A/N: The draft of this chapter was written a year ago and I have done some edits in the meanwhile, but I was unable to do a proper final polish because I have COVID (don't worry, I'm fully vaccinated so it's not that bad), so forgive me if the chapter seems rough. My brain is too foggy to tell if there's something wrong.
There were twenty-four names in the list handed to Stephen. Twenty-three of them he had by now - many had been shuffled from facility to facility, being interrogated by various interest groups - but the last one was in Thirteen for some reason.
Stephen looked around the cell, checking to see if there was anything there that could be used for suicide purposes. The windows were made of bulletproof glass and had been fixed to open ten centimetres to allow the detained some fresh air. Stephen stepped onto the cot, opened the window, and stuck out his hand. It met mosquito netting, which had also been installed on his orders. He took his hand out and lowered the window. Nothing to loop a shirt or a strip of bedding through. Beyond the netting were solid metal bars, far away enough for even the longest hands to not be able to reach.
Stepping down from the cot, which was currently only a metal frame and a mattress, he carefully inspected the walls, which were made of pitted concrete he had had cleaned. All shelves and hooks had been removed and there were no visible pipes. Good. He had asked for extremely flimsy tables not even the smallest of them would be able to stand on. That was just caution, though, as there was nothing to reach. The ceiling was bare, and the lightbulb was worked into the ceiling. Stephen used a small ladder to reach up and touch it. The high-efficiency bulb wasn't even warm to the touch and it was hard to tell where the lightbulb ended and where the ceiling began, the socket had been so carefully made.
All in all, the jail attached to the Lodgepole Justice Building would suffice. It was crueler than Stephen would have liked - no fresh air in the Capitol summer would have been deadly to the elderly - but overall, there were not too many alterations that had to be done on the building itself. The real difference would be the day-to-day regime of the detainees as they awaited trial. Prime Minister Nereida Bensoussan was busy keeping the country from falling apart, leaving Irons to handle preparations for what they all were calling the 'major' trial and Stephen - in charge of the defendants.
"What are your impressions, sir?" Blossom Tiller asked. The pale second lieutenant from Eleven had been assigned to be his deputy. They had met just an hour ago, and Stephen's impressions so far were positive. While she knew nothing about managing prisons and prisoners, she was eager to do a good job and listened to him attentively.
"The cells themselves are satisfactory."
Tiller nodded contemplatively. "What about poison?" she asked.
That was another reason why Stephen was satisfied with his deputy. She did not try to solve problems she did not understand and asked good questions. "Regular searches and rotating guards," he replied. "The defendants should not be able to form relationships with their jailers. And I will impress on all of the guards the importance of the task. A suicide would be a great boon to loyalists of all stripes, and I know none of them want that."
"Some strange person ambushed me in the corridor and told me that a suicide will lead to an immediate discreditation of the trial."
One of these days, Stephen would throttle the historians. "Pale skin, dark eyes, black curly hair, androgynous presentation?" Tiller nodded. "They're doing it to everyone. They and two of their colleagues. They're the only real experts on pre-Cataclysm transitional justice in the country, so they think they can run around and tell everyone why they need to read about some obscure European conflict right now this instant."
Tiller chuckled. "I can't believe they grew up in Thirteen. I thought being cheery was forbidden there. Or maybe that historian provided enough cheer for everyone else."
Stephen smiled slightly to indicate that he was amused before scolding his deputy. "On duty, you must not tell jokes or act in a friendly manner. That is not your task. We have mental health experts for that, and doubtlessly some of the interrogators use such a technique. We, however, are the wardens, and we must always be aloof and professional."
"Don't we need them to trust us?"
Stephen shook his head. "By no means should they be afraid of telling us they are feeling unwell, but we should not act in a way that makes them want to talk to us. In a few days, it will be the two of us managing the entire prison." So far, a few people Stephen had worked with before were doing it. None of them were good desk workers.
Tiller looked anxious. "The place is already half-full, and I can't keep track of anything."
"Which is why we must keep a distance. We're not getting enough people for a proper hierarchy. Each cell block will have a chief guard, who will report to us." There were four cell blocks - one for witnesses who were themselves detained, two for male and female 'lesser' criminals, and one for the key criminals, who needed to be as separated from the others as physically possible. "We'll have desk workers to deal with finances and the like, but everything that concerns the prison as a whole will be dealt with by you and I." Tiller looked even more anxious. "Don't worry. I will teach you everything."
"Of course, sir." She looked around the cell. "Are there no shelves for belongings?"
That was something he went back and forth on - anything made of wood could be broken and the splinters used for suicide. Stephen looked at the sink/toilet that was placed in the corner in a way that would let the person have some privacy. There was a little bit of space on the sink - enough for soap and a toothbrush and the like. But what about clothing? "We'll have to get some hooks and shelves for clothes. Too messy otherwise. Now, let's continue the tour."
Next, he went to inspect the showers. It was a relatively large room, but too many at once would be impossible to handle. "How many at once do you think should go for the key criminals?" he asked Tiller, interested in hearing what she had to say.
Tiller scratched her head. "How many guards will be available?"
"You decide."
"Six at once," she eventually said. "One of us present at all times, and two or three guards besides. I think that strikes a good balance between efficiency and security, especially since they'll have to be searched." She shuddered.
"We won't have the time to always be present," Stephen reminded her. "We've got the rest to worry about, too." There were little cages for containers of liquid soap. Good. That would make it impossible to break the bottles. Key criminals were an ingenious lot, though, always hamstering away this or that. If it got too bad, he'd replace it with small bars of soap - which also had its uses.
Tiller nodded. "I suppose. How often will they get to wash?"
"Same as now. They'll wash out of their sinks every day, and have a proper shower once a week."
"They're not going to be happy."
"They're not here to be happy."
"Hello," Miroslav said, taking the second lieutenant's offered hand. "You asked to see me?"
Tiller nodded absently. They were sitting in one of the meeting rooms, Miroslav having turned the recording devices off. Tiller was currently hanging around Warden Vance and learning the ropes. At the moment, though, she was sitting at a table, looking anxious. "Are you allowed to give me advice?"
"I don't see why not." Miroslav had arrived at the detention centre for a meeting with Vance, but he was early due to Tiller's request. Hopefully she wouldn't try to ask him about when he thought the inflation would end. Several of his patients wanted reassurance from him, as if he could predict to what depths the dollar would sink tomorrow.
"Alright, then." Tiller took off her helmet and spun it in her hands. "You know, I never thought that I'd ever wear something like this. I always wore this giant straw hat. It had holes in it."
Miroslav never understood why some of his colleagues disliked it when their patients started off by rambling about their lives. For him, it was a delight to have these stories shared with him. Every story was unique in some way. "Did you work in agriculture?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"You must have been very scared of sunburn," Miroslav said sympathetically. Tiller was very pale, with round dark eyes and dark-brown hair cut too short to tell if it had been curly before.
"My parents were." Tiller put the helmet on the table in front of her. "We lived on a massive plantation. Cauliflower and peas. I thought that nothing existed except cauliflower, peas, and the sun." She sat back in her chair, staring at nothing. "It burned. I'm so much lighter than my parents, they didn't realize how dangerous the sun was for me. It was like an abusive parent - necessary for me to exist, but so cruel." She paused.
"An excellent analogy."
Tiller shrugged. "I guess. I was four years old when I started going out into the fields. I was lucky - the managers were generous, they paid me from the first day. I burned so badly, my exposed skin blistered. My parents had to go out and buy salve from the local amateur doctors. After that, my parents made me wear this giant floppy hat and cover up so that only my hands, face, and feet were seen. Funny thing is, I actually tan very easily when I get a reasonable amount of sunlight. My parents were overcautious. Not like they could be blamed, though. Skin cancer was a major killer on the plantation, and having little melanin increases the risk."
"There must have been many deaths from it," Miroslav said.
Tiller nodded. "Two of my grandparents died from it before I was born. The family couldn't afford treatment and they died."
Her story could serve as indictment for countless people - and there were millions with stories like hers. "Terrible," Miroslav said sympathetically.
"You know the crazy thing?" Tiller asked. "The owner of those plantations is here. In the centre. I never even saw her before, she was the far-off semi-deity we dictated letters to asking her to fire the cruel manager, and now I have power over her. She's wearing some sort of castoffs, and I have a nice uniform." She ran a hand down the jacket.
"To each their own," Miroslav said with a smile.
Tiller didn't smile. "Why didn't Thirteen do anything earlier?" she asked. "We knocked them on their asses in half a year, that's got to be some kind of record."
"We did do something," Miroslav reminded her. "We accepted defectors, gathered intelligence, sent support to local rebel cells. We couldn't try to attack until we knew for certain that all of the Districts would rise up. A handful of berries in the hand of a teenager was not the catalyst we expected, but you seized the initiative so well, we just had to tell those local activists 'we're with you' and you did the rest."
"I guess," Tiller conceded.
"Hello?" a shy male voice said from outside the door. "I think you asked to see me."
"Come in," Stephen said, unsure of who this was. If this was one of the historians, he'd be tossed on his behind.
The man who came in, however, was not the dark-haired historian Stephen had been dreading seeing. Instead, it was an attractive pale man with wavy dark-brown hair streaked with grey that reached his earlobes and round dark eyes. He looked to be around Stephen's age. "I'm the psychologist," he explained. "You said you'd need one."
"That I do," Stephen said, smiling. "Please, do sit down. We have so much to discuss." The man did so. "First, though, could you please introduce yourself?"
"Of course. I'm Miroslav Aurelius. Born and raised in Thirteen, only left it once before the Rebellion, to go to Iqaluit."
"Iqaluit?"
Dr. Aurelius nodded. "It was for a conference," he explained, words tumbling out faster than he could pronounce them. "A discussion about the unique psychological challenges young refugees face. Since Thirteen both accepted refugees from the rest of Panem and sent refugees north, I was able to provide a unique perspective." He pouted slightly. "Though the higher-ups were worried it'd provoke Snow. I never got to leave again. In any case," he said, suddenly excitable again, "it was an amazing conference. There's just so many people out there. What I had grown up seeing as normal was viewed with shock and awe by the others. News crews from all over the world were there to listen to my presentation. And I learned so much! I even found a few pen-pals. We still correspond. Did you know that-"
"I am glad you are so passionate for your job," Stephen said, cutting him off before the psychologist could go on a full-on rant. "Have you read the brief I left for you?" Dr. Aurelius was an expert on adolescents, but given the sensitive tasks he had carried out so far, Stephen had requested him to take over the key criminals full-time. A psychiatrist, Dr. Sweetgale Mallow from Eleven, was already working with the lesser criminals in the prison.
"Of course. When are we going to move into the jail?"
Stephen fought to keep his face from showing his shock. "You're going to move into the jail?"
"Aren't you?"
"That is different - I will need to constantly be on call." He would be bringing in his people from the detention centre - those who weren't being demobbed, that is - and he had requested more. Stephen had no illusions about whom he was going to get. Undisciplined adolescents who belonged in a classroom, not in a uniform. He had point-blank demanded that all of his guards be of age, and still they were pushing on him war orphans, as if his unit was an orphanage - and as if his job was watching after children, not guarding the worst criminals in the country. He'd need to stay close, so that none of them wandered off or got into trouble. STD rates were already through the roof, and the armed forces had implemented a policy of mandatory HIV tests every month so that it could be caught while still curable - Stephen had little enthusiasm for leaping headfirst into the mess. "For you, Doctor, there will be billets nearby."
Dr. Aurelius shook his head. "I want to stay close to my charges. What if there is an emergency?"
"I certainly cannot discourage dedication," Stephen said. "Did you put in for a two-room office?"
"Yes."
The Lodgepole Justice Building was a flurry of construction. The ordinary criminals jailed there had been removed - and what a headache it had been to get the trucks necessary to transport them - and the regime's criminals and witnesses were being brought in. "What did you think of the jail rules I have drawn up?" Stephen hadn't realized how many paths to suicide he had left open until he had read that excellent book that historian had given him. When the prisoners slept, they would have their hands visible at all times. The risk of them hamstering away something sharp and then slitting their wrists was too high. His centre had had no suicides so far, and he was intent on keeping that trend going.
Dr. Aurelius nodded absent-mindedly. "I read them. Your current rules are strict enough, but a total ban on talking?"
"I can't always be monitoring them," Stephen explained, "and I won't have them colluding to decide on what lie to tell."
"Isolation is terrible for mental health," the psychologist insisted, "and you let them talk in the yard!"
"Because there are too many of them to monitor," Stephen shot back. "The lesser criminals - fine. They can talk in the yard as much as they want. But the key criminals are a different matter. We cannot let them continue their schemes."
Dr. Aurelius linked his hands together and put them on the table. "What schemes?" he asked softly. "They are wrecks. They're suffering from depression. They're still convinced that they'll be taken out back and shot once you're done with them. They are only a danger to themselves now, and your anti-suicide precautions will serve only to send them into a suicidal despair."
"How so?" Stephen was used to sitting quietly and being insulted. Dr. Aurelius, unlike the people he had interrogated, was at least offering what he thought was helpful advice.
"The isolation, for one. Once they are indicted and the interrogations end, they will be all alone. It's good that they will be able to write to their families, but only one letter a week? And most of them do not have lawyers."
Stephen held up a hand. "That last part is not your responsibility." He had gotten the key criminals to ask for lawyers. Some had given specific names, others had helplessly asked for someone good.
"They have no idea what is going to happen to them and when," Dr. Aurelius insisted.
"Dr. Aurelius, you expect too much of me. None of us do."
The living room was a total mess. Rye stood next to a pile of clothing, trying to decide what to pack, as Mitch carefully wrapped the gifts in bits of old newspaper. Her thirteen-year-old son was not helped by his nine-year-old sister Flora, who was more interested in reading the newspapers.
"Are you sure the list is final?" Barrow, her husband, asked.
"More certain than I am that the trial will actually be over before autumn." Rye had a suitcase and backpack lying on the floor, the suitcase already partially full of items such as shirts and underwear. Of that, she'd need the same amount if the trial took two months or two years. Warmer clothing, though, was a bigger question. Would it make sense to bring a winter coat?
Rye decided to be overcautious and pack as if the trial would end in early winter. Where they lived was about as cold as the Capitol, according to the maps she had only gotten to see after the war had ended, so she put her winter coat and boots inside the suitcase. Even so, she could tell that most of the space would be taken up with gifts for the rest of the prosecution team, thanks to Barrow's hissing about how that was the polite thing to do. Barrow had managed to get a bottle of expensive alcohol for Rakesh, her boss. Her two fellow senior attorneys, Anna Goldfield and Anita Carver, would receive boxes of expensive food. The five associate counsel and the various secretaries and assistants would get various little things.
Rakesh Kantaria had been contacted almost immediately once an IDC branch had opened up in Nine. He and Rye had worked in the same Justice Building for years, and she had known about his ties to various Rebel groups. On top of that, he was simply a very good prosecutor. Rye had no idea why she had been picked - the most she had done for the Rebellion was to join a unit that had participated in brief street fighting once she realized which way the winds were blowing - but she trusted Rakesh. If he wanted her to be one of his two senior attorneys, then she'd go.
Anna Goldfield was in her sixties and had, together with her husband Husk, run a Rebel cell for half her life, scattering leaflets and the like. Rye could only envy her courage. Anita Carver was a small-town attorney with spinal muscular atrophy who, jokes about her parents having sold their souls for nusinersen aside, had spent her career turning the system against itself to get equal rights for people with disabilities not just for rich Capitolians, but in rural Nine as well. That medication was in fact among the most expensive ones in the world, and Rye wasn't going to ask how a small-town notary and stay-at-home parent had managed to come up with the money.
And then there was Rye. Her appointment still felt like an accident to her.
For weeks now, Rye had worked on gathering evidence from all over Nine. Gina Feng, one of the associates, had criss-crossed the entire District, an unenviable task with the railroads being what they were. The fighting in Nine had been horrifically bloody, so there was no shortage of evidence. Small farming villages had found themselves neighbouring killing fields - if they weren't the ones being killed there.
Rye took a wrapped box from Mitch and put it in the suitcase. She hadn't met any of her fellow prosecutors before aside from Rakesh and Anna. The official list only included the names of her, Anna, and Carver - associates and assistants were not listed. Rye could only imagine how annoyed they were.
"Is Billie going to come?" Flora asked, looking up from a bit of old newspaper.
"Of course," Rye said with more certainty than she felt. Billie was her eldest daughter, a nineteen-year-old who couldn't wait for the university to reopen. The University of Nine was many hours by train away, which meant that Billie had to live in the dorm. Billie was still living there, but she spent her time in reconstruction.
"When are you gonna be back?" Mitch asked, setting aside another box.
"I don't know. Hopefully before the New Year."
Mitch made a face. Rye had never left the town in his lifetime, so he was understandably anxious.
"Pity our parents didn't live long enough to see this," Barrow sighed, fidgeting with some paper.
Rye nearly choked. "Honey, they were loyalists. Don't you remember how your father would go on and on about how he wished he could have fought like his parents?"
Barrow smiled. "That's exactly why."
Rye amused herself with the mental image of her medal-laden grandmother exploding, but it rapidly stopped being funny after she gave it any thought. They had fought for what they had believed right. So had she, if crewing an AA gun for a few weeks counted. "I think they'd just be confused."
"Yeah," Mitch said. "I mean, just imagine it. They fought for a regime that ended up collapsing like a wet paper bag. Do you think they'd get why people stopped believing in it?"
"I suppose so," Barrow said. Mitch had no memory of any of his grandparents. "I know my grandfather, the one who was a lieutenant-colonel, was one of the signers of that anti-Games petition."
"Really?" Flora asked. "What happened to him?"
"Nothing." Flora's shock was the best indictment of the regime one could ask for. "By the time that protesting was forbidden, he had fallen into line for the sake of the family."
"So he didn't actually like the regime?"
Barrow sighed. "He loved it once he realized people like us weren't in any actual danger from the Reaping ball. To him, two farmhands a year were a small price to pay for stability."
Rye remembered her parents going on about stability. Well, they got McCollum's vaunted stability - they died in their fifties due to not being able to access the treatment they had needed.
A scratching at the door provided a welcome distraction. Rye went to see what it was about, and was not surprised to see a local dog, a bony though fluffy creature with the unlikely name Tiny, begging for treats even though he was fed at five different houses.
"Shoo," Rye said. Rations were pitiful, but everyone (a category that included Barrow) continued to feed stray cats and dogs as if they themselves weren't hungry.
"Woof," Tiny said, whining piteously as if he was on the verge of starvation.
"Oh, come on, Rye, give the poor doggy something to eat!"
"Poor doggy?" Rye demanded as Tiny rubbed against her legs. "Do you know how many people are already feeding him?"
"But he's hungry!"
"Woof," Tiny agreed, gazing at her with pleading eyes.
Rye wasn't going to have Barrow handing over their entire meat ration again. "Go on," she said, nudging Tiny with her foot. "Shoo. Aunt Georgina already feeds you enough for five dogs."
Tiny shot her a look of the purest betrayal and stalked off, tail drooping sadly.
"You need to stop feeding him," Rye admonished her husband as she closed the door.
"I can't listen to him crying," Barrow said, shaking his head. "He's hungry!"
"You wouldn't hand over our dinner to someone who came knocking on our door - how is that infernal creature any different?"
"You're cold-hearted," Barrow grumbled. This was not their first argument over Tiny, and it would not be their last.
"Yeah," Mitch said. "The poor doggy is hungry."
Why her family was all obsessed with that greedy monster who spent his time eating, sleeping, and begging for belly rubs was beyond Rye's understanding. She took the wrapped gifts from the floor and put them in the suitcase. The case materials had already been shipped to the Capitol. Rakesh was going berserk at not being able to join everyone else, but the boss was going even more berserk at the thought of having to make do without them.
In any case, Rye had heard that there weren't enough billets for everyone and the prosecutors were sleeping three to a bed. She was perfectly content to only have Barrow in her bed. Hopefully, by the time the Nine delegation finally arrived, the living conditions would be bearable.
The Lodgepole Justice Building was undergoing reconstruction, the military government swore up and down it would have enough billets for the prosecution within the week, preliminary drafts of the indictment were being written, Rakesh Kantaria was delaying coming to the Capitol as much as he could, the defendants were still in the detention centre (and in Thirteen, in the case of Slice), and the few lawyers that had been hired so far were demanding to see their clients.
Mary lay under the covers, wondering what time it was. It was dark outside, and she could just barely make out the silhouette of Reed sleeping next to her. Isabella's watch was tactile, but was it worth it to crawl out from under the warm covers and go look for it? Mary decided not to bother. She closed her eyes and curled up into a ball, thinking.
Mary was spending her days running a seemingly endless national conference, managing a large department, and, lastly, getting a case ready for trial. During the last meeting with the prosecutors, they had gotten distracted talking about what they should wear. Unwilling to put up with more nonsense, Mary said that the military people would wear dress uniforms and the civilians - suits, as was logical and expected. Reed, however, had spent far too much time trying to convince Mary that she, who was technically a soldier, should also wear a uniform.
Most Thirteeners didn't quite grasp the civilian-military divide - Mary's intuitive understanding was the result of many months of reading. They didn't grasp that an able adult could be a non-combatant. For this reason, a few of her colleagues didn't take crimes against adult civilians seriously. Logical, given the militarization of Thirteen, but a massive headache when they were the ones who were supposed to be prosecuting war crimes and crimes against humanity.
Interesting, that such a small thing as deciding what to wear could be a reflection of so much. But then again, Mary still found herself missing her Thirteen jumpsuit. It hadn't required ironing and it had been reassuring to be dressed the same way as everyone else. In the wider world, people were judged by how they dressed. A prosecutor could not turn up to a meeting wearing 'casual' clothes, and the clothes she had once worn to teach were now only fit for sleeping in.
The things Mary had to concern herself with instead of preparing for the trials. At least she had Joe to handle her mail and phone - if Mary had had to deal herself with all the death threats and complaints better suited for the local prosecutorial office, she wouldn't have had time to deal with anything else. Yesterday - or was it still today? - a former Peacekeeper had called in to complain about how in the city in northern Seven she had been stationed in, her colleagues had made a habit of grabbing random poor-looking people off the street, ostensibly for public disorder, and dumping them on the outskirts in the middle of winter to freeze to death. The ex-Peacekeeper's sincerely indignant tone had made Mary wonder about her sanity, but one of her former comrades-in-arms was, in fact, being considered for a spot in the dock at the Peacekeepers' Trial, albeit for the horrors he had perpetrated in a jail in the last five years. If he confessed to participating in this practice - he was the sort to admit to everything and call it justified - then for once, someone would be punished for the kind of crime that normally left nobody capable of testifying.
The former sergeant Ruqqaya Miller was willing to testify; she was one of those rare Peacekeepers who had started out indignant, remained, and did not either fall into line, retreat into paperwork, or become a jaded alcoholic. Others were willing to testify to save themselves. Still others were compliant to the point of saluting and saying 'Yes!' when told to inform on the people who had been their comrades and superiors not so long ago.
Mary's mind jumped to the opening statement she was slowly chipping away at. She had asked the three legal historians that appeared and disappeared like ghosts for three key phrases or ideas from similar trials, so as to establish continuity with the past and anchor it firmly in a series of similar processes. All three had been quite easy to include. Mary hadn't been planning on purple prose even without Dr. Lee.
The books the exuberant historians had given her had been a fascinating read, but it was the very ending of one that had stuck in her mind. Written mere years before the Cataclysm, it had unwittingly predicted the future, in a way.
It is in the broadest sense a political question whether nations prefer to have some objective body of law and an impartial institution to administer it or whether they prefer to settle disputes and fulfill their ambitions by force. Should they ever decide to submit themselves to law, and experiment with judicial proceedings, the nations would start with an advantage denied to those who set up the Tribunal at Nuremberg. They would have a precedent.
Mary wondered if Coin had read that book. She doubted it. Had the former president done so, she wouldn't have wanted show trials and another Hunger Games.
They would have a precedent.
Not a very good one - a world war and a civil war were very different things. But it was certainly better than nothing, and Mary felt a sudden burst of gratitude towards the people who had made it so she had something to look back at.
"Excuse me," the nurse said, "who are you?"
"Dr. Miroslav Aurelius," he replied, rubbing at his eyes. Miroslav felt like he was being worked into the ground.
The nurse looked confused. With how many doctors had left for the Districts, where the shortage was acute, everyone was being shuffled around until they didn't know where they would be tomorrow. "All right then, Dr. Aurelius," he said, pointing at the door. "Come on in."
A few weeks ago, he had been able to use his sessions with Everdeen to nap. Miroslav had offered his resignation at least five times, because his patient was not getting the counseling she needed, but it had not been accepted and his strength had been at an end. Now, he didn't even have that. Everdeen was back in Twelve, against his advice. Miroslav dreaded moving into Lodgepole. He'd break under the stress of yet another job.
The little group walked into the room and took their seat on the moderately comfortable chairs arranged in a circle. They were outpatients recovering from binge eating disorder, just like Miroslav.
He was the only adult in a group where the others were in their early twenties at most. Miroslav did have peers, but there weren't any in this group. The psychologist still hadn't arrived, so he asked everyone how their day was going. He knew the patients quite well - he had worked with a few from time to time. That was highly unprofessional, to be a doctor one day and a fellow patient the next. He would have to complain. There was a limit to everything.
The youths finished talking about how the past few days had been, and the doctor still wasn't there.
"Well," Miroslav said, "I've also been under a lot of stress lately-"
"Wait," one of the teens, a girl of fifteen, asked, "you're a patient?"
"The patients are running the hospital," Miroslav joked. "But no. I'm both."
"Convenient," another one, a boy of seventeen, muttered.
Miroslav looked at his watch. Still no doctor. "So," Miroslav said, "how about we take this into our own hands. I'll start. I have found that taking all my meals in the company of another person keeps me from overeating." He smiled at the youths. "Though, if you struggle with secret binges, I'm afraid that won't be too helpful."
After the session ended, Miroslav went up to the doctor approaching the room to complain. "This is highly unprofessional. Not only did you put me in a group with my own patients, the doctor didn't show up!"
The psychiatrist blinked. "I was told that I'd be going in after you."
"What?" It took Miroslav some time to gather his thoughts. "This was supposed to be my group therapy!"
The psychiatrist threw her hands in the air. "I will throttle Admin."
Miroslav didn't think that would help with the staffing shortages.
A/N: Nusinersen (sold under the brand name Spinraza) costs 125,000 USD per dose, and people with SMA require four annual doses. It halts the disease progression, but if your country doesn't pay for it, the only thing you can do is appeal to charities and philantropes. In Russia, for example, it's supposed to be free, but corruption and corner-cutting means that it, and other equally if not more expensive drugs that treat SMA (onasemnogene abeparvovec, aka Zolgensma, costs more than two million USD for the single dose required) are not available, and people have to resort to begging on the Internet for money.
Carver most likely has SMA 2, the intermediate form. Even without medication, she would have lived to adulthood, but with a shortened life expectancy. The medication she takes stops the disease from progressing, so she is basically frozen at the stage where she was as a child of 7-8, when her parents began to help the local Peacekeepers with their money-laundering operation. Her level of ability is roughly based off that of Aleksandr Gorbunov, a Russian youtuber - here is an article about him .
The book Mary reads is Ann and John Tusa's 'The Nuremberg Trial'. It was written in 1983, ten years before someone decided to 'experiment with judicial proceedings' and the ICTY was created. Generally, the impression I get is that the lessons of Nuremberg and Tokyo were not as well-learned as one could have hoped.
Ruqqaya Miller's indignation was caused by her buddies perpetrating something similar to the following: /wiki/Saskatoon_freezing_deaths. For decades, the Saskatoon police carried out a practice where they would grab First Nations people, often for no reason at all, and dump them on the outskirts, resulting in at least three deaths - Rodney Naistus (d. 2000), Lawrence Wegner (d. 2000), and Neil Stonechild (1973-1990), there may be more but I'm going off the sources cited in the article. The practice was known as 'starlight tours'. I can't help but wonder if racism was the main factor (i.e. let's grab a First Nations person because fuck them) or more subtle (i.e. we should grab someone who won't be able to make a fuss, so let's grab a First Nations person because nobody's going to care if they turn up to complain). I am also really curious to know why anyone would want to do this, the perpetrators must have been very aware of the fact that they had just abandoned someone to freeze as they drove away. Did they think that their victims would be able to make it back, and thus rationalize it as a harmless prank? Or was this more of a deliberate murder attempt? Or something in the middle, like 'haha let's see how he makes it back from here and who cares if he dies'? Unfortunately, nobody has ever admitted to perpetrating such a thing, so we don't know exactly why the killers did what they did and how they justify it to themselves.