to the nearby orphanage, as it had complained about not receiving meat rations for weeks. Stephen wasn't sure if all the calories added up, but it was that or simply handing the cow back to the warehouses, where it would probably be stolen again.

"Thank you so much," the person in charge of the orphanage said. "You're a lifesaver."

Stephen shook his head. "It's an outrage, that you didn't receive the most basic rations for so long. What did they say when you complained?"

"Said they'd fix it," Oscar said with a huff. "I swear, you're the only person we can rely on."

"The corruption and theft is sickening. I try to convince them that they're only hurting the most vulnerable in the end, but they don't care about anyone who's not related to them."

Oscar nodded. "Would you like to stay for lunch? Not to eat, just so that the kids know who helped them."

Stephen checked his watch. That could work. "Thank you very much."

"It should be done now. Let's go?"

The orphanage was basically a warehouse stuffed full of bunks. The children, none of them older than twelve or so, were in a semi-orderly queue that snaked around the building. A few were eating soup.

"We managed to sell the inedible parts for some extra vegetables," Oscar bragged quietly. Stephen wondered why anyone needed to buy cow hooves. What were the hooves even used for? "I know you disapprove, but-" He trailed off, nodding at the children, who were eagerly devouring their portions. They were all far too skinny.

"If I felt disapproval every time I saw something I did not approve of, I would never feel anything else," Stephen sighed. "You ran out of room for the older ones?"

Oscar winced. "Yeah. There's just nowhere to put them, and the bigger ones can make it on their own. After a fashion."

That 'fashion', all too often, was armed robbery. An assistant to a defense lawyer had complained about being attacked by knife-wielding children and having everything of value, including his shirt and trousers, stolen. Characteristically, he had shown up to the Games trial in that state (to the photographers' delight) and sat at the table in ill-fitting borrowed clothes and a pair of slippers over someone's spare socks. That trial, where high-ranking personnel from the Training Centre and the department of Victors' Affairs were on trial, had begun recently.

Stephen sent off memo after memo arguing that nobody would be stealing the trousers and undershirts off passers-by if only they had enough to eat, which meant cracking down on the black market. The decision makers, however, were under the delusion that everything would fix itself soon enough, rationing would end, and the government would only have to worry about feeding a small amount of people. Stephen knew better. This winter would be very difficult. Already, homeless children were being brought to hospitals, their little feet frostbitten.

The more he saw of this suffering, the more he wanted to do something about it. Stephen had never considered himself a philanthropically minded individual, but he had lived in Thirteen, where the government had managed to actually help everyone when they needed it. The more he thought about it, the more he longed to marry Angelo and adopt. Or maybe they could start an orphanage. Being a lieutenant, Stephen was eligible for decent housing - quite a few children could be placed in an apartment like that.

"Uncle Oscar? Can I have more?"

Stephen was startled out of his thoughts by the voice.

"Of course," Oscar said, nodding in the direction of where the large pots were standing. "Go right ahead."

The child grinned and raced to the back. They clearly didn't get to eat as much as they wanted every day.

"Any updates from the trial?"

"It's a Sunday," Stephen said.

"I mean this week."

"The officers from Thirteen caused quite a stir at the main trial," Stephen said, trying to keep the disapproval from his voice. He was infuriated and offended by their testimonies. They had shown more sympathy for the perpetrators than the victims! No understanding that they had just fought a war against them. No understanding of the atrocities they brushed under their carpet with their mutterings about how it was difficult to make good decisions under fire. What fire? The only ones who had been shooting had been the Coast Guard, not the refugees being fired on.

"Oh, yes." Oscar shook his head. "Mind you, I don't like getting involved with politics-"

"As if you have a choice. Whether rations reach your kids or not is entirely up to politics." That was one thing Stephen loathed about the big country. Everyone acted as if they were apolitical - as if that was possible. Back in Thirteen, everyone had understood the importance of politics in every facet of daily life.

"I suppose," Oscar said half-heartedly. After a beat he continued, "By any chance, are you planning on working with children after the trials end?"

So he had been completely transparent. Well, Stephen hadn't set out trying to hide it. "Once the main trial ends, I'm demobbing." This was the first time he said that out loud. It was surprisingly easy.

"May I ask why?"

Not much had been written about his visits to the orphanage - the media took it almost for granted that a (seemingly) single man in his thirties would spend his time helping children. There had been a wisecrack about how Stephen was a martinet but still had a heart, and that was the worst of it. It would have been best to not go on about his plans, lest that change.

"I feel I can do more good in a different occupation."

"Well, you'll always be welcome with us. The kids all love you."

"Of course they love me - I bring them food." The kids were mostly done eating now. They queued to wash their bowls and spoons. Stephen checked his watch. "I have to get back now. Thank you for the diversion."

"Oh no, no, it's you who we should be thanking."

"You're welcome, then." Stephen slipped out the side door and stepped into the cool afternoon air. It was time to get back to work.


There was no exact moment when the mood shifted from 'They'll be hanged no matter what' to 'It's not all so clear with Best and Verdant,' but Miroslav did not need the exact moment. It was enough to know that in the press room, people were now betting that the admirals would not be executed.

They were rather different, of course. Best had founded the Coast Guard as a branch - either to give it more independence, as it already had often been separated from the rest of the armed forces, or to make stealing the budget easier. The prosecution had tried to prove that Best had pursued criminal aims, and Cesario Alli had convincingly dismantled that argument, though it was undeniable that Best had sawed up the budget and built his extended family palatial cottages. And Verdant had been his successor. The two did not like each other much, and having to sit next to each other in the dock just made it worse.

Best was from a military family in the Capitol, while Verdant had grown up in a hut with no running water in small-town Two. Best was twenty years older and considered Verdant to be an up-jumped younger officer. And Best disapproved of Verdant's suicide attempt - at least, he claimed he did. After doing some research on high-calibre criminals and their attitudes towards death, Miroslav was ready for a deeper conversation about that.

It was pleasantly cool in the cell, but in a way that implied cold nights. Best was wearing a thick sweater which gave him a very unmilitary look. The oldest defendant at seventy-seven years old, he showed signs of his age in his deeply lined face and mostly missing white hair. Other than that, he was very healthy for seventy-seven, which was why he had been placed in the dock in the first place instead of letting him quietly die in obscurity.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Doctor," Best said in a firm voice. "You wanted to get my impressions of the entire process?" He had just finished being cross-examined by Martha Latimer of Eight.

"That was my plan," Miroslav agreed. "The counsel from both sides thinks you did well."

Best nodded in an imperious way. "Of course I did. I did my duty - there is nothing they can attach to me."

That was not very accurate - Dr. Wreath had jumped through endless hoops and evaded countless potential pitfalls when examining the witnesses, who had all comported themselves superbly, and Best himself. There was a reason why Miroslav had taken note of the changing mood around the admirals - just a few weeks ago, they had been considered shoo-ins for the noose.

"You are content with how you did?"

"I am."

"Do you have any ideas about what might happen to you?"

Best smiled sadly. "I know I'm innocent, but I'm under no delusions. There's a difference between a Coast Guard NCO on trial in Four or Seven and me."

"You think you will be executed?"

"Yes," Best said, staring off into space with unfocused eyes. "That's what we did to the Rebel leaders after the Dark Days. One-hour show trial and public execution. That's what they do abroad. You don't put political and military leaders on trial just to let them go."

"It's possible to find a person guilty and still let them go, after a fashion," Miroslav pointed out.

Best shook his head. "I don't see them splitting hairs to decide who should go to prison and who - to the gallows. Of course, it's unfair that I get pulled out of retirement to be put on trial for doing my job the same as anyone else. But that's the price of a peaceful transition. If my death is what it takes to let the veterans reintegrate into society, I will take it."

"You seem quite calm about that prospect."

"Of course I am," Best said, sliding around on the cot to find a more comfortable seat. "This is not my world anymore. Just this morning, the radio announced that Korea's foreign minister is visiting. I had never known about the existence of Korea. I can't even find Panem on a world map. If I live on for a few more years, it will be as a dusty relic of the past. At least, if I die, it will have some sort of meaning, dishonourable as hanging may be."

Thanks to his high position and connections, Best had been able to marry and have children, but his wife was dead of a stroke for a few years now and both of his children had died in the fighting. No wonder he felt like there was nothing anchoring him to the world. Verdant had been full of smug indignation for the better part of a week now, but Best was not so worried about how he had held up in the cross-examination.

"But what if they don't sentence you to death?"

"I don't want to dwell on what may be," Best immediately replied. "I will just be disappointed in the end."

Miroslav said nothing. Best, however, was not most people. He, too, sat quietly, staring at nothing in particular. He was quite easy for Miroslav to understand - a career officer who always did what he thought was his duty, it was difficult for him to comprehend that he had in reality been committing crimes by ordering villages burnt to the ground.

That was simple enough, but Best was more than a few simple lines on a page dispassionately analyzing his motivations. Miroslav thought about the last thing he said. Was he saying he'd be disappointed by not being executed? He was already on the list of defendants most likely to attempt suicide. But how was Miroslav supposed to convince someone who may well be executed that he should want to live?


A/N: "CDC recommends that children get four doses of polio vaccine. They should get one dose at each of the following ages: 2 months old, 4 months old, 6 through 18 months old, and 4 through 6 years old." Better-off people in Panem would have rushed to vaccinate their children as quickly as possible; Castillo was extremely unlucky to suffer from a severe case despite being partially vaccinated by then. I was unable to figure out the age at which people were vaccinated against smallpox, but it seems that it should not be done to children younger than one year old, so 1-2 years of age seems like a plausible headcanon for Panem guidelines, though many parents would have taken a few more years to save up for the vaccine, as the mortality rate of the disease was 30%.

This is what Castillo looks like (though she is not blind, at least): https COLON / en DOT wikipedia DOT org/wiki/Smallpox#/media/File:Man_with_facial_scarring_and_blindness_due_to_smallpox,_1972_(cropped) DOT jpg

Fun fact - according to Wikipedia, "chickenpox does not usually affect the palms and soles." I suppose I got unlucky, then, because I distinctly recall having to crawl around my room because the pustules on my feet made it too painful to walk. Please vaccinate your kids against chickenpox (it is not ordinarily done in my home country), it may have an extremely low lethality rate, but having it really sucks and complications do happen.

The book Antonius is reading is 'The City Without Jews'. It aged so poorly, it went back around to aging well.