"Up!" The sound of the guard's voice made Antonius stir. He got to his feet, blanket falling off him. "Get dressed. You're being transferred."

Antonius put on his shoes with shaking hands. He had not heard anything about transfers. "May I ask where I am being taken?"

"No."

"Please?" He straightened out, trying to stop shivering. Horrific images danced through his mind, and he overanalyzed every little detail of the last interrogation. Had they gotten what they wanted from him? Were they going to take him out back and shoot him? The guards had said that he would get a trial, but had they lied to make him more pliable?

"No. Get over here." Antonius walked over reluctantly. What time was it? "On your knees." He knelt and stuck out his hands through the hole in the door so that the guard could cuff him. Antonius gulped as the door was opened and he was grabbed by the arm. Before he could utter a single word, a bag was placed over his head and he was being dragged down the corridor.

The corridor seemed never-ending. Antonius walked on unsteady legs, feeling like his feet would give out any second now. The guard's grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him upright. They walked up a flight of stairs and emerged into the yard. Antonius could smell the fresh air despite the bag. His hands were uncuffed and then cuffed again, this time in front of him.

"Inside." Antonius was shoved inside a van. He sat down on a stiff seat and a seatbelt was fastened for him. He sat in silence as more people were brought in, one by one. How many of them were there?

"Alright, then!" a young woman said. "Trip's two hours long, if you need to stop, call out. Let's get going!" She slammed the door shut. Antonius bent over and tried to shake the bag off his head, to no avail. It was thin enough to breathe through, but he still felt like he was suffocating.

Antonius wanted to scratch his head, but his hands were cuffed. He twisted this way and that, but he could not reach that part of his head with his shoulder. The van sped off, throwing him against the seatbelt. It was painful, but not as bad as being thrown onto the floor.

"So," someone said, "who do I have the pleasure of being in the company of?" Antonius recognized the voice. It was Dovek. Still acting more cheery than anyone had the right to be.

"Pleasure?" another man snarled. "How is this pleasurable?" Oldsmith. Another competitor for the title of second person in the country.

"It is certainly better than other options I could think of," Talvian said wryly. Antonius was glad that he had a bag on his head and nobody could see him gape. He had not known that the former head of the NCIA had been arrested. A sense of smugness temporarily replaced his terror - he had never liked her.

Dovek chuckled. "I defer to your expertise."

"The cuffs are too loose and the bag is easy to remove," Talvian complained. "I had to tighten the cuffs myself."

"What? Why?" Dovek sounded flabbergasted. Antonius moved around his hands, wondering how Talvian had managed to break free.

"None of these people know what they're doing. Half the time, I had to teach the interrogators how to do their jobs properly. It's a disgrace to have my captors unable to put on a pair of handcuffs properly!"

"The cuffs are too loose because you're the size of a wet rat," Dovek snarked. Despite the terror still gnawing at him, Antonius smiled. If this new world meant he could make jokes about Talvian to her face, that meant that it had to be worth something. "Now, does anyone have any idea where we're going?"

Silence.

"A clearing in the forest," an unfamiliar woman offered.

Talvian laughed out loud. "If they had wanted that, they'd have taken us individually. They had the ability to do so discreetly without warning the others. Say we're going to an interrogation and take us to a basement room instead. No, we're being transferred for real. Perhaps for trial."

That made Antonius relax a bit. If Talvian of all people thought they were not going to be shot, then they probably weren't going to be.

The van hit a pothole, throwing everyone in the air. Something hit the roof, followed by a pained hiss. Had someone hit their head? "This thing is too small," a man complained in a working-class accent. He must have been a veritable giant, because nobody else joined in.

More potholes followed before the van reached smooth pavement again. The van started and stopped, presumably at traffic lights.

"Let's have a round of introductions," Dovek said cheerfully, as if they were at a social gathering instead of inside a van with bags over their heads. Despite his antipathy for the backstabbing schemer, Antonius could not help but feel happy that they had him. "Everyone here knows me, right?"

"Yes," Antonius said dully.

Dovek laughed. "I need no introductions. Now, who is this person next to me? I believe I'm touching your leg with my foot."

"Have you lost your mind?" a man said with the barest hint of an accent Antonius could not place but had to be from Two. "We are being taken to who knows where, and you are making a joke out of it!" This was Lux, the Peacekeeper Commander in Chief. He and Dovek had not gotten along in the centre, and were clearly not doing so now.

"We've got to do something to fill up the time," Dovek said.

They went around in what was presumably a circle. There were twelve of them, seven men and five women. Two of them - Lux and Verdant - were from Two. All except for a man by the name of Krechet, the lower-class one who had hit his head, had been key figures in the government. Krechet introduced himself as the deputy commander of NCIA Squad 3214 - the Death Squad, Talvian's chain dogs.

Dovek tried to keep a conversation going, but most of them were in no mood to talk. Antonius' thoughts were taken up by worrying over where they were going.

"Hold on a second," Blatt, former Minister of Armaments, said. "We're in a compartment of our own. What if they turn on the poison gas?"

In some desperation, Dovek asked them what their favourite lanthanide was.

"What's a lanthanide?" Krechet asked.

Oldsmith began to insult Krechet, and Antonius tried to pretend Blatt had not said anything.

"Lay off him," Bright commanded. "I don't know what a lanthanide is, either."

"Neither do I," Verdant said icily.

Antonius was not sure what Oldsmith had against their lower-class neighbours. Why would a soldier need to know chemistry?

The van slowed and stopped, and the door opened. Were they there? The door in the back slid open..

"I knew we should have gotten larger bags!" the driver exclaimed. "How'd this one get free?" Antonius' bag was removed, and he had to close his eyes. Blinking against the sudden brightness, Antonius noted that he did not recognize an older broad-shouldered woman and a massive man around his age. This had to be Bright and Krechet. Antonius wondered where they had been held.

"With all due respect, sergeant, it was not particularly difficult."

The driver snorted. "You try it again, I'll show you what's what."

Antonius saw that Warden Vance was there and wanted to scream. The warden leaned into the van and unfastened several seatbelts, including that of Antonius. They hopped out onto the ground, looking around. They appeared to be, once again, in some kind of compound. Soldiers, fences, and barbed wire. Several soldiers ambled over, but straightened out when Warden Vance looked at them.

"Welcome to the Lodgepole Justice Building," Warden Vance said. "You will be staying here for the duration of your trial. For security reasons, you will live in a wing of your own."

Trial. So they would be tried for sure, not put up against the wall as soon as they outlived their use. Antonius licked at his dry lips and tried to think. When would he be given a lawyer? He had been promised one not too long ago. But why in the world would they be trying him? He had never committed a crime in his life! If this was going to be the sort of trial he knew it was going to be, why were they promising to give him a lawyer in the future? A person of his status who acted above their station was always immediately given a lawyer who pressured them to admit to everything.

Antonius seethed with indignation. What did they even want? Was there someone out there with designs on the Steelworks?

"I am the warden of the jail," continued Warden Vance. "I will be working together with Deputy Warden Tiller." A pale young woman stepped forward half a step. "Your day-to-day routine will be unchanged. If you have any complaints, address them to me or her." He looked at the group of guards. "Take them in."

"What a lovely welcome," Dovek said.

Warden Vance raised his eyebrows slightly, looking like a disappointed father. "Do you find the situation humourous?"

"I find it to be a lot of things."

Warden Vance appeared to be unimpressed. "Let's go."

Janie watched the first batch be brought in. The twelve were each handcuffed to a guard and didn't look particularly impressive. She recognized Chaterhan, who obviously didn't recognize her.

Her job would now be to watch the prisoners around the clock. There was a square flap in the door that could be raised to see better. Janie could see where the bars that had been there before had been removed. Leaning against the wall was a stick she would use to poke her charge awake if she turned over while sleeping or put her hands under her blanket. She had never heard of anything so crazy. Vance had apparently always been the paranoid sort, but now he had reached new heights.

The charge was a tall paunchy middle-aged woman who looked like a scientist or something. Even though the guards would rotate regularly, Janie was still curious who this was. She had heard tons of rumours, but nothing concrete.

The twelve prisoners were read the rules. They all looked completely freaked out. Then, Lieutenant Vance ordered the guards to unlock the doors, which they did. Janie closed the door, looked through the hole in the door, and realized that this was going to be the most boring assignment ever.

At least nobody was shooting at her.

Janie watched the woman inspect the stack of clothing on the cot. She put it away on the shelf and hooks on the wall. Not looking up, she began to undress. Feeling really weird, Janie looked away. Her neighbour, a young man, was looking at her. "This is awkward," he hissed. "I don't want to watch someone go to the bathroom."

"You don't have to." The prisoners did have a bit of privacy there.

"Still!"

Janie wanted to reply, but the second batch was brought in then, so she had to look impressive. She'd have to stay here for two hours, watching every move the woman made. Then, she'd have an hour off. This would repeat four times, and then there would be twelve hours off. Every other day would be off. It had sounded like the best job ever, but now that she was watching someone lie in bed, it didn't seem so fun now.

Fortunately, Lieutenant Vance left soon. Unexpectedly, someone took out a radio and turned it on. A quick, fast melody poured into the corridor. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"What's that song called?" someone asked.

"'Don't Lock Me Away'. It's a new hit."

That was funny.

A few songs later, Second Lieutenant Tiller came back with a piece of chalk and went down the corridor writing everyone's names. Janie read them, marveling at the fact that the chalk squiggles made sense to her now. She was currently guarding Cotillion, whoever that was.

Cotillion was lying on the cot, eyes open, facing the door. "Who are you?" Janie asked.

"Ereza Cotillion."

The man next to her chuckled. "I thought we're not allowed to talk."

Janie ignored him. "No, I mean, why are you here?"

Cotillion sighed. "I was the director of the Institute of Genetic Research." She did look like a researcher, tall, flabby, and with a pair of thick glasses on her face. Her hair and clothes ruined the effect. In the movies, scientists had long hair pulled back in messy ponytails, puffs, or single braids, not buzz-cuts, and middle-class people didn't wear rags like these.

Janie wondered why seeing Cotillion in a jail cell didn't make her feel happy. Shouldn't she be celebrating that someone like that was in jail? But what was even the Institute of Genetic Research? And Cotillion looked so normal, it was hard to wrap her head around it all. The only thing Janie felt looking at her was envy. Cotillion was taller than Dad, Grandpa Ferguson and Grandpa Guerra, and all of Janie's uncles and male cousins, to say nothing of Ricky who was still waiting for his growth spurt to start - but among the engineers and clerks and lawyers back home, she'd have been a normal-sized woman.

The soldiers Stephen was stuck with were the most unprofessional lot he had ever had the displeasure of commanding. Combat veterans were all being demobilized, and the only people he could get were teenagers who couldn't take anything seriously. Gone were the semi-professional soldiers that he had commanded in the interrogation centre. All he had now were gangsters and kids who thought that this was all a game.

"This is completely unprofessional behaviour," he scolded one of the guards, a fourteen-year-old girl. "Is this really who you want to give your chocolate to?" It had been bad enough before, but there was now a flood of autographs appearing on the black market, acquired in exchange for coffee and treats.

The girl shrugged. "I wanted to buy my parents a present for their anniversary." She sounded to be near tears.

No matter how many memoranda Stephen wrote, there was no sign of the mass demobilization of the underage he was begging for. The powers that be thought it was enough that children were barred from combat. "Nevertheless, this is not only unprofessional, it is highly dangerous. You are guarding some of the worst criminals in the world. They want you to get your guard down so that they can use you for their own goals." He continued in that vein for a while, mostly appealing to the child's sense of shame. At that age, disgracing the uniform was the worst thing that could ever happen. Teenagers had an almost pathological desire to belong. "Do you understand?"

"Yes!"

"Dismissed."

She left, but was immediately replaced by a censor holding a stack of photographs. The prisoners were now allowed to write regular letters to their families and to keep photographs in their cells, which was a massive headache to deal with. "Are lies about the conditions here permissible?" the censor asked.

"Is it a lie or an exaggeration?"

The censor paused. All censors were completely new and inexperienced, as Thirteen had enjoyed freedom of speech and Stephen refused to hire anyone with experience in the big country, which meant that he had to do their job for them. "I suppose it is quite cold here," she conceded.

"Very well."

Stephen checked his watch. It was time to go check on the key criminals. He left his office and headed towards the wing. Before he was even in the cell block, he heard the sound of the radio blasting news, but when he arrived, everyone was watching the prisoners attentively and Dr. Shentop was discussing something with Dr. Sweetgale Mallow, the chief psychiatrist who had been working at the prison for a few weeks now. A bored POW orderly, who preferred to stay in captivity until he could contact his family in a village on the outskirts of the Capitol, was standing behind Dr. Shentop, holding a bag.

"How are the key criminals?" Stephen asked.

Dr. Shentop shrugged. "Same as before for the ones I've treated, same as their files for the others."

Dr. Mallow looked less happy. "Let's discuss in my office."

In the office the psychiatrist shared with the just-hired chief psychologist, Dr. Aurelius, Stephen sat down on an overstuffed chair as Dr. Mallow poked around some files.

"Toplak's getting worse - I assume it's the stress. Tell your soldiers to not wake her up in the middle of the night for petty nonsense like turning the wrong way. Sleep deprivation makes her mood issues worse."

"Mood issues? Isn't that what the medications are supposed to prevent?" Stephen was no expert on schizophrenia.

"She's on antipsychotics - they only prevent things like disordered thought and, well, psychotic episodes. Her mood issues have so far been handled with CBT, but if it gets worse, I will have to medicate it - and the injections she gets tend to react strangely with antidepressants."

Stephen hated dealing with the mental health experts. Their presence reminded him that, no matter how hard he tried, there were things he could not control. His only understanding of the human mind was what he had picked up on the job. "React strangely - how?"

"Strangely." Dr. Mallow spread out her hands. "It might cause anxiety, make her depression even worse, or possibly even send her into a psychotic episode, and given that she has been on the same antipsychotics for decades with no side effects, I am loath to try to put her on different ones. If you don't want to risk your defendant suffering from delusions and having to be severed from the trial, stop subjecting her to such harsh conditions."

"If they aren't kept on twenty-four-hour surveillance, there will be suicides."

Dr. Mallow shook her head. "Your guards are highly unprofessional. They will let down their guard for a minute or two, and that is all it would take for a desperate person."

"I asked them for better soldiers," Stephen explained, "but I only get the rejects. The better class of call-ups isn't sent here." If only his superiors could feel what he felt every single time contraband was found on his charges!

Dora beheld the office and tried not to fall over from shock. Next to her, Raymond was scratching his head, looking distinctly unimpressed. Having caved to pressure from his superiors, he was wearing his uniform. Dora hadn't known that he had seen combat and been wounded. The rest, even the veterans, were in civilian clothing.

"This is an insult," Drexel declared. "Not only is our billet not ready, but we have to meet in this garbage heap."

The judges would be meeting in a small, cramped room with broken windows halfheartedly boarded up against the March frigidity and rain. Half the lights weren't working, the walls were decorated with bullet holes, and the table wasn't big enough to seat everyone. There also weren't enough chairs.

"When is our billet going to be ready?" Rose asked Raymond. The two of them would have been the lightest packers if not for the single backpack Brutus was wearing. He had managed to beat even Thirteen efficiency. Dora was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her.

Raymond stepped into the office and sighed. "I was told that it's all ready."

"Evidently not," Cora snarked. "Unless they think we're going to sleep in this office."

Raymond took a cell phone from his pocket and called someone. The others left their suitcases and drifted around the room. Besides the dilapidated table and eight mismatched chairs, there was a half-empty set of shelves with some legal texts on it. The windows didn't open, which didn't matter given that most of them were broken, and the heating wasn't on. The floor was covered in dust and bits of wood and plaster.

The trip had been quite easy - Dora had hopped on a train and was in the Capitol the next day. She had met up with the others at the station, and they had set off for the Justice Building on a streetcar. This was only the second time Dora had ever left home, so she was trying to make the best of it. Jack, of course, had been inconsolable, the eldest probably hadn't even noticed, and Ashley was probably annoyed she couldn't show her endless videos from the International Space Station.

Raymond sighed and put his phone back in his pocket. They hadn't formally agreed on having him be the presiding judge, but he was the only one of them capable of taking initiative. The rest, even the Rebels, were still too cowed to openly speak up and make independent decisions. Dora was a little bit annoyed that Thirteen was practically taking over the entire trial, but she had no alternatives to offer, so she stayed silent.

"Alright, then," Raymond said. "Let's sit down and have a meeting."

"On what chairs?" Moira asked.

"Let's check in the other rooms."

Several minutes later, there were thirteen chairs around the table. Suitcases and bags shoved into one corner of the room, they sat down, still wearing their coats and hats against the cold.

"I forgot to tell you something," Daniel spoke up. "My wife got a cat while I was - away." He gulped. "He's a polydactyl, his name is Snowball."

"That's very sweet of her," Raymond said.

Daniel tried to smile. "I joked that she tried to replace me. He's a very ragged kitty, he's got no ears and he's got so many old injuries, he spends most of his time lying on a blanket on the couch. I spent so much time worrying my wife would reject me if I got out, and there she was acting like this was the perfect example of the male of the species."

"I love cats," Rosa said. "A few years ago, we ended up with two because both of my husbands-"

"What?" Rose asked, shocked. "You can have two husbands?"

Juan laughed. "Not legally, but you could have literally anything if you could afford the appropriate bribe - it's just that I'm not sure if you're the luckiest person out there, or the daftest." In Dora's experience, bribing registry clerks for as harmless a reason as a polycule was relatively rare - usually, it was people secretly marrying a lover to get them off their back, or even worse, marriage to someone who could not legally consent. There had been a city mayor in Dora's youth who had married a twelve-year-old, and everyone had known but done nothing. The child spouse ended up committing suicide aged twenty-three.

"So what happened with the cats?" Rose wanted to know.

"Both of my idiots thought to surprise the other two with a kitten for New Year's. You should have seen their faces!"

"Ah, so you've got them so well-drilled, they even think along the same lines," Drexel said.

"Honestly, they're amazing. They can be a bit dense sometimes, but they're amazing."

"Alright, then," Raymond said. "Let's settle down now. The first order of business, as per the Charter, is deciding who will preside at meetings."

Rosa chuckled, still in a good mood. "You're already presiding."

Raymond looked a little bit taken aback. "You're all fine with me presiding?"

Cora tapped her fingers against the pitted wood. "It isn't fair that Thirteen is taking up the entire limelight, but what else can we do?"

"Our Raymond's a defector, though," Juan spoke up. "Maybe that'll lessen the cries that this is all victors' justice."

Dora shook her head. "He left and came back wearing a Thirteen uniform. Hardly someone the average person can sympathize with." Even Jack's opinion of defectors was a complicated mix of envy and admiration and disdain for having taken the 'easy way out'.

Raymond looked extremely uncomfortable at the praise. "Well, then. Is everyone in favour of having me preside permanently?"

Dora raised her hand, as did everyone else.

"Thank you." He smiled slightly. "Now, another very important issue to deal with, given our number. There will be occasions when we disagree. How do you believe we should reach decisions?"

"Simple majority, no dissent outside of this room," Dora said immediately.

Taylor looked skeptical. "Simple majority? For a panel of thirteen? That wouldn't look very good, if a single vote can be so crucial. A majority of eight to five would be better. I agree, though, that no dissent can leave the room. Our Districts are already at each other's throats. We need to present a united front."

"A united front will make it look as if we are all colluding," Sean spoke up. "We need to at least acknowledge there's dissent. Say that we are having productive debates, or something of the sort."

"But give no details," Dora added. Such discussions had to be secret.

Raymond nodded, pulling his scarf down with a finger. "From the political side of things, acknowledge that there is disagreement, but from the legal side, all opinions and decisions are presented as unanimous. All in favour?" Everyone's hands went up. "Very good." They settled on a simple majority for decisions less easily, but still quickly.

"Well, that sounds good to me," Drexel said, teeth chattering. He was bundled up as if it was January and not mid-March. "I think we should make it a rule to talk to the press as little as possible. They'll twist anything." He paused. "But if we do, they'll make a big deal out of our silence. And if we have Raymond do all the speaking, it'll look suspicious to them."

"I'm sure we can handle an independent press," Brutus said confidently. "I've already become a dab hand in saying nothing they can twist into sensation."

Unexpectedly, Daniel raised his hand.

"Speak up, Daniel," Raymond said. "You don't have to raise your hand."

Daniel shrugged. "Is it okay if I take notes of meetings?" he asked. "Just for myself. I'll hide them so that nobody can find them." He still looked sickly, and was clearly in pain. Dora had read his decisions from the past month - it was as if he became a different person when taking a seat on the bench.

"Go right ahead." Raymond blew on his gloved hands. "Now, we were just talking about the press. I agree that we should say nothing about our conferences. Rose, you say nothing, but the rest of you - use your best judgement. I trust you."

Rose nodded.

"Next topic - this is officially a military tribunal, as it is run by the military government, but I'm the only one in uniform, and that's because I was guilted into it." Dora wondered why he was so open about that.

Moira scratched her head. "I never wore a uniform," she said. "Though I'm sure I can get one, if I have to."

"Please don't put me in uniform," Juan said. "It'll be an insult." Dora was in agreement with that.

"Unfortunately," Raymond said, "it is not as easy as that. I am a colonel, and I will be sitting in judgement over generals - to say nothing of the fact that most of the defendants are civilians. I assume the rest of you prefer to make your return to civilian life permanent?" Several nods. "You'll wear regular robes, then, while I'm stuck with this uniform." He looked down at himself and sighed. The uniform flattered him a great deal, though the overcoat he had over it spoiled the effect somewhat.

"I'm sure we have more important things to discuss than what to wear," Rosalinda said wearily. "What's next?"

"More procedural issues, I'm afraid."

Dora wondered when their billet would be ready.

Miroslav really hated his office. He shared it with Dr. Sweetgale Mallow, a psychiatrist from Eleven who headed her respective team. The two of them, as chiefs, had their own office, and they slept in a small room attached to it.

"I tell myself that it's better than before," Mallow said optimistically, looking out the boarded-up window at the destroyed city outside. She had the faintest trace of a very upper-class Eleven accent, which only a tiny handful of prisoners had been able to pick up on, much to their discomfiture. In her family, which had managed one of the country's biggest latifundia, becoming a doctor had been considered a step down on the societal ladder - an attitude Miroslav struggled to understand.

"At least there's that."

There was a pile of papers on Mallow's desk, through which she was leafing. "What do you think of the plan?" she asked.

When they had met, Mallow had immediately presented her plan - record every conversation they had with the key criminals and use that material to write a book about them. Miroslav had asked for a few days to think about it. "I'm still not comfortable with recording them against their will," he said.

Mallow raised her eyebrows. "Do you really think they will ever find out?"

"No," Miroslav conceded. "But it's the principle of the thing." So far, he had only had a few brief visits to a couple of them, who had requested a session with him - the others were still making do with other psychologists on Miroslav's staff. Toplak was extremely worried about her schizophrenia, Coll was on the verge of a breakdown and missed his children, and Dovek had just wanted to harangue him about why the trial would not be fair.

Miroslav still wasn't used to the idea of having a staff. He had been picked for the job because he had dealt with sensitive issues such as the treatment of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, even though he had been chosen for those tasks precisely because of his specialization in adolescents, and also because he was Panem's only internationally published psychologist. Mallow had fallen into the job almost by accident - she had worked in military hospitals, then in a POW camp, and then in a detention centre.

Of course, he still had his usual jobs. He worked with incarcerated teenagers at the juvenile jail and also at the eating disorders clinic where he went for therapy, as if having the disease himself made him an expert in it. And he still hadn't been replaced as Everdeen's psychologist even though he had lost count of how often he had resigned. Talking on the phone once a week was not enough - and that was if she picked up the phone.

And on top of that, he needed to call his family. Rody was furious with him for not having called Biljana for over a month now, and she was in the right there. His wife was in Two and just as overloaded as him, but she managed to call somehow.

Miroslav sank onto a low broken-down couch. "I have too many things to do already," he said.

"All you have to do is put aside your notes and record those who don't want you to take notes," Mallow said. "We'll do the writing later, once the trial is over."

"I guess," Miroslav conceded. What he really wanted to do was go home, but he couldn't leave when he had patients counting on him.

Mallow nodded jerkily. "Alright. I got some notes from a couple of psychologists who have worked with our key criminals. You want to look?"

"Of course," Miroslav said. "What kind of notes?"

"Fragmentary bits on their backgrounds and mental health status. I edited them down into little introductions."

'Fragmentary' turned out to be an understatement.

Publius Dovek, 61 years old. Parents were a senator and a homemaker. Studied political science in university, joined Ministry of Internal Affairs aged 22, became Minister aged 51. Married, four adult children. Infamous for having stuck his fingers into every pie, being a ruthless schemer, and horribly ostentatious outfits. Seems to treat everything like a game - I suspect that he views our humaneness and eagerness for due process as a sign of weakness and thinks he can scheme his way out of the trial. Since he has made it so far in such a high position, I believe he is very unlikely to fall into despair.

Menares Oldsmith, 60 years old. Parents were landowners. After finishing highschool, went to work for his parents before joining the Ministry of Resources aged 26. Met Snow shortly afterward and became his assistant, carrying the proverbial suitcase. Never had any official position but has been alternately described as a secretary and an advisor. Married, no children. Never particularly well-known and likes it that way. Considers this to be a political trial like any other; while he is very upset and angry, he thinks he understands what will happen next. Once he realizes how different this is from what he is used to, he may either become very optimistic or very pessimistic.

Marcia Bright, 59 years old. Parents were factory workers. Enlisted at age 17 after failing highschool exams, did well enough at Academy to attend military college. Spent a year in rural Seven before being moved to urban Eight and climbing the career ladder via the connections she made in college. Began second tour aged 42. Appointed Head Peacekeeper aged 51. Started out depressed over inability to contact family, but it went away once contact was established. If I have to hear her say 'orders are orders' one more time, I'll punch a wall.

Alan Lux, 65 years old. Parents were an ex-Peacekeeper railroad worker and a homemaker. Enlisted at 12, military college, cultivated connections that allowed him to join first the Head Peacekeeper's staff in One, and then be posted to Command. Appointed C-in-C aged 61. He has no idea what's going on. He's no stranger to intrigues and sham trials, and he's outraged, because he thinks he did nothing anyone else wasn't doing. Used to military discipline, which helps him cope with the stress of incarceration. Diagnosed with anxiety at 14, he has been on the same medications for the past eight years and they seem to work well.

Ereza Cotillion, 57 years old. Parents were a physics professor and a homemaker. Studied biology in university, worked as an unpaid intern at the IGR during summers and while in grad school and got a paid position there aged 24. Worked her way into favour with the higher-ups, resulting in Snow appointing her director after her predecessor's early retirement; she was 50. Married, six adult children. Thinks she just did her job. Claims she surrendered out of a desire to get it over with. Currently, she is recovering from a depressive episode.

Rhea Blatt, 58 years old. Parents were a Congressperson and a homemaker. Finished a degree in political science with mediocre grades and got a government job through parental connections, eventually becoming Minister of Armaments aged 45. Married, no children. Unknown in broader society, but within narrow circles, she had the reputation of a schemer - she often appeared at meetings where she had no official reason to be. Constantly insists to everyone that she has no idea why she's been arrested.

Septimius Verdant, 54 years old. Parents were itinerant farmworkers. Enlisted at 12, became a naval cadet, and was posted as a submarine officer. At 29, took up a position in the staff, moving up the ranks and becoming Coast Guard commander at 43 thanks to personal connections with his higher-ups, including Best. Attempted suicide to avoid being captured, leaping out a third-floor window and hitting a tree, which saved his life. He narrowly avoided needing his leg amputated, and the constant pain lowers his quality of life considerably and leaves him constantly upset and irritable. See appended file for the painkillers he is on and their effects on his mental health.

Caius Best, 76 years old. Parents were officers. Enlisted at 12, military college, staff posting. Established Coast Guard as independent branch at 52 and commanded it until retirement at 65. Widower, both of his children died in the fighting. Does not appear to care about anything, convinced that this will be a sham trial immediately followed by executions and seems to be fine with the prospect.

John Krechet, 46 years old. Parents were a janitor and a factory worker. Enlisted at 12, sent for additional NCIA training at 19, joined a death squad the following year. At 32, promoted to deputy commander of the just-formed Squad 3214. Married, three children (one adult, two minors). Is probably the most obscure of the defendants and is aware of it. Currently in a depressed state, often cries and asks for his family.

Cecelia Talvian, 52 years old. Parents were a Ministry of State Security officer and a homemaker. Went to work in MSS and later NCIA using family connections; at 38, engineered her predecessor's fall and took their place. Married, four children (two adults, two minors). Assumes that this is just another purge and follows that script. Tries to unnerve guards by cold-reading them, I suspect she knows she will be executed and uses our perceived softness as an opportunity to have some fun before the end.

Antonius Chaterhan, 46 years old. Heir to the Chaterhan industrial dynasty. Has worked in the conglomerate since the age of 24. Married, one minor child. Swings between confidence that he will be released and thinking he will be executed.

Donna Blues, 36 years old. Parents were a civil engineer and a homemaker. Studied civil engineering, used university connections to join the 'Hunger Games' industry, promoted to Head Engineer aged 29 due to intrigues taking all other candidates out of contention. Married, five minor children. Thinks that she might have a chance if she plays all her cards right, but generally voices pessimism.

Quintus Lark, 53 years old. Parents were a midlevel Ministry of Information functionary and a homemaker. Studied journalism, was a news anchor for some time before getting his own show. 'Panem in the Evening' as we unfortunately know it began as a daily program when he was 44 - I can't believe he's only been loudmouthing for seven years, it feels more like seven eternities. Married, seven children (five adults, two minors). One-on-one, he is quiet and a good and meticulous debater, though prone to rants about victors' justice and the like.

Romulus Thread, 58 years old. Parents were a mechanic in a bicycle repair shop and an ex-Peacekeeper mailworker. Enlisted at 12, military college, further officers' training, deployed aged 26 to Eleven as a lieutenant. Rose through the ranks on strength of college connections, becoming Head Peacekeeper aged 51. Reassigned to Twelve aged 56 after an intrigue to get himself moved to Command backfired, later took command in Ten. Was morose about having been captured at the beginning, is now angry about what he considers his upcoming execution.

Simon Ledge, 58 years old. Parents were a senator and a homemaker. Dropped out of university but still got a position in a municipal administration, eventually switching to the Ministry of Finance and becoming minister at 53. Married, two adult children. Was very heavily rumoured to have been involved in the trafficking of underage 'Hunger Games' survivors, but if it was so, there is no proof beyond rumour. Does not mind too much accusations of corruption and nepotism, which he considers normal, but accusations of rape or crimes against humanity produce outrage.

Charlotte Brack, 66 years old. Parents were a senior partner in a major law firm and a homemaker. Interned with a senator who was close to Snow and avoided the backlash when he was quietly pensioned off, allowing her to gain in power and eventually become deputy minister of education. Married, three adult children. Retreated from intrigues as she got older but chose not to retire to one of her many palatial cottages. Thinks this is just one more intrigue she can muddle through.

Prima Dijksterhuis, 63 years old. Parents were a municipal mayor and a homemaker. Studied economics at university, worked in an unpaid internship in the Ministry of Economics during the summers, and got a low-ranked position after graduating. Minister at 58. Married, four children (three adults, one minor). Deeply depressed, convinced she will be executed and thinks it highly unfair. A very unenthusiastic interrogatee, she answers mostly in monosyllables.

Alexander Pollman, 67 years old. Parents were an officer and a homemaker. Worked for a family friend, a businessperson, from 18 to 31, then moved into government and received a high position in the Ministry of District Affairs. Deputy minister at 51. Married, six adult children. Constantly feuded over who had the authority where, but always careful to not overreach. Never appeared in public. Resigned to what he thinks is yet another purge.

Livonia Toplak, 60 years old. Parents were landowners. Volunteered with 'Hunger Games' industry since adolescence, worked in it during and after university and became deputy head of the 'Training Centre' at 49, though that was more of a cover for the extent of her 'Hunger Games' - related activities. Married, five adult children. Has had schizophrenia since adolescence, has been on medications for over forty years with only small pauses shortly after onset and at 25; she went into psychosis and the medication was resumed. She receives biannual shots and does not experience any side effects. Does not currently exhibit any symptoms or maladaptations, though she does appear to be depressed. See appended file for a full medical history.

Diana Kirji, 57 years old. Parents were a midlevel 'Hunger Games' functionary and a homemaker. Used family connections to get a job in the industry after highschool, became head of the department of 'Victors' Affairs' at 43. Was a public figure for the first few years but then disappeared from the televisions after a fight with the Ministry of Information. Married, three adult children. Is surprised at not having been strung up from the nearest lamp-post and is convinces this means she'll be able to wriggle out.

Carolus Lee, 52 years old. Parents were a Congressperson and a homemaker. Took on minor administrative posts after university, appointed head doctor of a hospital despite not being a doctor, and rose up the ranks of the Ministry of Health, becoming minister aged 48. Married, five children (two adults, two minors). A constant on television but put on an air of modesty despite his yachts and cottages, resulting in him being little known by name.

Theodosius Coll, 36 years old. Parents were a senator and a homemaker. Joined Ministry of Resources out of university, picked as minister aged 29 due to the previous two ministers having both turned out to be major disappointments for Snow, so he decided to pick a pliable puppet. Married, six minor children. Constantly asks after his children and, of all the defendants, is closest to expressing some form of remorse, brought on by the atrocity films in the detention centre.

Aquila Grass, 60 years old. Parents were a town councillor and a homemaker. Got a position with her town's administration immediately out of law school on family connections, impressed higher-ups in the Capitol proper enough to enter the Ministry of Justice and become minister aged 55. Married, two adult children. Extremely cynical about the law and takes all of our promises as cheap propaganda.

Irma Slice, 45 years old. Parents were an elementary-school substitute teacher and a construction worker. Studied journalism, got a position with a TV channel and eventually got her own show aged 39. Parallel to that, climbed the ranks of the Ministry of Information and became deputy minister aged 40. Not married. She is not a typical televised screamer - her official image was that of a friend chatting with you and she is quiet and does not start conflicts. She was a highly skilled schemer, avoiding letting anyone know about her family background, but I recommend having her tested for ASD because many of her behavioural patterns are indicative of the disorder in the highest.

Miroslav tossed aside the paper. "And this is it?" he asked. "I need their medical histories, their evaluations, not when they were promoted to what position and how many kids they have." Though knowing their backgrounds would certainly help in determining what had influenced them as youths.

Mallow looked up from her computer and shrugged. "We'll have to evaluate all of them in any case. Don't worry, testing Slice and dealing with Toplak will be on me."

Miroslav decided to call Biljana. Sometimes, he procrastinated family by means of work, but sometimes, he felt a strong desire to do it the other way around.

A/N: Bright and Verdant do know what a lanthanide is, as they did well in chemistry classes in military school. Despite having made good use of the country's only social elevator, they still feel solidarity with someone like Krechet and refuse to see him humiliated by some overprivileged landowner's spawn.

Did you notice any patterns in the biographies of the defendants? I included many of them deliberately, but I wonder if there's any I did not intend.

Fun fact - Krechet (кречет) is Russian for 'gyrfalcon'. I did not intend to do this and only found out what it means last month, so I must have read it in a Russian source, forgotten about it, and then subconsciously recalled it as a cool-sounding name. Gyrfalcons were historically used for hunting, so I guess I accidentally gave Krechet an apt name - the hunter's trained falcon.

As for Toplak's schizophrenia - I am by no means knowledgeable in the field, so please point out errors if you are. Basically, after several instances in her late adolescence where she experienced psychosis after stopping taking medications, a decision was made to have her take them long-term. She takes antipsychotics in the form of depot injections out of convenience. According to Wikipedia, "A 3-year trial following persons receiving maintenance therapy after an acute psychotic episode found that 33% obtained long-lasting symptom reduction, 13% achieved remission, and only 27% experienced satisfactory quality of life." Toplak was that 13% and 27%, so when going off the medications resulted in a psychotic episode, her psychiatrist decided to keep her on them as long as possible. I actually don't know if 40 years of antipsychotics with no side effects are within the realm of the imaginable, so if not, just presume that they've become better by the twenty-fourth century :)