"Good day," Miroslav said to Bright, trying to ignore the radio. Don't Lock Me Away was blaring out to the entire corridor again.

"Good day." Bright was sitting at her table and writing a letter. She stood up now and yielded her chair to him. "How are you doing?"

That morning, he had managed to avoid binge-eating at breakfast despite being alone. That was not something one said to a patient unless that could help them. "Fine." The recorder in his pocket was on. "Are you writing to your family?"

"I am."

"Who exactly are you writing to?"

"My parents." Bright had chosen to re-enlist for a second tour to chase after that coveted promotion. She had planned on retiring once it was over, which would have been just three years from now. "My cousin is getting married. She says she wishes I could be there."

The other four former Peacekeepers he had talked to - Lux, Best, Thread, and Verdant - had been the same. Verdant and Thread had been from Two and the others - from the Capitol, but they had all been unwilling to talk about anything other than their families. The only partial exception had been Verdant worrying what his family was thinking about his suicide attempt.

"How old is your cousin?"

"Forty-nine." Bright picked an invisible piece of lint from the perfectly smooth blanket. Vance had nothing but praise for her, because her standards of cleanliness were as obsessive as his and she never complained about anything. Her military colleagues lost a few points in Vance's estimation for loudly disparaging the entire idea of putting them on trial.

"Has she been married before?"

A flicker of a smile passed over Bright's normally blank face before she was back to looking like a puppet being held up by a single string. And puppet she was, in her own estimation of herself - Miroslav had read her files, and it was clear that she had never made an independent decision in her life and was perfectly fine with that. The manual she had lived by her entire life contained a clear instruction to not follow criminal orders, but her instructors had told her that rules could be broken when necessary and that she should listen to her commanders instead. Obey some rules and ignore others - the paradoxical mindset of the Peacekeepers.

"No," Bright said.

"I'm sure her parents are thrilled." Had Miroslav made his parents wait for so long before finally getting married, they'd probably have invited the entirety of Thirteen to the wedding. As it was, they had limited themselves to inviting half. Rody's parents had invited the other half.

Bright nodded, as if they were discussing something serious. "They're asking me if I'm going to find someone once I get out. I don't have the heart to tell them I'm going to hang." She tapped her fingers against her knee, the only outward sign of the emotions she was feeling. "Is there perhaps a chance I'll be shot, instead of hanged? Shooting can be painless, but hanging is such a slow death."

That revealed a lot about her familiarity with such methods of execution. 'Can' be painless, because when it was being done by a half-drunk soldier, the bullet could end up absolutely anywhere. And Bright thought hanging was slow because she was used to the rope being put on the neck of a person standing on the ground before being hoisted up.

Miroslav wondered absently if any psychologist would have been able to accustom themselves to such patients or if there was something different about him.

"Not at all," Miroslav said. "The long-drop is perhaps the most painless method of execution." He paused. "You are sure you will die?"

Bright nodded, hands now lying still by her sides. "It's going to be a show trial," she said confidently. "I'm not sure why it's taking so long, though. My family thinks the trial will be fair, but I know they're just deluding themselves."

After another half hour of Bright talking about her family, it was time for Miroslav to go talk to her fellow former Head, Thread. Miroslav paused to give a song suggestion to the guard, who nodded and scrolled through the list before selecting the right one. Sometimes, the guards listened to the radio and sometimes - to pre-recorded music.

As the first notes began to play, Miroslav paused to collect his thoughts. Romulus Thread, fifty-eight years old, from a village in rural Two. He had a twin brother, appropriately named Remus, an older brother, and a younger sister. Parents dead of semi-natural causes - life was hard and short for the poor. No spouse or children, of course, no active-duty Peacekeeper was allowed that. Best was a widower and had had two children who had both also joined up and died during the Rebellion, but he had been well-connected and stationed in the Capitol.

Thread's favoured excuse was that of military necessity in keeping the peace and preventing another Dark Days. One hundred hostages shot for a Peacekeeper killed? Military necessity. Whipping ten-year-old children for stealing a few stalks of rice? Military necessity. There was one chink in his armour, though, which was why Miroslav had requested that specific song. It had not been played yet, and Miroslav would politely ask that it be played with some regularity.

Thread was standing in the middle of his cell and stretching when Miroslav walked in. They exchanged a few pleasantries, Miroslav carefully keeping an ear on the lyrics blasting in from the corridor. Some overly creative soul had translated the song from its original language. It had started a scandal, due to the perspective the lyrics were written from.

Genocide? Who will drag me to court?

There's no crime if you do not get caught!

Thread's face twitched slightly.

"Is the music too loud?" Miroslav asked. "I can ask them to turn it down."

"This is an insult," Thread declared, as he did on the regular.

"Should I have them turn it down?"

"Please," Thread snapped.

Miroslav knocked on the door. When the guard appeared, he asked for the song to be changed - and played at a lower volume.

The door shut again. The music changed. "You seemed to have a strong reaction to that," Miroslav prompted.

"I had no idea what was going to happen," Thread said in a softer tone, eyes downcast. "When that hovercraft came to take us away, I didn't - couldn't - know what they were going to do."

"What did you think was going to happen?"

Thread ran a hand over his partially bald head. "I assumed that we were needed elsewhere, and that a skeleton crew would be able to manage Twelve. I passed on instructions to flee if the power went out, assuming a case of sabotage and uprisings the handful of Peacekeepers would not be able to deal with."

"You must have been shocked when you found out the truth."

"As much as anyone else in the country." He paused, fighting with himself. "In hindsight, I should have realized something was up," he eventually admitted. "There was no reason to remove almost the entire garrison. If someone else needed more troops, they would have asked for the reserves, or even call-ups. Not our microscopic garrison."

A good first step. But would he take another?

The formal part of the meeting over, it was time for the informal chit-chat Raymond was convinced was helping the judges become a better collective. The judges were being forced to solve problems the solutions to which were usually taken for granted, and the strain was already starting to show.

They still had no billet. Admin was swearing up and down that they had found a place and were working on making it habitable, but none of the judges knew as much as the address. Dora was currently staying on a futon in an empty office in the Justice Building. The short commute was welcome, not having a proper place to live - not so much. The defense counsel were flooding them with demands that should never have had cause to be written in the first place, and it angered Dora that such simple things were a Herculean task in this trial.

"Last night," Sean was complaining, "some kids threw rocks at the neighbours' window, so I couldn't sleep." Dora was suddenly glad for her own sleeping arrangements.

Raymond chuckled. "They always did that. I remember when I was a kid, we threw rocks at the window of someone who had told us off for something or other." He paused, face lengthening. "Once, someone was arrested because we had picked the wrong target. She was eight years old, and lucky her parents had been rich enough for bribes."

"To be honest," Rosa said, "that does not surprise me. Given how over-policed the Capitol was, I'm amazed anyone could get away with that sort of petty hooliganism."

That made Raymond chuckle harder. "You'd be amazed at what people could get away with if they toed the line when it came to important matters. I remember how I joined a student organization-"

"You?" Sean asked, shocked. Dora was also surprised. Raymond had never mentioned that before. Student organizations had been a thing in Ten, but she had stayed out of the movement, resulting in a much less prestigious posting once she graduated.

"I was."

Twelve curious faces focused on Raymond. Dora couldn't imagine him fighting someone with a sabre or his fists - student organizations had been famous for their ritualized violence. In her university, they had also had group fights. Once, one of those overprivileged rakehells had insulted Jack to her face, and she had been forced to fight him. Fortunately, he had been too drunk for his strength advantage to help him, which meant that Dora had been able to knock him out in one blow right in front of a very impressed Jack.

"These sorts of organizations were known as playgrounds for rich kids," Raymond began with the obvious, "so we had more leeway. We could get away with pretty much anything, as long as it wasn't actual political agitation. Breaking and entering, non-political vandalism, and so on." He paused and ran a hand over his face. "My year, after the pledges had their bouts - we used knives my year-" that explained the small scar on his face "-we were taken to a place where freight trains made a sharp turn and told to hop on."

"That was a capital offense!" Dora exclaimed. In her city, cases where someone was executed simply for travelling without a permit had been limited to times when the situation had been extremely tense, but in conjunction with political unreliability or any other kind of suspicious behaviour, it had been a much bigger risk.

Raymond spread out his hands. "Like I said, the rich and well-connected could afford to make mistakes the rest couldn't." That remark stung - the same applied to her, even if she had never needed to use that privilege. "We were told to consume a little bit of alcohol, for courage - it was measured in millilitres of vodka per kilogram, I think I was given something like half a shot - and taken to the tracks."

"And there I was thinking I was hot shit because I bought my hunting and fishing licenses and gun permit," Taylor muttered.

"I hope nobody died," Rose said with an expression of horrified fascination on her face.

"That, at least, we were spared." Raymond sighed. "I remember the first person to hop on was of a more lower-middle-class background. She had always been insecure about her status, so I remember wondering if this was part of her desire to show off. I also climbed on - in hindsight, I have no idea how I did it."

Dora struggled to imagine the even-keeled Raymond climbing onto a moving train.

"A few minutes later," Raymond continued, "there was another bend, and we hopped off. Someone sprained their ankle, but nothing more serious than that. The leaders of the organization invited us to a party, but then I remembered I had a test the next day."

Sometimes, friends or colleagues would tell Dora about their wild youth, and she would regret having missed out. This was not one of those moments. Dora felt intensely grateful to her past self for having never done anything more insane than asking out the courthouse janitor.

"Relatable," Cora sighed, clearly not of the same mindset as Dora. "How did that go?"

"That's not even the end of the story," Raymond said, suddenly acutely embarrassed. He glanced at Daniel, who was scribbling in his notebook. "I took the subway home. As I arrived at my station, I was beginning to feel unwell. It got worse from there."

"Your drink was spiked," Juan instantly said.

Raymond nodded. "There's nothing else it could have been. At first I thought I was simply sick, but by the time I was leaving the station, I knew I wouldn't be able to make it home. I had to cross a park and walk a little bit down a road, but I couldn't do it. My vision deteriorated - it was as if the lights were all off and the night was moonless, I could barely see." His hands tensed slightly around his pen. "The grass seemed to grow to my waist and become blue and glowing. I had to check the sign to make sure I was in the right place. I tried to stumble along. The nearest phone booth was as far away as my home. I began to worry I'd freeze to death, even though the night was warm." He paused. "And then someone grabbed me."

"Oh no," Juan said.

Raymond's calm front broke, and he ran a hand down his face. "I don't actually know what happened next. In my memory, they grab me. I've walked home at night so often there, and that's the one time I was ever attacked. I suppose they can sense weakness. I tried to fight them off with arms that felt like they had weights attached to them. Managed to take off their glasses and break them. They put on another pair, and I broke them, too. In my memory, this happens at least ten times."

"This is why I never drank at clubs," Moira muttered. In a louder voice, she said, "That's horrifying."

"I know." Raymond smiled weakly. "When I was found, I had hand-shaped bruises on my wrist, so I know I didn't hallucinate the entire thing. But how could I fight off anyone, even a very small person, when I couldn't stand upright? I had cuts on my fingers that made it possible that thing with the glasses did happen, albeit once, but I don't see how I could do it with my slowed movement time. Or maybe my movement time was fine, I just don't remember it right."

"What happened to you?" Juan asked.

"A few hours later, a jogger discovered me lying in the middle of the road. I was hospitalized. They did a test, found a popular date-rape drug in my system, and assumed I had been a victim of that. Especially since I had told my parents I was going out with friends."

Juan nodded. "I've dealt with plenty of cases like that." He paused. "What happened to the others?"

"Went to a party. With everything else they ended up consuming, I doubt they suspected anything." He sighed. "I never told anyone about this. I quit the organization after that and tried to forget the entire thing, so I have no idea if drugging people was normal for them or what had been the point of it."

"They could drug people and get away with it, but rural people could be executed over a missing sack of potatoes." An odd thing for Drexel to say - his previous judgments revealed him to have had zero sympathy for the lower classes.

Brutus took a piece of notepaper and began to fold it. "We always heard rumours about sexual violence as hazing in Peacekeeper academies," he said. A small box emerged from out of his fingers. "I'm curious myself to find out what really went on."

"If we don't agree on rules of procedure soon, we'll never find out anything," Rosa muttered rather hypocritically, as she was one of the biggest arguers. "Is the prosecution ever going to file an indictment?"

Raymond looked half-heartedly inside his notebook. "Any moment now," he said. He didn't need to look at his notebook for that. All of them were waiting for that moment to finally come.

Thumeka carefully studied the offerings on display, eventually settling on a simple glossy photograph of the Justice Building. Some of her fellow journalists were amassing sizable collections, but Thumeka wasn't as interested in autographed photographs of mass murderers.

After weeks of pressure, journalists were finally being allowed into the Justice Building, albeit for a guided tour by the jail warden. The secrecy so far made her doubt they would be told anything of use.

The building itself was surrounded by work crews. Thumeka had seen the frenetic activity in the various archives and documentation centres. An entire computerized database of all suspected criminals had been set up, making the task easier. Thumeka had gone through it. There were long lists of documents for some individuals and nothing but a name for others. Some were in custody, most were still at large. The appropriately named Operation Needle had been launched to find the proverbial needles in a haystack, with surprisingly impressive results, thanks to the existence of what had been supposed to be a database of everyone's DNA. In reality, of course, it had been patchier than that. Even in Zimbabwe there were people who managed to survive without any official ID, and in the agrarian Panem, it had been even easier to never have any contact with government bureaucracy.

Thumeka joined the little cluster of journalists on the front steps. The steps themselves were pockmarked with bullet holes, as were the walls. Stacks of sandbags looked like tree stumps, and all around were soldiers. A part of Thumeka always felt that jolt of strangeness when surrounded by uniforms. At home, she'd maybe see one soldier a month, on the public transit or walking down the street. But here, soldiers were everywhere. And they weren't just training and standing ready just in case, these were combat soldiers who had actually fought.

Were her experiences making her think that abroad was just one massive war? Thumeka still had moments when she couldn't believe that Panem of all places had had a civil war and was democratizing. Its southern areas were doing their best to feed the nation - the seasons here were inverted on top of being extreme - and even in the still-frozen north, preparation was being done. Being the daughter of office workers, Thumeka had no idea how that worked.

All over the country, factories were being rebuilt. Already, other countries were queueing up to trade, drawn by how cheap everything was in Panem, especially with the inflation. Thanks to seventy-five years of autarky, Panem produced everything from rice to ground glass to linen to dyes, and its massive size made it quite a lucrative area to expand to. The North American nations were especially glad to have a friendly neighbour now. And since industry and agriculture were rapidly modernizing, Panem could become an international giant of production in a decade or two.

Next to Thumeka, an MP stopped lounging and straightened out. Thumeka deliberately stayed standing as she normally did. She was a civilian, and a foreign one at that, she didn't need to bow and scrape before everyone with more impressive insignia than her. A worker with 'POW' written on her back passed by, carrying what seemed to be an entire log. Either someone with no home to return to or someone who wanted the security of working for the military government - everyone who wanted to had been able to leave, at least if they were being held in cities. There was a massive argument going on over whether it was legal to keep prisoners around so that they could bring in the harvest.

Here, however, there were still prisoners scurrying around. The woman with the log cringed slightly and stepped sideways as a lieutenant of the military police stood in front of the gathered journalists. He was of average height, slender, dark-skinned, and with epicanthic folds. "Good morning," he said in a gentle tone. "This is the first time I allow journalists into my jail, so forgive me for any misunderstandings."

"Of course," one of the journalists, a man Thumeka vaguely knew was from Thailand, said. Everyone moved around so much, it was impossible to get to know anyone.

"Excellent." Lieutenant Stephen Vance had been an interrogator before, that much, Thumeka knew. There were some bosses that were like that - gentle, but with an implied threat that one better not mess up or there would be consequences. Those were the most nerve-wracking people to work for. Thumeka would jump out of her skin trying to please such a boss, childishly afraid of incurring their disfavour and desperate for their approval. "Now, as you can see, we are sparing no expense when it comes to security. We cannot afford to take rumours lightly."

Rumours still flew about various fanatic groups still keeping up the fight. The Death Squad (talked about in the singular despite there having been plenty of covert-murder units) was named most often. Every time an unexploded grenade or the like was found, they were blamed.

After being shown the defenses, Vance led them inside the building. Electricians were installing cables, carpenters were fixing the walls and ceiling, and two people in suits seemed to be deep in discussion about something. "Now," Vance said, "I cannot allow you to disturb our personnel at work. Let me see if two of our defense lawyers would perhaps be amenable to a brief interview."

Defense lawyers? Now that would be interesting. Thumeka moved her recorder from one hand to the other as the lawyers nodded at Vance and approached the journalists.

From how they were looking at each other, it was clear which one was in charge. The woman had her coily hair cut in almost a military style. She had dark skin, round eyes, and no legs below the knee. Her trousers were short and zipped up at the bottom to hide the stumps. "Hello," she said confidently. "I am Dr. Jessica Low, I am defending Publius Dovek in the upcoming trial of the so-called key-criminals. This is Dr. Cesario Alli, he will be defending Septimus Verdant in the same trial."

Alli had curly dark-brown hair sticking up in all directions, round eyes, and light skin. Thumeka wondered if he had neglected to comb his hair or if it did that on its own.

"Why did you take this job?" someone asked. Almost imperceptibly, Alli glanced at Low, clearly hoping she'd answer first, which she did.

"My client included my name on a short-list of potential lawyers he wanted. I was contacted and accepted."

"And you, Dr. Alli?"

Alli ran a hand through his hair, which made him look like he had been hit with electricity. "My house was destroyed in the fighting, I was homeless for weeks. The IDC tracked me down, offered me a job. It was an offer I could not refuse."

"Are you happy with your working conditions?" someone else asked. Thumeka thought of a question and put it aside to ask next.

"Very much so," Low said. "Every effort is being made to ensure that we are on an equal footing with the prosecution."

Thumeka cleared her throat. "Are you worried about whether the trial will be fair?" she asked.

Low sat back in her wheelchair with a deceptive ease. "My client's case is perfectly defensible," she said, even though Thumeka had no idea how anyone could draw that conclusion. "While Coin's trials did not do much to set one at ease, I am keeping up with the District and local trials, and am satisfied."

They wanted to ask more questions, but Vance then offered to take them to the jail, which made everyone forget about the lawyers. Eagerly, Thumeka followed, occasionally jotting down a description of something or other on her phone. Vance explained that he was going to take them to see the key criminals - now that would be quite a scoop! As they walked down the corridor, several soldiers paused to whisper or type something into those bracelets they used as walkie-talkies.

As they got closer, more and more guards were standing by the walls, looking solemn and serious. Doors made of metal bars were unlocked for them before shutting with a clang. And all of a sudden, they were standing in a short corridor.

The wing used to hold the key criminals was already quite small, but a false wall had been placed a distance away to make the first floor seem even smaller. When Thumeka looked up, she could see the other floors extending past the wall. A fine wire mesh was strung between the walkways, and the staircases were all locked. Despite the lack of access from one floor to the others, people were milling on the upper walkways. This had to be where the prison workers lived, going by the clothes.

At the entrance stood two NCOs, who merely nodded to Vance before continuing to look around the corridor as if expecting to see one of the key criminals burst out. Thumeka did a quick count - there were twenty-three guards at twenty-three cells, looking through slits in the doors. The last one was still in Thirteen, unable to be brought in because of a bureaucratic mix-up.

It was absolutely silent in the cell block. Everything was painted a uniform grey, except for the white armbands and helmets of the soldiers.

"Stay close to me," Vance said, and suddenly, Thumeka didn't feel like she was standing in a tomb anymore. "Do not talk to the criminals. You may see a few of them."

The journalists nodded their assent. A shame that no interviews could be taken, but this was already more than anything anyone had managed to get since the transfer of the detainees to Lodgepole.

First, they were allowed to peek into the closest cell, where an almost translucent man with a large brace on his leg was lying on his cot. A sign on the door proclaimed that this was Verdant, Alli's client. He didn't look particularly military, lying there with an arm over his eyes to block out the brightly shining lightbulb. But then again, nobody looked impressive behind bars. Thumeka had heard plenty of jokes and grumbled complaints once the mugshots had gotten out. Had the country really been ruled with an iron fist by this bunch of washrags?

Next up was Brack, who was sitting at her table and typing something on an electric typewriter. She didn't look up as Thumeka studied her cell. Despite having the same amount of things, it was messier than Verdant's. Absurdly, Thumeka suddenly wished for a room of her own. Maybe then the people sleeping above her wouldn't toss their things on her cot.

They got to see a few more of the prisoners before being politely ushered out by Vance. Thumeka made her way back to her billet, already planning what to write. The criminals of the old regime were being treated firmly but fairly, they were a group of shabby middle-aged and elderly people unlikely to inspire revanchism in anyone, and the world should look at Panem for a demonstration of how a dictatorship needed to be dismantled. Not something Thumeka could have ever imagined writing just a year ago, but it was nice that the world offered up a good surprise for a change.

A/N: The song Miroslav plays to unsettle Thread is 'We Burn' by Sabaton. The lyrics are fairly vague and can apply to many conflicts, but the song was written to be about the Srebrenica massacre. Which was ordered by Ratko Mladic. Who was, in fact, dragged to court in the end. Ha. In-universe, the song was written at a different time about a different person, of course.

The student fights the judges talk about are based on the Mensur, which is still a thing, though limited to some Central European frat boys. Since Panem has no gender roles, doing insane things to look tough isn't limited to half the population.

Low thinks that Dovek is defensible, but then again, Tojo's lawyer thought his case was perfectly defensible. A competent lawyer can defend anyone if they have to.