"Aurelius! Wake up!"
Miroslav woke up from his nap, feeling slightly undead. "What is it?" he muttered, reaching for his glasses and putting them on. The world came into focus.
"I just finished the IQ tests." Mallow had been working on them for the past week or so.
"And?" Miroslav climbed off the couch, still groggy, and sat down at his computer. An empty document taunted him. He closed it.
Mallow sat down next to him and put a sheet of paper on the table. "All of them above average, some of them extremely above average."
That was putting it mildly. Talvian was in the ninety-ninth percentile. It was obvious that one needed to have a high level of mental acuity to command a secret police force and avoid getting backstabbed, but he had not expected such high results. The lowest score belonged to Krechet, who had the least education of them all - a highschool diploma, still quite an achievement by big-country standards. He was in the seventy-eighth percentile - and that after months in jail! "For a group of smart people, they sure were stupid," Miroslav mused out loud.
"That's what I thought. They were all smart enough to have known better." She looked back at the sheet. "It's interesting. Ordinary Peacekeepers are, well, ordinary. IQ of around 100. The higher you go, the smarter everyone gets. It's perfectly normal."
Miroslav looked at the ordered list, wondering what to make of it.
1. Talvian - 145
2. Dovek - 137
3. Oldsmith - 136
4. Brack - 135
5. Ledge - 134
6. Dijksterhuis - 134
7. Chaterhan - 132
8. Lark - 131
9. Grass - 130
10. Lee - 130
11. Blatt - 128
12. Coll - 127
13. Lux - 127
14. Verdant - 126
15. Blues - 125
16. Lee - 124
17. Toplak - 124
18. Slice - 123
19. Best - 121
20. Kirji - 120
21. Cotillion - 118
22. Bright - 118
23. Thread - 116
24. Krechet - 112
There did not appear to be any particular pattern to the results. Less education seemed to correlate with a lower IQ, but Cotillion had a PhD, which she had earned fairly as far as anyone knew, and she was close to the bottom of the list, albeit in the eighty-eighth percentile. Miroslav suspected that their familiarity with intrigue and backstabbing allowed them to maintain high mental acuity even under extreme stress, with these scores being the result.
"We're going to have to keep this under wraps," Mallow said. "I don't even want to imagine what journalists would do with this."
Miroslav nodded. "I didn't think Talvian would do so well. Or the other functionaries. I thought dealing with people is an entirely different set of skills."
Mallow glanced down at the paper. "The ability to think fast and be adaptable applies to many things."
Thinking fast and being adaptable. They'd need plenty of that when the trial began, given the documents the prosecution and defense were poring over now.
It was all over the jailhouse and beyond that the key criminals had high IQs, though how high was a mystery. Many of the guards were complaining about how unfair that was - having been chronically underfed and poorly educated, it seemed like even IQ tests were conspiring to make them inferior to the people they guarded.
Even Tiller was getting caught up in that. "I asked one of the psychiatrists to test me," she said as they sat in their office and did paperwork.
"And?"
"Seventy-five." She sounded upset by that.
"And so? You're doing a great job so far," Stephen reminded her. "IQ tests mostly measure the academic kind of intelligence, and frankly, I am surprised you didn't test higher, given how quickly you learned to read and write." In Thirteen with its universal education, people in that range were often slow learners in school and attended university disproportionately infrequently, though their day-to-day functioning was not impaired.
Tiller read through a complaint and tossed it into the recycling. "The psychiatrist told me the Peacekeepers get smarter the higher up the ranks you go."
"Well, of course. Officers are either well-educated or have demonstrated their ability to solve problems in the field." Of course, in the Peacekeepers, bribery and connections had been used to compensate for lack of both.
"But I can solve problems, too."
"You first sat in a classroom at the age of twenty-eight after having spent your life picking cauliflower while they began schooling in their mid-adolescence at the latest. Yes, there were adult volunteers who became officers, but the vast majority started out as cadets. And remember that a lack of education correlates with a low IQ."
Tiller nodded and said nothing, half-heartedly poking through a stack of paper. "The rank-and-file Peacekeepers are average, or so I've heard," she said suddenly. "You think I would have been like them had I been born in the Capitol, or Two?"
That was something Stephen had not given much thought to. For him, the answer was obvious - a resounding 'yes'. Of course, there was no way to know how much of his habits and character had been shaped by his experiences, but it seemed rather clear that in different circumstances, he could have been an NCIA torturer.
Unlike him, Tiller seemed to be troubled by the prospect. "Why are you so worried about what might have been?" Stephen asked.
"I just don't like the idea that I'm here and they're there because of where we were born," Tiller replied.
"There, but for the grace of God, go I," Stephen quoted. "And if you had been born in a different plantation, the task forces would have shot you not too long ago. Had you been born in a different country, you wouldn't have even paused to care about Panem."
"Still seems weird. As if it's just my luck."
"Just a year ago, it was your luck to be an illiterate tenant wearing a giant hat to protect yourself from the merciless sun," Stephen reminded her, "and it was their luck to go to your local stores and bars and take whatever they wanted."
Tiller chuckled and reached up to touch her helmet, the black letters on white glossy from the shellac. "I shouldn't have shown you that picture of me as a teenager."
"You saw that photo of me in basic, it was your right." Stephen could not believe that he had agonised over his appearance back then, thinking the other boys would find him ugly. Already at fourteen, he had been quite handsome. Where had the years gone?
"No, really," Tiller said, turning serious again. "It just doesn't seem fair."
Stephen spread out his hands. "It isn't. I've made my peace with it. All of us are advantaged in some ways and disadvantaged in others. Some are better off in general, others worse off. Is it fair? No. All we can do is try to make the world a more equitable place."
Tiller nodded silently for a few seconds. "Philosophic."
"Just another way I as a Thirteener was privileged. If I wanted, I could order books from the world's best academic libraries." He paused. "Though they would take a month or two to arrive. But that's a small price to pay for knowledge." Stephen wondered how high his IQ was. But did that really matter? He knew he was capable of doing his job, and that was all that mattered.
The phone rang. Eagerly, Thumeka dug it out of her pocket and pressed the screen. "Hey," she said, smile appearing on her face.
"Hey," Yemurai said through a yawn. Thumeka could hear the smile on her face. "How's life, sugar-stick? Haven't frozen yet?"
"Dear, it's the middle of spring here." Thumeka was reasonably certain that nobody else in the room spoke Xhosa, but she was still mindful of what she said. Nobody wanted to end up like Chief of Counsel Irons, blackmailed with their personal conversations. The press camp joked that the prosecution was lucky the blackmailer had gone after Irons instead of someone who was cheating on their spouse. They might have actually chosen to do as the blackmailer asked and withdraw from the trial or else be exposed.
Twice in the past week, Thumeka had been asked out by fellow journalists, who had joked that this was better than risky calls. She didn't think it was funny.
"Yeah, but you're too close to the pole." Yemurai sounded downcast about something.
"Is something wrong?" Thumeka asked, worried.
Yemurai sighed. "Not really. I just have really bad cramps, I'm out of painkillers, and I'm too lazy to get out of bed and go to the pharmacy."
"Oh no," Thumeka said sympathetically. "Wish I was there to be your heater." She lay down, staring at the bunk above her.
"Maybe you could distract me," Yemurai offered. "You never did tell me about that genetic institute."
She was right there. Seldom was a research centre more sinister than a prison. "Well, it was something," Thumeka said. "On the outside, it's like a giant university building a few kilometres from a small town. The town council is fifty percent farmers and fifty percent researchers - I don't want to imagine the debates over the budget."
Yemurai laughed. "And on the inside?"
"Most of it is underground," Thumeka explained. "Have you seen the photos?"
"Uh-huh."
"You can't see that from the outside. It's an entire warren." Thumeka paused, wondering what to say next. "It's chaotic right now. The section that deals with plants is still trying to continue despite the lack of resources, the animals department destroyed everything and scattered because they don't want to be associated with the Games, and the human department is- something."
"Is it really so bad?"
Thumeka hadn't known what to expect. One of the workers, a political prisoner who had had her tongue cut out in lieu of execution - why political prisoners had been placed in such sensitive jobs was beyond Thumeka's understanding - had offered to show her around. The place was like an overcrowded orphanage right now, with too many children and too few caregivers.
And like in any other orphanage, most of the kids had something wrong with them. The ratio was even worse than usual. The adult survivors of cruel experiments had long been released, and many of the abandoned children were being adopted. And yet, many were still stuck in the compound.
Thumeka had gotten to talk to some of the teenagers. One of them, a genetically modified human by the name of Dee, had talked to her while bouncing two toddlers on their knees. Dee had smooth skin where eyes should have been. They were bald, albino, and apparently also lacked external genitalia. Thumeka hadn't asked about that, but Dee had volunteered that information easily. The children on their knee were conjoined twins, given up by parents unable to care for them. Someone had been studying conjoined twins in the IGR.
"It's not a chamber of horrors or anything," Thumeka said, picturing the stark-white corridors and bright lights. "It's just an institution. Looks like a care facility, in fact. Even the torture chambers look neat and scientific."
There was an intake of breath on the other side. "They let you see the torture chambers?"
"I saw one," Thumeka explained. "They used it to test extreme temperatures on people. It looks like a bathroom in the house of someone with mobility issues. Bathtub with railings - perfectly normal." Standing in the ordinary room, Thumeka had been unable to stop wondering if someone had been boiled to death in that tub.
"That's really sad."
There were no words that could describe it accurately, so a simple statement like that was the closest. "It wasn't like this in England," Thumeka sighed. "That was a war, not- this."
"At least they're going on trial," Yemurai said softly.
Thumeka nodded, even though her wife couldn't see it. "I'm just worried about all of the inter-District tensions. I keep on imagining - what if the trial falls apart? That would be so much worse than if they handled it like all the other countries."
"Really?" Yemurai's voice became fainter before coming closer to the phone again. "They've already accomplished so much."
"If it falls apart now, everyone will nod to themselves, say that they knew it was all futile, and nobody will ever try anything of the sort again."
Yemurai hummed something. "I guess. Do you really think that's possible?"
From the conversations she'd had, Thumeka was fairly certain that despite what some people hoped, something truly major would have to happen. Unlike the government, the IDC was quite stable - a District government would have to withdraw from the IDC to topple it, which nobody was threatening to do. So far, they were solving border disputes and the like peacefully, letting the IDC do its job - and yet. And yet, tensions were trickling down more and more to lower levels, putting at risk the stability of the entire country.
"I don't know. It's hard to tell what's accurate and what's fearmongering. Though that's always an issue."
Someone came into the room, walking unsteadily towards her bunk - which was on the second tier. After the hundredth time that happened, Thumeka didn't stop to worry about her falling down and hitting her head. Instead, she narrated the blow-by-blow to Yemurai.
"...and she's made it," Thumeka declared, as if announcing a game-winning goal. "Oh, wow, I think she's asleep already."
Yemurai laughed out loud. "That's amazing. Oh, and by the way, your sister was over today. Yesterday. Whatever. She wants photographs."
"What kind?" Thumeka was emailing her family photographs as soon as she took them, with the exception of one she sent to only her wife. Thumeka had been to multiple war-zones and investigated dictatorships, but her parents would still clutch at their hearts if they saw that photo of her perched on top of a telephone pole whose wires had been long removed after breaking.
For Yemurai, though, Thumeka wanted to show off that she was capable of climbing a wide pole like that.
"She wants those signed photos of the key criminals," Yemurai said.
That would be a bit harder - she'd need to go buy the actual hard copy and send it by mail. "Any specific requests?"
"Whatever is cheaper."
"Is that what Zandile wants or what you want?"
Thumeka heard her wife rolling her eyes. "She specifically requested it."
"None of the key criminals' autographs are cheap, but I'll see what I can do. Any requests from you?"
"More of that sour candy you sent me last time. It's great."
Sometimes, it was as if days dragged on forever - and then Leon blinked and realized it was his day off again. He spent his morning with Nilofar, who had introduced him to two of her friends, who also worked in the documents department. Inge was his age and a former Capitol Rebel who had spent several years in prison, and Sebastian was a few years older and from Thirteen; he had come to the Capitol with the army and was still in uniform.
They had hit it off quite well. Leon was so starved for normal interaction with someone who wasn't his family, he was sitting on the couch in his living room and texting Sebastian. The other man seemed to be drawn to Leon for reasons he could not comprehend. Leon felt awkward about that, as he himself had hardly been in favour of any kind of rebellion, but if Sebastian was willing to talk to him, he wasn't going to pass up the chance.
"Is the soup boiling?" Mom asked. She was writing code and watching soccer simultaneously.
"I'll go check." Reluctantly, Leon heaved himself off the couch and went to the kitchen. "It's not!"
Back on the couch, the phone chimed as soon as he put his socked feet on the armrest. 'I like mangoes, but I only got to try them twice.'
There was something nerve-wracking about texting. Unable to see what Sebastian was doing, Leon had to hope that his new friend wouldn't suddenly have to leave. 'Good thing we've got the black market, haha. What's your favourite fruit?'
That was a hard question. Leon thought about it for a few seconds. 'Cherry-plums.'
'What's that?'
'They're like tiny yellow plums the size of a cherry. When I was in school, one of my friends' family had a cottage, and they had a few cherry-plum trees. We'd always get a giant bucket every July.' Leon wondered what Hailey was doing now. They had completely lost contact after graduation.
'Sounds tasty.'
"You idiot!" Mom shouted at the screen. "Couldn't you see she's right there? How's that a penalty?"
'My mom is watching soccer rn. Looks like the refs are blind again.'
'I wonder what people say when the ref makes a bad call in blind soccer.'
'Maybe that even they can see that the call is bullshit?'
'hahaha'
'I heard that one of the prosecutors is blind and plays soccer. Maybe we could ask them.'
'Really? Who?'
'I don't know.' Leon had just heard someone make a joke about justice being blind.
'Hold on, I'll look it up.' Sebastian had a smartphone he had probably looted from somewhere. Half a minute later, a new text appeared. 'Isabella Jinwe, she leads Two's delegation. Lost her eyes to shrapnel - didn't have access to goggles or anything.'
'Ouch.'
'Yeah. I can't imagine having no eyes.'
They went back and forth like that for half an hour, with a small pause when the soup finally boiled. For the first time, Leon was sad when his brother came home. 'I gotta go now,' he texted, feeling bad about it. What if Sebastian was just as bored as him, and here he was ditching him? 'I'll get back to you later.'
'Alright. Bye!'
'Bye.'
On the other hand, Sebastian had a smartphone, which meant he had the Web, and it was impossible to be bored when you had the Web. "How's life?" Leon asked his brother, jamming his phone in his pocket. Marcellus was carefully unlacing his new shoes and taking them off.
"A parent tried to bribe me with a food basket," he replied, proffering it at Leon. As Leon realized his jaw was hanging open, Marcellus explained, "His kid's failing everything, so he asked me to pass him. I took the basket, but I'm not going to pass him."
Leon laughed out loud. "Genius." Given how expensive that food basket clearly was - Leon could see three sticks of smoked sausage - before, had Marcellus tried such a gambit, it would have resulted in the father going to the principal and having Marcellus fired. Now, though, principals and head teachers had been replaced by more junior staff members previously infamous for their rigidity. In a country where everything revolved around bribes, refusing to take them had been almost rebellious.
"But what's he going to do?" Mom exclaimed, rushing up to the basket standing on the floor. "Marcellus, this is real coffee!"
"Nothing," Marcellus said with a grin. "His kid will get the mark he deserves and he won't be able to do anything because the principal implodes when someone mentions bribes."
"Won't you get in trouble?"
Marcellus shook his head. "He randomly gave me a basket of expensive black-market goods. Technically, receiving stolen goods is illegal, but the principal runs a maple syrup-making operation from her cottage, so she won't care, and the MPs have bigger things to worry about." He hung up his jacket and looked around. "Where should I put this?"
"On the table in the kitchen." Mom ran a hand through her hair, which made it look even messier than usual. She really needed a haircut. "Wait, Marcellus, are you saying that your principal hates bribes but is a black-marketer?"
"Why not?" Leon said cheerfully. He took out his phone and texted Dad the good news. "See, Marcellus? Life's way better now. Nobody's going to fire you for refusing to falsify marks."
Marcellus huffed and set the basket down with more force than necessary. "Do you really have to bring that into everything?" he demanded. "You know full well that's not my issue."
"Then what is?"
Marcellus flapped his hand dismissively. "Let's not fight." He turned to Mom. "Should we open this?"
"No, really, what's your problem?"
"Boys, stop!" Mom demanded.
"My problem?" Marcellus carefully untied the ribbons keeping the thin fabric in place. "My problem is that we had to commit a crime to buy me new shoes."
"So what?" Leon pulled on one of the ribbons and watched it slither down. Good fabric. It would come in handy. "As if we didn't use the black market before for deficit goods." Leon suspected he would never forget how razor blades had been in deficit for half a year right when he had started getting facial hair.
Marcellus lifted up a section of fabric and took out the holy of holies - a large can of quality ground coffee. "So you're saying it's a good thing we're living like before?"
"You're deliberately misinterpreting my words."
Mom took the coffee from Marcellus and held it up. "Can you please stop fighting?" she begged.
"How am I misinterpreting your words?"
Leon slammed his hand down on the table, suddenly unable to put up with his brother's obstinacy for a second longer. All the papers he photocopied at work - how could Marcellus be so flippant about it all? "Do you really think we were living better a year ago?" he demanded.
"Yes, we were!"
"Marcellus!" Mom gasped. "How can you say such a thing?"
"Are you crazy?" Leon shouted. "People were being shot a year ago!" With trembling hands, he removed another ribbon.
Marcellus hunched over slightly. "You asked me about us. Not other people." He took off the cloth and folded it carefully, revealing a bounty of jars and boxes. "I'm not a revanchist or anything. You're just too accepting. Just because it's better now doesn't mean it's good, and you're running around acting happy because we have to queue for potatoes."
"I'm not happy we have to queue for potatoes!" Leon threw his hands in the air. "I'm happy you can complain about the government as loud as you want!"
That seemed to get it through his brother's skull. "Then don't act like we're living in paradise," he grumbled, but there was no fire in his voice anymore. "Huh. Gooseberry jam. Let's get that in the fridge."
"Gooseberry jam?" Leon said, trying to keep his voice even. "Sounds nice." He took the ribbons and placed them on top of the cloth.
"Yeah. Mom, what should we do with this?"
Mom scratched her chin. "Let's set it all on the table and draw up a list. Grandpa One has been hinting he wants to gift something sweet to Grandpa Two for his birthday." Mom's parents had been unable to decide what they'd have her call them, with her eventually settling on 'Dad One' and 'Dad Two'. Leon and Marcellus ended up continuing the trend.
"So we're going to give Grandpa One a gift so that he can regift it to Grandpa Two?" Marcellus joked. Leon laughed a bit louder than he would have usually. He picked up a box of cookies and spun them in his hands. Marcellus taught grade six, and entry into state school was based on special exams, not school marks. His brother hadn't mentioned having a pupil from such a rich family - and rich this family had to be, if they could afford this. Leon's mouth watered at the cookies.
'You'll never believe what my brother brought home just now', Leon texted Sebastian, and then Inge and Nilofar just in case. It was so nice, to be able to just text people when you had something interesting happen.
"Well, I guess," Mom said, holding a stick of smoked sausage as if it was a club. "Hmm. I think he just wants me to get him something sweet so that the two of them can eat it."
Leon clapped a hand to his face. Mom was not the best at dealing with people, which was why her usual interactions were limited to programming forums where people asked each other if they had a bit of code the other could copy.
His phone chimed. In response to the questions, Leon gave a quick description. As he was sending off the last text, Leon realized that he now had people to share things with.
"Mom?" he said. "Can I keep something to share with my friends?"
"Of course," she said, stacking several cans of sardines in oil on top of each other. "Pick whatever you like."
Something they could enjoy or something they could sit on and resell so that someone could have a halfway decent wedding dinner? "I'll take this box of cookies," Leon decided, picking one that had an identical box still in the basket. This way, they could get together next day off and enjoy them. Leon felt his mental health improve drastically as he realized days off wouldn't just be a bunch of endless boredom now. He should have tried reaching out to people long ago.
At the archive, everyone exchanged numbers, but nobody had ever contacted Leon. He decided to text everyone, and see what happened. Maybe they were just shy.
Feeling much better about everything, Leon took out a glass jar of various pickled vegetables.
"You look happy," Marcellus noticed.
"What, I can't be happy now?" Leon muttered, setting down the jar and picking up a small sachet of curry powder.
"I just asked a question!"
"Boys!" Mom cut in.
Leon tried to find some free space to set down a jar of maple syrup. "I'm going to share the cookies with my friends," he explained. "Aren't you going to share something with your girlfriend?"
"I am, I just don't know what yet." Marcellus held up a jar of dark honey. "Thanks for the shoes, by the way. They're great. It would have taken me ages to save up for them on my own, even with the stabilization and all." A newspaper had published a cartoon titled 'Easter 2356' that depicted the Panem dollar as Jesus appearing to a shocked Dr. Able with the caption 'The Miracle of the Resurrection.' Leon was still struggling to get used to the international style of dates.
"I need to tell my friends about this," Mom said, hurrying to the landline with a dried leg of beef in one hand.
Leon had never met any of Mom's friends, but two minutes later, the neighbours were knocking on the door, eager to imply that they also wanted something - and wanting elaboration on the fight they had just heard. Mom missed all of the social cues, thanked them happily for their well-wishes, and ushered them out.
"Didn't anyone see you come in?" Leon asked Marcellus. Belatedly, he realized that the news should have been all over the neighbourhood now. It wasn't every day that rich parents swept down like kind angels with hundred-dollar bills (that were worth something again) for wings and delivered a giant basket of delicacies to an elementary-school teacher and his family.
"I guess they didn't."
Leon looked around the table, which was laden with all sorts of things. Jars of vegetables, fruits, and jam. Cans of all sorts of things, fish and vegetables and roe and so on, all from high-end brands. Sticks of smoked sausage. Nuts. Preserved meats wrapped in paper. Sachets of spices. Honey, maple syrup, and paper-wrapped candies on sticks, as well as several boxes of cookies. Fresh fruit carefully cushioned in little boxes that was definitely out of season. Chocolate and sugar. Fruit juice and birch juice. Tea, cocoa powder, and coffee.
"Wow," Leon said, scratching his head. "Bit overkill for a sixth-grader, don't you think?"
Marcellus huffed in a light-hearted way. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he said, poking Leon in the shoulder. A fraction of a second too late, Leon poked him back, and they smiled at each other.
Mary rehearsed for the tenth time the words she was going to say and dialled the number, heart beating painfully. How was it that she could speak before the IDC for an hour and field their sharp questions but this left her an anxious wreck? She clutched the receiver in a sweating hand, waiting.
There was a click. "Rithvik Irons speaking."
"Hi, honey," Mary said, mouth dry. "How are you doing?"
"Fine, I guess. But all of my coworkers are still teasing me."
Mary lay down on her bed, adjusting the cord so that it wasn't under her. "For what - actually having a sex life? They're just jealous because their spouses wouldn't even think about them if they went to a different city."
Rithvik chuckled. "I know. It's just- You know I never liked talking about things like that."
"I should have warned you," Mary said. "I'm sorry for how this took you by surprise."
"It's okay. I was just shocked. I never thought this could be possible."
Neither had Mary. When the blackmailer had called out of nowhere, she had wondered if she had been hallucinating. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I think I know what Johnson felt."
"Oh, that takes me back!" Rithvik sounded somewhat cheerier. Johnson, who had been president during Mary's late adolescence and university years, was mostly remembered by those of a certain generation for increasing the flow of trade, and by those not of a certain generation for having gotten into a mess on her first diplomatic trip, in Ottawa. At an official meeting in an expensive restaurant, Johnson had gotten drunk, tried to conduct the band, and then got caught on camera having sex with her husband practically in the open. The latter part had been delicately alluded to by Thirteen television as 'a sensitive situation with her husband' (the predictable joke was that Johnson was such a boring person even her sensitive situations were with her actual spouse), but the orchestra-conducting had been actually shown. On that day, it was obvious who the recent defectors were. An acquaintance from the cafeteria had turned to person after person, asking them what was going on, unable to understand that the media was simply being honest about the head of state's misadventures.
"So you agree that nobody will care in the long run and our careers will not be affected?" The 'woman who looks like the president of District Thirteen' had served out that term, been re-elected, and then chose not to run for a third, instead moving to Iqaluit, where she still taught political science at one of the most prestigious universities in the Americas. Her husband, too, had gone from Thirteen bureaucrat and 'man resembling the president's husband' to Nunavut bureaucrat.
"Oh, come on, not fair," RIthvik said, but there was laughter in his tone. "What did the blackmailer even want?" he asked after a beat.
"For me to withdraw from the trial."
Rithvik laughed. "They could have had a sex tape of us doing something kinky, and you wouldn't have agreed."
"As if the average person wouldn't want to rip out their eyes after watching that for two seconds," Mary pointed out.
"Really?" Rithvik sounded sincerely surprised. "But you're so beautiful."
The crazy thing was, he actually thought that way. "Thanks," Mary said, feeling warm and fuzzy. She hugged the receiver as if it was Rithvik's arm. "So are you. I can't wait until I can get us smartphones."
"But that can't get touch across," Rithvik said. Mary could hear him wagging his eyebrows. "Wait. I wonder if we're being spied on right now."
"Maybe we are."
"Say something to them!"
After spending her days biting her tongue and weighing out every word, it felt nice to let loose. "Hey, blackmailer," Mary said. "I see you don't have a life of your own so you have to listen to other people have sex. I hope you like it. Oh, and if you have male genitalia - my husband's are more impressive."
Rithvik was in a paroxysm of giggles. "I can't believe you won that public speaking award," he gasped.
"I'm not very good at improvising," Mary said, but she was laughing, too. Rithvik's happiness was contagious.
"Honey, you are a prosecutor - how are you not good at improvising?"
"You know what I am good at?"
"Managing an endless national conference and running a department?"
Mary snorted. "The judges have taken over the conference, but the department is still running. Did I tell you about how one of the prosecutors managed to catch tapeworm so we all had to take antihelminthics prophylactically?"
"Sounds fun. I had a raccoon grab my breakfast out of my hand."
"They're getting more and more arrogant by the day," Mary said, picturing that. "Forget people. Raccoons are the real masters of the land." Any lock that could be opened quickly could be opened by raccoons.
"They don't seem very impressed with our presence. I think they're annoyed that the humans are crawling out of their burrow and living on their territory." Something creaked on the other end. "So, how was your week, aside from tapeworms? I heard that Talvian is apparently a genius of some sort?"
"Not exactly," Mary said, also settling down more comfortably for a long conversation.
A/N: The situation with the former president Mary and Rithvik discuss is a mashup of Boris Yeltsin's escapades (yes, he actually tried to conduct a band while drunk) and an incident in 1999 with the then-attorney general, where footage of 'a man who looks like the attorney general' with a prostitute was aired on television to discredit him and resulted in his dismissal. People in the big country would say Thirteeners are staid and boring and even their sex scandals are worthy of only facepalms, not loss of respect from society. Thirteeners would reply they're just better at hiding the actually unacceptable stuff.