The Rebellion was at the gates, and Antonius was at a concert. He sat in the plush chair, waiting for the music to start. His family was already safe at various country houses, and soon enough, he would join Grandma, Octavia, and Achilleus. He had only come to the concert because Snow had requested it - a decision he was regretting with every second that passed. Was that the sound of an artillery barrage? As he sat in the freezing concert hall - there was no more heating - Rebel soldiers advanced.

Once, he would have never dared disobey Snow. Now, though, it was clear to anyone who had a brain in their head that the regime was done. Antonius, at least, would have a purpose even after the end. The Steelworks would remain, and so would its acting CEO and future sole proprietor. The ideologues and sycophantic ministers, however, would be out of luck. Perhaps this was why the expensive sections of the concert hall were full of people Antonius knew well. They wanted to enjoy the feeling of power, if only for a few hours more. Already, some of his acquaintances had killed themselves.

Antonius rubbed his gloved hands together discreetly, wishing he could place them inside the pockets of his coat. Not too far away, Snow was sitting alone in his customary box. No matter what he claimed, he, too, knew that the end was near. His granddaughter was nowhere in sight. Snow, unlike everyone else, was not wearing his coat, and neither did he wear gloves. Antonius absently wondered if perhaps Snow truly did not feel the cold as he looked at the program, which was a simple photocopied sheet of paper.

Today's repertoire would be a selection of pre-Cataclysm music, appropriately enough. The concert would be capped off with Twilight of the Gods, a fitting conclusion to not only tonight's performance, but to a regime that had lasted for three-quarters of a century.

To the forty-six-year-old Antonius, seventy-five years was a long time. Grandma, however, was a hundred and seven, and Antonius had grown up listening to her stories about the horror of the Dark Days. Now that the Dark Days had come again, she was slowly fading away. Antonius had spent so long being the heir, it seemed unreal to him that he would be the sole proprietor of the Steelworks within months. He would have gladly exchanged the entire conglomerate if it meant he could have even one more year with her.

As she watched the rapists be led to the gallows, Janie was glad she and her buddies had stuck to theft. Nobody had thought that the brass hats were being serious when they said that no civilians were to be touched on pain of death, but it seemed like they were. Janie wasn't complaining, as nobody had tried to take her loot, but it was definitely unexpected. In her town, a couple of corrupt officials had been strung up on lamp-posts, but apparently that wasn't how they wanted to run things.

The four people were standing on top of an armoured car, hoods covering their heads. A few people were filming.

"Smart," Dusk whispered next to her. The farmer from Nine had somehow ended up in her squad while they were still making their way through Two. Janie had participated in the riots already at the very beginning (the adults in the family hadn't approved, but they didn't try to stop her like they did with her brother Ricky, who was at home safe and sound), and once she heard units were being formed, she slipped away to the woods with some factory friends. She hadn't heard from any of them since then. In the past months, she hadn't seen that much combat - enough to know she wanted to see no more, though. "If they know they'll be treated well, they'll surrender without a fight."

"What, like that NCIA officer that sergeant-major forced to play piano for seventeen hours?" That had happened the other week when Janie's squad had been sitting around waiting. She had walked into HQ carrying a message and saw a crying NCIA officer playing simple tunes with shaking fingers, making mistakes what felt like every other note. When she has asked someone what was going on, a half-drunk lieutenant had explained that the officer would be shot when he stopped. It had been a nasty sight, and that had only been the twelfth hour. No wonder some officer eventually got sick of the sight and sent off the prisoner to be processed with everyone else.

"Didn't they send that sergeant-major to the ass end of nowhere after that?"

"It'd make sense." Janie gestured at the hooded figures.

Janie hadn't expected this from the first Capitol town taken. She hadn't even expected the existence of the village. She had always thought that the Capitol was just one large city, but it was more like a District, with a Centre and a bunch of other towns and villages. The only difference was that it was much denser and better-connected. Her town had had paved streets, but rural areas had basically no real roads. Here, the rural roads were technically paved, though calling that pothole-laden mess pavement was an insult to pavement.

When they had arrived, many of the civilians had fled. The ones who had stayed had mostly been sympathetic to the Rebellion, which probably explained the anger of the higher-ups at the rape. They didn't want to scare everyone into fighting to the bitter end.

In Janie's pockets was jewelry, paper money, and two cell phones. On her arm under her uniform sleeve were three watches. For an ordinary private, that was a good haul. Some lieutenant had nicked a motorized wheelchair from the house of an elderly couple that had committed suicide and a captain was now the proud owner of a literal bar of gold, but most of them had to stick to little things. Cell phones. Cash. Watches. The cars had been confiscated in the name of the Rebellion, saving them from falling into the hands of the officers. Janie had thought that the Capitol luxuries would be a bit...more, but her jaw still dropped every time she saw a local on a bicycle, as if bikes were something anyone could just buy.

The truck moved forward, and the four condemned fell down. Janie heard a cracking sound as their necks broke. An instant death. Janie had seen plenty of death so far, but never an execution. She wished she hadn't had to see it.

An officer stepped up and told everyone that if they as much as touched a civilian, the same would happen to them. Janie noticed that nothing had been said about stealing and smiled to herself. Dusk looked at her, a conspiratorial look on his face. The two of them had gotten close over the past few months, close enough to share loot.

In the next town, which at nine thousand people was much bigger than the village but still a flyspeck compared to her hometown (and gigantic compared to Dusk's hundred fifty-strong hamlet), the people must have gotten the message, because everything was covered in bedsheets and other improvised white flags. Twenty Peacekeepers surrendered on the spot, the rest had retreated. The ring was tightening around the Capitol proper, though trying to figure out what exactly was and was not the 'Capitol proper' in that sprawling mass of cities that had grown together was impossible. Sergeant Moore spent way too much time staring at the map and trying to figure out what was what, as if what she knew mattered.

Janie sat on a bench and watched the Peacekeepers sit on the ground. Some of them were just children, maybe twelve or thirteen. Cadets handed guns and told to fight. One of them crept up to Janie, looking around nervously. "Hey," they said. They were so small, Janie couldn't tell what gender they were.

"Hey." Janie dug in her pocket and found a chocolate bar she had nabbed somewhere. She tossed it at the tiny Peacekeeper, who smiled. "Where are you from?"

Growing up, she had feared the uniform. When a Peacekeeper had passed by her, she had tried to look unassuming, so that they didn't notice her. Peacekeepers had either been harassing someone or lounging around, and Janie wasn't sure what pissed her off more. It sickened her when people were beaten at her steel mill, but it also sickened her to see them drinking at bars or hanging out in brothels when it was her tax money that funded them.

Janie watched the kid eat the chocolate in one bite, feeling confused. She had thought that she hated the Peacekeepers, but she couldn't feel any hate for the twenty or so glum-faced people crouching in the dirt, and especially not for the children. They were as old as her siblings, after all - this one reminded her of her sister Annie. Just kids.

"Just a place," the kid said with a shrug. "You wouldn't know it." They were stick-skinny, with tan skin and dark round eyes. "Where are you from?"

"City in Six."

The kid nodded. "Huh." They looked like they wanted to say something else, but a truck pulled up to take the prisoners away.

Outside the gates of the detention centre, journalists were gathered in their masses, snapping photographs. "I do not give interviews," Stephen said calmly through the metal bars.

"Can we see the prisoners?" one of the journalists asked with an atrocious accent. Stephen had heard that other countries were sending in humanitarian aid and that trying to pay for what they could not get for free was causing inflation, but so far, the only foreigners he had seen were annoying journalists.

"No." Stephen turned around and walked towards the building.

The Rebellion was closer and closer to total victory with every passing hour, but inside the detention centre, things were going the same way they had gone for weeks. Stephen had only spent a few weeks overseeing a POW camp before being transferred over to one for the biggest criminals of the bunch.

The job had turned out to be more satisfying than he had expected. While it had been an adjustment, to go from an interrogator to a jail warden, he had plenty of capable people working with him who were willing to show him the ropes. By now, Stephen knew his way around all of the paperwork and knew who to complain to if something went wrong.

He had more charges every day, many of them with specific health needs. Some required daily medications. Others were not capable of staying in a cell on their own, or conversely could not coexist with another person in such a small space. One of the detainees could not as much as dress herself independently after having leapt off a six-story building and broken her neck. Watching over her was a hassle, but Stephen wasn't going to let quadriplegia save the former general from the justice she deserved.

More than the physiological, the psychological issues of his charges caused Stephen endless headaches. Being arrested was extremely stressful, and already some were slipping into depression. They had no idea what was happening and if they'd ever be allowed to leave, which made it that much worse. Stephen had managed to get a small staff of mental health professionals, but if the centre accepted any more detainees, he'd need more.

"Lieutenant Vance!" someone called out to him. "We've got new ones."

Stephen followed the speaker. When he saw the new ones, it took all of his effort to not react. Flanked by two soldiers were two of the biggest people Stephen had ever seen - a man who had to be at least a metre ninety-five and a woman maybe a centimetre or so shorter than him. Both were broad-shouldered and had buzz cuts. They had soldierly bearings, but with a sort of catlike sneakiness about them. Next to them, the normal-sized soldiers looked almost comical.

"Who's this?" Stephen asked in an even voice.

"Death Squad," one of the soldiers said. The Death Squad had been an elite unit within the National Committee of Internal Affairs, dealing directly with the liquidation of political opponents. "Helena Lowman and John Krechet."

"I wasn't in any death squad!" Lowman snapped angrily. Stephen was taken aback by her accent - she sounded downright lower-class. "I'm telling you, I was a stay-at-home mother! And my husband just patrolled the streets!" She gestured at Krechet. They weren't the first couple in the centre, but the rest had all worked desk jobs.

"If so," Stephen said, "you will be released within days once we ascertain the veracity of your claims." He paused. "Who are your children with?"

"My parents," the man said.

"Good." Stephen turned to one of the guards. "Get them settled in. Do your best with the clothing." Lowman was already taller than the overwhelming majority of men but with a figure most men's clothes for that height wouldn't fit, and Krechet was built like a heavyweight martial artist, which he technically was. They looked to be middle-aged, perhaps early forties or so. What had they been like at twenty? There had already been two Death Squad members arrested - another middle-aged man by the name of Li who was a slightly smaller version of Krechet, and a woman called Aulakh, who was no fighter and always stressed that she had been a consultant, not an operative. Neither were in Stephen's centre - he'd have to give the others a call and see if there were any tips they wanted to give him.

Rumour had it that the Death Squad operatives could squeeze out a window twenty centimetres in diameter. That was physiologically impossible due to the size of human shoulders, but it said a lot about how well they had been trained. Stephen had taken every precaution anyone could think of against escape and suicide. Now, they would see how good they were.

Occupation duty was chill. Sit around and look important while eating free food. Easy. A few times, Janie was taken along to arrest so-and-so, but they were either dead or missing half the time.

The pattern was simple. Mayors and civil servants and other people like that who had been super-corrupt were to be detained on the spot, same as the Peacekeeper officers. A bunch of them had offed themselves, but the rest went quietly into captivity.

When she was ordered by Sergeant Moore to get in the jeep, Janie wanted to groan, but kept her mouth shut. One of the photographers, a small man from Four named Billy, climbed in with them, and they were off over the pothole-laden roads.

"Sarge? Who are we looking for?"

"Toni and Alex Chaterhan."

Janie recognized the name. They had been the owners of the Steelworks conglomerate, which meant that they had owned the steel mill where she had worked growing up. She had thought they'd have fled, but she supposed it made sense that they'd be smart enough to know it was futile. The Rebellion was in the Capitol proper, after all. Capitolites should have considered themselves lucky they hadn't been simply bombed to smithereens as it happened in other countries.

The jeep hit a pothole, and Janie had to clutch at the side as Billy collided with her.

"Sorry!" he said, detaching himself from her.

"No problem," Janie said. The two of them were sitting in the back, with Sergeant Moore and several empty crates in the front. She wondered if the Chaterhans were even alive. Hopefully, they would be. Janie was curious to see them face-to-face. She had seen one of them once from a distance, but wasn't sure who that had been. The foreperson had just told them that Chaterhan was inspecting, and that everyone better work hard or else. There had even been a whipping done to show them the factory discipline.

"After one hundred metres, turn left," the trophy GPS said. Sergeant Moore had rescued it from a mostly destroyed car, and always kept it with her. It was very useful, especially when driving around what felt like every single Capitol village looking for people Janie had never heard about in her life.

"Turn left." Moore turned so sharply, Janie was afraid Billy would fall out of the jeep. "In one hundred metres, you have reached your destination." Janie could see that herself. She could make out a wrought-iron gate that was growing closer and closer, and in the distance, a palace. Moore braked abruptly, sending Billy face-first into the back of her seat as he cradled his camera. She leapt out of the jeep and stared at the gate, which was open. Then, she took the GPS off the dashboard and led the two of them down the path. Janie saw several figures up ahead. At least this time, it wouldn't turn out that they had all killed themselves.

The luxury all around them was insane. Janie had thought that she was used to it by now, but this was on an entirely different level. She stared at the palatial house. Why did anyone even need a house that huge? Even Janie's family, big as it was, would be swallowed up by that monstrosity. But that was the Capitol for you, where farmhands owned bicycles and workers ate sausage. Even the paramedic-midwife station she had seen out by the border had actually been not too shabby - they had had a supply of painkillers, antiseptics (and not just brilliant-green, the good stuff), and even heart medicine. It confused Janie to see all the stuff that she had never imagined was possible. Why had the Capitol needed to oppress them when they had already had all that they needed?

Billy was photographing away. Moore was looking around for valuables. They walked up to the oversized people standing by the oversized doorway. A middle-aged man and woman, both in neat, dark suits, and a cute child of around eight or nine who looked just like any of the kids back in her neighbourhood in Six, except that not even the District mayor and the factory bosses could ever have afforded to buy their kids clothes like that. They were standing there and looking as if they were doing the soldiers a huge favour by greeting them personally. It set Janie's teeth on edge.

"Are you Toni and Alex Chaterhan?" Moore asked, ostentatiously reading from a piece of paper.

The man looked panicked for a second, but his face soon regained an expression of total control. "Alexandra Chaterhan is dying," he said calmly. "She is my grandmother and one hundred and seven years old. I am Antonius Chaterhan, this is my wife Octavia and my son. What do you want of me?" He sounded arrogant as anything.

His tone was so self-assured, Janie could feel herself shrinking back. Fortunately, Moore was tougher than her. "Antonius Chaterhan, you are wanted for questioning. Empty your pockets."

"Why?"

"Empty your pockets." Janie watched in awe as Chaterhan did as he was told. He didn't look so tough now. Moore commed for the rest of the squad to catch up. "They're here, but one's apparently near death," she said. "And the house looks pristine, too. If you can call this mansion a house."

The son was staring at them with wide eyes. Janie gave him a chocolate bar and ruffled his hair. "Thank you," he said in that odd accent the rich Capitolites spoke in. He broke off pieces of chocolate and gave them to his parents. Billy raised his camera and took a photo. She'd have to ask him for a copy, nobody back home would believe it otherwise.

"Shame about the grandma," Moore said to Janie. "Though honestly, mine all died when I was still a baby, so whatever." She opened Chaterhan's wallet. "Wow, that's a lot of cash," she said, and offered a handful of bills to Janie. In her hand was more money than Janie had earned in eleven years of working.

"Thanks, Sarge!" She counted it hesitantly. Some of the bills were so big, Janie couldn't believe that they were real. While Janie couldn't read, she did know her numbers. "You know, I've been working since I was six, and I don't think I've ever earned half as much." She placed the money in a secure inner pocket of her jacket and eyed the Chaterhans. Their jewelry looked expensive. Trying to mimic Moore's confident voice she said, "Hand me those earrings!" and hoped she didn't look too stupid craning her head to look them in the eyes.

Janie stared in awe as they obeyed. And this was the boss' boss' boss, the man they had all trembled in fear before without ever seeing? He looked like just another man, though in much better clothing.

Eventually, the rest of the squad arrived, together with some unfamiliar people. The two newbies were ordered to take Chaterhan to the jeep and guard him, a very angry lieutenant Janie didn't recognize demanded to be taken to Chaterhan senior at once and ran off in the accompaniment of a doctor, and the rest of them got half an hour to run around the house as much as they wanted. Janie already had the paper money, but since she had heard rumours that it would become useless soon, she raided the storage rooms like everyone else as Chaterhan's other relatives and servants cowered in the cellars. Out of her pockets came carefully folded bags, which she rushed to fill up.

Some children's clothes, for her little siblings and cousins. Jewelry could be sold on the black market or gifted to her family, though Janie only took very small pieces that could be discreetly carried in her pockets. Candy was always useful. Every Capitol house she had ever been in had food stashed away somewhere, as long as you knew where to look. In the kitchen, two soldiers were making scrambled eggs. Janie joined the queue. She had been living off rations and snacks for weeks now, she wanted something fresh. How had the Chaterhans even managed to have fresh vegetables during the assault? Janie didn't contemplate that question for long, instead gulping down the eggs and grabbing a set of cookpots off a shelf. Her grandma and grandpa deserved utensils that weren't held together with string.

Several minutes late, Janie stood at the main entrance. Chaterhan was sitting on the jeep next to the machine gun. From a distance it looked like he was lounging, but up close, he looked very sad. On the floor in the back, crates full of goodies were lashed into place. Janie sat down in the front this time, maneuvering the bags she was holding to be able to fit in. Grandma and Grandpa Ferguson had better appreciate the cookware, because it was a huge pain in the ass to carry around. Janie felt a bit stupid, walking around with her gun on one shoulder and a frying pan on the other.

"Where are you taking me?" Chaterhan asked Moore as she hopped into the driver's seat. He was seated awkwardly on the back, knees at head-level because of the crates.

Moore attached the GPS to her dashboard. "To be questioned," she said. "Your name's on the list of key criminals."

"What?" he asked. "That makes no sense. When did I ever commit a crime?"

Moore, who had defected from Five to Thirteen years ago, didn't answer. Neither did Janie. Neither did Will Tsang, whose entire family died in the firebombing of Twelve and who was now wedged against Chaterhan, and neither did Billy, who had worked in a cannery in Four.

"Is this seriously it?" Dad demanded in a resigned tone, looking at the rations in the bag.

Mom did not look up from putting the potatoes away. "Yes," she said simply.

It was cold in their apartment. There was no way to replace the windows, so the four of them were wearing their coats. Leon was mending a T-shirt, Dad was trying to cover up the windows with bits of newspaper and cardboard, and Marcellus was sweeping the floor. Rations had improved since the Rebellion had taken their neighbourhood, but not by much. The rumour mill claimed it would get better once foreigners set up their humanitarian aid. Shipments were already arriving, but the Capitol wasn't being prioritized. Leon should have expected that.

"This handful of soy, for four people?" He paused, holding the container in his hands. "Well, it could have been worse."

Marcellus looked up at that. "Oh, are you kidding me?" he snarled. "What do they want us to do - starve?"

Mom reached into the bag and took out several packets of extremely low-quality cream cheese, the little ones alcoholics snacked on. Since Mom and Dad did not drink, it would go on bread - and since it was made of who knew what, it did not need to be refrigerated, conveniently enough at a time when nobody had electricity. "We're not going to starve," she said in an absent tone.

"Come on, Mom-"

"It's better than before," Dad said in an irritated tone. "You're the one who complained that rations before weren't enough to keep your strength up, which they weren't, for someone your age and size." Leon's small size meant that his caloric needs were lower - an advantage for once in his life. "So why are you upset when they have been raised?"

"I don't see you being happy," Marcellus shot back.

"I am not happy with being fed too little to live and too much to die. But I was even less happy when we had bombs falling on our heads and had to queue under sniper fire after working for fifteen hours. And that's not even getting into how unhappy I was when I had to listen to you whining about everything under the sun and worry that the neighbours would denounce us all!"

"But Dad-"

Dad clenched his fist and punched a couch much torn up by shrapnel. Leon cringed, focusing on his sewing. "Marcellus," he said in a quiet voice, "learn to be grateful for what you have."

Marcellus stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "You always said that. Even when the NCIA could arrest you for complaining about the deficit of razor blades."

"Of course we did," Mom said in that inimitable calm certainty of hers. "What were we supposed to do? Encourage you to put your lives and the lives of your friends and coworkers at risk?"

"Well, maybe if you hadn't sat like mice under a broom, I could have been born in a free country-"

"-don't you remember how your friend went missing during the purge when you were thirteen-"

"-but that's precisely the issue!" Marcellus' face was red. Kashifa's disappearance had been the first time Leon had seen his brother speak against the government. "Why did this regime last for seventy-five years?"

Dad was swinging his fists uncontrollably now. Leon shrank back - the most Dad ever did was shake his fist under Marcellus' nose, but it was still frightening to see placid Dad explode. "Oh, so it's my fault now? I was a teenager during a purge, too!" That had been when Snow had come to power.

"All people like us can do is try to move with the current," Mom said, visibly upset. When she reached her breaking point she went to their bedroom and fumed for hours, and she seemed to be close to that point now as she put away the food with shaking hands.

"People like us tried to assassinate Snow!"

Oh God please not that. It was all over the ration queues that an ordinary Capitol worker had tried to kill Snow ten years back and failed. Somehow, everyone knew about it even though they didn't want to think about it.

Of course, Dad leapt into the air, pointing a trembling finger at Marcellus. "You think we should have killed you?" he shouted, jabbing him in the chest.

"Of course not-"

"Then why do you think we should have painted targets on your backs?"

Leon half-heartedly drew the needle in and out, attaching a patch to the inside of the collar, where the fabric had frayed. Cheap clothes weren't worth the hassle of mending them, but clothes were almost impossible to get now. Arguing with his brother also wasn't worth the hassle, either. Marcellus had gone out into the streets to greet the Rebellion soldiers, so he took any perceived disappointment to heart.

At least the bombardments were over - the fighting was by now only happening way downtown, tens of kilometres away from their neighbourhood. Snow was still holding on, but for Leon, the war was over. No more sirens screeching in the middle of the night - Leon knew that he would never take a fire alarm calmly as long as he lived. No more coming back home from the air-raid shelters wondering if the building would still be standing. No more sweeping rubble from the floors. No queueing at pumps for undrinkable water they had to boil right on the street over wood fires in the freezing cold - the problem with their pipe had been minor and quickly fixed.

No more NCIA operatives hanging alleged deserters from lampposts. No more midnight knocks. No more NCIA. No more Snow.

Marcellus wasn't willing to be satisfied with 'good enough'. Leon was. He could live, and that was all that mattered.

Antonius tried to assume a confident posture and not let on how terrified he was. He had known, of course, that nothing good would come of the Rebellion.

Knowing and understanding were two very different things. He sat next to the short photographer, feeling relieved that at least they hadn't touched Octavia and Achilleus.

Was that a frying pan in the hands of the young soldier sitting in the front? This wasn't an army, it was a horde of locusts intent on stealing everything it could get its hands on. "Where are you taking me?" he asked again.

This time, the driver answered. "Interrogation centre."

Interrogation centre. Antonius leaned back and draped an elbow over the door, feeling his heart lurch in his chest. The jeep hit a pothole, throwing him against his seatbelt. "Good to know. How long a drive is it?" He licked at his dry lips. His stomach felt as if he had swallowed a stone, and there was an odd tingling in his feet. So he would not be shot on the spot. He would be tortured before that.

That soldier with the frying pan had stolen the jewelry off him and Octavia. Antonius knew one could not expect much from District rabble, but it still chafed at him.

"Two hours," the driver said.

Two hours. Not that long. Antonius pulled his hat lower on his face and tried to arrange his legs more comfortably. The crates of stolen property took up half the jeep.

"Smile," the photographer said, and pressed the button. "You know, I used to work in a cannery owned by you."

"How nice," Antonius said blandly. "Surely you do not believe that I was aware of every single violation of workers' rights in Panem?"

The photographer shrugged. "Still, though, it was your factory."

"Day-to-day operations were handled by local managers and overseers," Antonius pointed out.

The driver snorted. "More of that divide-and-conquer bullshit," she said.

Antonius was suddenly hit by the sickening realization that he would never walk free again. The wind whipped at his face, threatening to blow his hat off. He wished he had given Octavia and Achilleus a better goodbye than 'I love you, I will see you soon'. Tears stung at his eyes as he thought of Grandma. He had always been her favourite grandchild, and now he'd never see her again. His last memory of Grandma would be of her sleeping in her bed, a shrunken figure who had been a robust elderly woman just a few months ago.

The jeep took a turn without slowing, throwing Antonius against the photographer, who clutched at his camera. "My apologies."

"No problem," the photographer said, fiddling with something on his camera.

Antonius swallowed several times, feeling ill. He did not want to die. He looked at the ground flying by and wondered what would happen if he jumped out. Most likely, he would die on impact. He sat back, knees propped against the driver's seat, and watched the scenery go by. He tried to appreciate the winter landscape, which suddenly seemed to be more beautiful than anything now that he knew he would never see it again. Trees flew by as the jeep sped down the dilapidated road.

Eventually, they reached a country house surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. The interrogation centre. Antonius felt like he would be sick. He knew how interrogations worked. He had no choice, though. When the jeep stopped, he climbed out, adjusting his hat. The photographer continued snapping away.

Someone emerged from the building. A man in his mid-to-late thirties, with dark skin, narrow eyes, and a lean build. He was shorter than Antonius, maybe a metre seventy and a bit to his metre eighty-five. "So that's the industrialist?" he asked in a gentler voice than Antonius had expected. "Come on, then."

On unsteady feet, Antonius followed the man. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Warden Vance to you."

Antonius knew he'd never be able to call someone 'warden', as if he was a common criminal. "I am-"

"I know exactly who you are."

Looking around, Antonius saw only guards and fences. Inside the building it was warmer, but there were even more guards. "One more for the boys' wing!" Vance told someone.

'Boys'? This Vance was at least five years younger than him. Antonius met the eyes of a young guard, who flinched and looked away.

"Now you," Vance told Antonius, "need to be registered. Then you can have lunch, and then we'll get interrogating. Alright?" He patted Antonius on the arm and walked off down the short corridor.

Antonius looked around. He was surrounded by soldiers in uniform. "Let's go," one of them said, a pale young man with dark eyes. Antonius followed him to a small room where two people in white coats, both men, were sitting at a table and writing. There was another table next to him. The door shut with a click behind him, and Antonius spun around to see that the soldier was gone.

"Get undressed," one of the men said, standing up and heading for a cupboard.

"What?" Antonius asked, tripping over the simple word. He stood frozen, acutely aware that he was alone in this small, warm room.

The man took out a box of gloves. He washed his hands before putting on a pair. "It's a simple search," he said. "No worse than a check-up at the doctor's office."

Antonius wanted to insist that there was a difference there, but his words failed him. He took off his hat and put it on the empty table. Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket.

"Oh, hurry up!" the other medic - Antonius assumed they were medics of some sort - snapped, causing Antonius to jump. "We don't have all day. Seriously. I'm sure you've had more unpleasant visits to the doctor, especially at your age."

Feeling his face heat up, Antonius tossed his jacket onto the table and leaned against the wall to take off his shoes. He was not even close to old - at forty-six, he was solidly in middle age - but did the medic really have to remind him that he was not what he had once been? With unsteady hands, Antonius took off his sweater and unbuttoned his shirt.

The medic at the table seemed to be glaring daggers at him, or was that just his imagination? Not meeting their eyes, Antonius took off the rest of his clothing and sat down on the table.

"Stand up and face me." The part of Antonius that was not burning with shame noticed that the medic's voice had no trace of emotion to it. Antonius reluctantly complied.

"Open your mouth."

Using a flashlight and a gloved hand, the medic poked around in Antonius' mouth. He then looked at every square millimetre of his skin as if performing a check-up on someone who was in remission from skin cancer.

As the search continued, Antonius was torn between humiliation and confusion. Did the medic really think he had managed to hide a weapon in his nose? How dare they treat him like some sort of criminal!

"Are you alright?" the medic asked, taking a step back. "You're shivering."

Antonius realized he was shaking. Feeling like his face was going to burn off, he shoved his hands under his armpits. Despite the fact that the room was barely warm, he was sweating as if it was the height of summer. "Just get it over with," he muttered, not recognizing his own voice. He wanted to cry.

"If you want, we can take a break," the medic suggested.

"Just get it over with!"

"Stand here." Antonius did as bid. "Now squat."

What an odd request. Antonius crouched down, acutely aware of the creaking in his knees.

"Turn your head to the side. Cough. Stand up. Bend over and put your hands on the table." Gritting his teeth, Antonius complied. "Relax," the medic said in a kindly voice.

The medic had lied. How was this supposed to be just like a check-up? Antonius felt like a thing being poked and prodded. The feel of the medic's gloved hand made him squeeze his eyes shut, wishing he was anywhere else but there. This was horrible.

"Alright, we're done," the medic said cheerfully. "No contraband, no open sores or anything like that. Bit overweight, but that can be fixed easily enough." He took off his gloves and tossed them into a small lidded bin. "Don't get dressed just yet, that clothing's being confiscated."

"Why?" Antonius asked, not meeting his eyes. The other medic was scribbling away.

"Security risk. There could be contraband there. Stay right here, I'll be back." He walked out of a different door, closing it behind him. Antonius sagged against the wall, not bothering to try to cover himself. It was too late in any case.

"So," the second medic asked, "your name is Antonius Chaterhan?"

"Yes," Antonius said quietly.

The medic was young, in his late twenties or early thirties, and had a round face that made him look even younger. His skin was the colour of spoiled milk, but his eyes were dark-brown, as was his short hair. "Really, don't feel embarrassed. It's just a routine examination. Everyone who's important enough is subjected to a cavity search after being detained, so that they can't sneak in something to kill themselves with. We'd use scanners if we had any. We requested them ages ago because they're more reliable, but nothing so far."

Antonius said nothing. He felt like a bug crawling on the ground.

The older medic barreled back into the room, pile of clothing in his arms. "Here you go," he said. "You can get dressed." He put the clothes on the table and went to sit down at his own desk.

When he saw the clothing, Antonius could only sigh. A plaid shirt, denim trousers, and shoddy running shoes with velcro strips. At least the underwear was normal. He got dressed, feeling the rough material against his skin. He had always dressed better than that.

"Alright, now why don't you come with me? We'll get you a haircut, and then we'll get you formally registered."

The haircut turned out to consist of a soldier using a set of clippers to shave his hair into virtual nonexistence. His careful hairstyle - gone, and anyone could see now how much of his hair was missing. Antonius wondered if he would live long enough for his roots to start showing. Given that they were actually registering him instead of shooting him in a basement somewhere, he most likely would. As he sat on a stool, holding a board with his name and other information on it, the situation hit him like a mountain.

"Look at the camera."

The camera clicked. Antonius Chaterhan, getting his mugshot taken. What a disgrace.

After that, he was taken to eat lunch.

"Uh, Warden Vance, I need to use the bathroom." Antonius wondered where the strength in his voice had gone.

"Of course."

It turned out that he wouldn't even be allowed to urinate in privacy. Antonius wondered if he had reached rock bottom yet. The guard had a completely expressionless face. Maybe he was used to it already.

To add insult to further insult, the water was cold, and the soap - rough. Antonius washed his hands under the gaze of the guard before being led back to the room where Vance was sitting at a small table. There was a tray on the table. Some sort of vegetable mush, rice porridge, and an unidentifiable bar, as well as a cup of water. It all tasted terribly bland, aside from the bar, which had no taste whatsoever and the texture of paper besides. The water, of course, was plain water.

There was a knock on the door. "Is he ready?" a feminine voice asked.

"Yes," Vance replied, standing up. He opened the door and motioned to two people, one of whom was holding a laptop. Antonius stared at the bag one of them was holding, wondering what sort of torture devices were in there. "Don't tire him out too much, you two. You've got plenty of time."

Antonius realized his hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists and put them in his lap. The two people sat down. They were a man and a woman around his age, or maybe a little bit older. The man opened up his laptop and turned it on.

"Good day," the woman said in a completely emotionless voice. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time. Understanding each of these rights, do you now wish to speak without a lawyer being present?"

This was a trick, and a bad one at that. "Yes," Antonius said reluctantly. There could be anything at all in that bag.

"Are you well?"

What kind of a question was that? "Yes."

"Let us begin, then. Name?"

Of course, they'd start easy. "Antonius Chaterhan."

"Date of birth?"

"November ninth, 30."

"For how long have you had sole control of the Steelworks?"

"Two years."

"For how long have you been involved with the running of the Steelworks?"

"Twenty-four years."

"Why did your grandmother, Alexandra Chaterhan, pick you to inherit?"

"She was very traditional in that way. Eldest child inherits, second pursues a career in a different field, the rest get married off. My older uncle became a judge and my younger uncle married a deputy minister, but my mother had no interest in running a business. For the longest time, my grandmother held out hope my mother would reconsider and agree to take over, but once I started showing interest in how the company worked as a young teen, she decided to pick me as heir. My mother approved."

The interrogator continued in that vein, trying to determine what policies and decisions Antonius could be held accountable for. Eventually, she nodded and reached into her bag. Antonius flinched back, heart hammering. Had this been just the warm-up? Would they start torturing him now? Feeling sick to his stomach, he watched the interrogator take out...a large sheet of grid paper.

Antonius tried to speak, but his voice failed him. The interrogator then took out a pencil case. "You will draw us a diagram of the hierarchy of the Steelworks," she said, smoothing out the sheet of paper and handing him a pencil.

"Of course," Antonius croaked. Dizzy with relief, he took the pencil and began to write. As he sketched out the structure of the Steelworks leadership, he noticed that a paper clip was lying just centimetres from his elbow. Impulsively, he carefully moved his elbow so that it was concealed. The interrogator did not notice.

A/N: Paramedic-midwife stations are a real thing in Russian towns deemed too small for a real hospital. They are usually understaffed, dilapidated, and hardly better equipped than the station Janie saw that had - the luxury! - heart medicine. 'Brilliant-green' is a dye, a dilute alcohol solution of which is used as an antiseptic in post-Soviet countries. Brilliant-green is the actual name of the dye and the antiseptic is usually called something like 'greenie' (for lack of a better translation), but I thought the full term would be at least somewhat less confusing to the reader.

And don't feel too happy for the Capitolian workers who eat sausage - it's a) not something they eat every day and b) you don't want to know what it's made from.

Antonius looks somewhat like this in his mugshot, though he's darker and would probably be taken for Middle Eastern in our world (apologies about FFN eating the link): https dot slash slash de dot wikipedia dot org/wiki/Alfried_Krupp_von_Bohlen_und_Halbach#/media/Datei:Alfried_Krupp_von_Bohlen_und_Halbach_1946 dot jpg

And the scene with him sitting on top of the jeep is a direct nod at this photo: https dot slash slash www dot icp dot org/browse/archive/objects/alfried-krupp-head-of-the-great-armament-plant-at-essen-being-taken-in-by

(any other similarities between Antonius and that guy are very deliberate)

At a 'metre seventy and a bit' (173 cm, actually), Stephen would be of average height in the USA today. The metre eighty-five Antonius would be in the 88th percentile in the USA today, and he towers over the soldiers who arrested him, who are stunted due to chronic malnourishment.