Mary was not comfortable at parties. When a general called her over to provide some information, she felt greatly relieved, even though she knew what was coming.

"Colonel Irons," the general said, even though she was wearing a civilian suit. Thirteen habits died hard. And she may have been a reserve colonel, but she had only been allowed to play at orderly in a bombed-out husk of a city.

At least he wasn't expecting her to start saluting. "General Jensen," she said. "It is good to see you."

The commander of the occupation army nodded curtly. "You are going ahead with that trial of the Peacekeepers," he said.

Not this again. The military establishment was convinced that the IDMTs were somehow an insult to the noble profession of arms. "Being a soldier does not make one a priori not a criminal," Mary said icily. "If they had been officers under your command, you would have court-martialed them on the spot. They may wear a uniform, but they are simple murderers."

General Jensen nodded. "I fear the precedent this will set," he said, clearly unaware that the precedent technically existed, even if it lay dormant. "You yourself know how difficult it often is to make the right decision in the heat of battle."

"Not a single one of them is going on trial for momentary lapses of judgement," Mary parried. "They will be tried for prolonged and systematic acts of brutality. For the razing of villages and the slaughter of their inhabitants."

"It does not sit right with me that a soldier can be tried for following orders," General Jensen insisted.

Mary wanted to implode. If someone mentioned orders one more time-

"The Peacekeepers had a provision in their manuals same as we did," she said calmly. "A soldier cannot be held accountable for refusing to obey a criminal order. A soldier must not obey an order they know to be criminal. And a soldier certainly cannot wantonly carry out illegal acts of their own volition."

"And yet, it does not sit right with me," General Jensen said. "If we were met with widespread resistance - sometimes hard decisions must be made. Sometimes, military necessity overrides normal standards of behaviour."

Mary wanted to go back in time and throttle Charles Wennerstrum, George Burke, and Edward Carter.

"General, please explain to me, using as many examples as you deem necessary, how this brutality helped governmental forces remain in control."

"That is something that needs to be examined case-by-case-"

"Precisely!" Mary said. "That is why we are having these trials. We will go through these cases and determine where the person had acted in the only way available to them and where they had wantonly killed and destroyed."

General Jensen poured himself a cup of water from a nearby pitcher. "Nevertheless, the entire concept of soldiers being subject to special laws of war seems absurd to me."

"Why were the laws of war formalized?" Mary asked rhetorically. "Because there are some things that simply cannot be allowed. To allow the defendants to call themselves soldiers would be an insult to you and everyone you command."

The general nodded. "I know that. It is the precedent I fear, that the victor will now be free to cloak their vengeance on the vanquished in the pretence of justice."

Mary had an intense suspicion that he just really didn't like the idea of generals being held accountable for their actions. As if exactly a pretence of justice wasn't already the general tendency worldwide! "Pretence?"

"I mean no insult to present company, of course. But even you must admit that the purpose of the trial is political in nature."

"The purpose of the trial is to try individuals accused of crimes," Mary fired back in an even voice. "The defendants will be tried for murder, robbery, rape, arson, and many other crimes besides."

"And you will wear civilian dress."

How in the world was that relevant? "If it sets the military establishment at ease," Mary said, "I will instruct the team from Thirteen to don their uniforms. I know that all of the judges who are in the regular army will wear their uniforms as well."

General Jensen looked a little bit happier at that. "But what about the former irregular fighters?"

"They are not in the armed forces at the moment. Remember, general, the rest of the world does things differently."

"The rest of the world shoots franc-tireurs on the spot and thinks nothing of it."

Mary was shocked at the term he used. Either the general had become a historian in the past few months or he needed to lay off the foreign newspapers. "The rest of the world never had the Hunger Games," Mary reminded him.

"In that case, why must we compare ourselves to them?"

Not this argument again. "General, is there anything else you would like to inform me of?"

"Nothing aside from our concern over the wisdom of holding these proceedings."

"Thank you for alerting me," Mary said sincerely. It was important to know that the filing of the indictment in the Peacekeepers' Trial was unnerving not only foreign warlords who didn't like the idea of ending up in a dock themselves. "I will see you around, General Jensen."

Back at the party, Mary hunted down Reed, her plus-one for today who was being hounded by various government officials. The 'key criminals' case usually took up most of the attention, but the Peacekeepers' case had eclipsed it for now, if temporarily.

Someone stopped her to express their sympathies in the incident with the failed blackmail attempt. Mary thanked them politely, wishing people would forget about it already. She was hounded for updates on the key criminals trial, to which she answered curtly.

"It will begin on the twenty-sixth of May," she said once again. "That is all I can tell you at the moment."

In response to the question of how the judges were coping with the pressure from their Districts, Mary replied, "You will have to ask the judges that." So far, they were doing a remarkable job of concealing any signs that they disagreed on more than just pure legal matters.

Rye listened to the Chief of Counsel be interrogated by various government officials, glad she wasn't on the receiving end of that. "Have you ever been to a party like this?" she asked Reed Zvi, who had just managed to untangle himself from a group of people who all wanted to know which indictments his team was working on at the moment.

Zvi shook his head. "I hate it. Though I suppose it's better than tapeworms."

Rye decided not to ask. "The food is good, at least," she said, trying for some optimism. The food was of the sort that had been laid out when going to see a guest speaker. Tiny sandwiches and canned fruit. At the snack table, Jinwe was pouring her own water with one hand while holding a thick book that appeared to have a blank cover under her other arm. The Two chief prosecutor could by now read Braille comfortably.

"That it is." He looked at her. "Though I suppose you would have grown up eating better."

"I did." Rye took a bite of canned apple. At home, there had always been fresh fruits, no matter what the season. "You?"

Zvi glanced at Rye's plate. "The ingredients are the same, but we would have had the vegetables separately and the bread - separately." He stole a piece of pear. "And I think the fruits had some sugar added to them. We didn't have that. The sugar was all in the bread."

Zvi's parents were a janitor and a laundry operator. Back home, it was unthinkable that a child of such parentage could attend highschool, let alone become a lawyer. But that was how it had gone in Thirteen. They had managed to build a system where anyone could become anything. It remained to be seen if that could be extended to the rest of the country.

"It must feel strange to you that rations aren't just determined by what you require."

"It is," Zvi said sharply. He looked at the table laden with food and sighed. "Why do we get more food than any other desk worker? It makes no sense." He stole another bit of fruit from her plate. "What is the news from the fields? You're from a rural background, right?"

Rye was actually city born and bred, but everyone in the deeply agrarian Nine knew everything there was to know about what was planted when and spent hours arguing over what the price of rice, or wheat, or corn would be this year. "I'm from a city of forty thousand."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed, it's just that your name-"

"It's alright." Once Rye had hated her 'peasant' name, but at this point she didn't care. "My grandfather was a farmer. His name was Ryan and he grew rye, so when the child my parents wanted to name after him turned out to be a girl, the solution was obvious."

"So they named you for your grandfather's crop?"

"Yes. Er, what did you ask before?"

"How is agriculture doing, if you know?"

"Bad," she said. "So many fields were razed, so many people fled or died, yields are expected to be less than half of normal."

"Let's hope Heiko Laur pulls through," Zvi said glumly. "I don't want to imagine what would happen if we had food shortages."

Finally, Janie and Tav could meet up at Tav's apartment without his parents being there. "So, what do you want to do?" Tav asked as Janie kicked off her shoes at the door.

"I was thinking we could try this cool thing I've been reading about."

Very quickly, Janie began to suspect that Tav was too tall for them to do the sixty-nine properly.

"Let's do something easier," she suggested.

Some time later, Janie was feeling much better about herself and Tav was asleep. "Hey," she said, poking her boyfriend awake. Water dripped down from her just-washed hair. "You need to shower, too."

Tav blearily opened his eyes. "Oh. Yeah." He stood up, grabbed the towel from the bed, and shuffled off to the bathroom. Janie watched him go.

Janie looked around the room, wondering what to do for the next few minutes. She made the bed and opened the window, pulling the curtains aside for maximum air access. His parents probably knew in any case, but better to not rub it in their faces. Then, she got fully dressed. She took her present for Tav out of her bag - a little jar of jam wrapped in a nice shirt she had gotten for him at the black market.

As she put the jam on the table, she noticed that the CD lying on it was unfamiliar. The name was printed on it with neat, blocky letters, so Janie could easily read 'Voices from the Zone' written in black pen on a white label stuck to the blank disc.

Flipping the case over revealed the titles of the songs on the CD, also helpfully printed neatly on a piece of paper. Paper was pretty scarce in general - either whoever had made this knew their way around the black market, or this was an official publication allowed for morale purposes.

Peat Bog Soldiers (1933, unknown)

Huh, that must have been a hell of a song, to survive the Cataclysm. There had been secret prisons back then already? It was hard for Janie to wrap her brain around that. Remembering to use the international style for dates was hard enough. Janie kept on thinking it was 76, not 2356. 1933 was more than four hundred years ago. And people had been singing it on the zone this entire time? Crazy.

The Harvester's March (?, unknown)

Huh, that sounded more like the title of a rural work song than something from the zone. Or had this song been sung in the prisons where the inmates worked in the fields?

Chaterhan and Chiu (2349, Lucinda Adams)

Wait, what? Janie looked around for the CD player she had bought Tav a while back. Who the heck was Chiu? She knew a few people back home with that name, but she doubted Adams knew any of them.

Fortunately, Tav soon emerged from the shower. Unfortunately, he was fully dressed, but Janie had something else on her mind for once. "Someone made a song about Chaterhan?" she asked. Back home, the only things anyone had ever said about Chaterhan were whispered complaints in the kitchen.

"Yeah." He smiled, and Janie felt like she was melting. "I thought you'd like it. You want to give it a listen?"

"Course I do!"

Tav dug up his player from a cupboard and inserted the CD. He pressed a few buttons, and music poured out of the player.

In Panem there's a deep divide

That splits the land in two

It's been around for years and years

Familiar through and through

There's an example that will show

Just what the difference is

That Chaterhan and Chiu are foes

No matter where Chiu lives.

For Chaterhan's a monopolist

And Chiu is a worker

That is the old class conflict

That even now persists.

Chaterhan owns all the works

Where Chiu toils all day.

And in an hour, if norms are met

Four dollars is their pay!

For Chaterhan's a monopolist

And Chiu is a worker

That is the old class conflict

That even now persists.

Chiu's cousin lives in Six,

The two have never met.

Chiu mines the iron ore

For fifty cents an hour!

For Chaterhan's a monopolist

And Chiu is a worker

That is the old class conflict

That even now persists.

And thousands like Chiu work

The profits are not theirs

All that is earned sticks to the hands

Of Chaterhan and heirs.

Among Panem's elite they sit

If thousands die - so what?

For them, an accident means nothing

For Chiu - a graveyard plot.

For Chaterhan's a monopolist

And Chiu is a worker

That is the old class conflict

That even now persists.

This is why we must recall

Who our true enemy is.

Chiu longs for revolution

And one day, we will win.

Then, all the Chaterhans will mourn

Their ill-begotten gains

And Chiu, District and Capitol

Will be the one to reign!

For some reason, the only thing Janie could think of was Chaterhan's subservient smile as he wished a good morning to the guard watching over him. And not too long ago, Janie had been just like the Chiu in the song! "Who's Chiu?" she asked, thinking back to those years. Had they really all lived in terror of the almighty Chaterhan, the paunchy middle-aged man who was always willing to sign an autograph in exchange for something sweet? The Chaterhan referred to in the song had to be old Chaterhan, but it worked with the grandson, too.

Tav shrugged. "I read an interview with the lead singer. She says that was the first generic surname starting with a 'ch' she could think of." He finally noticed the jam on the table. "Ooh, is that for me?"

"Yeah," Janie said, lifting the jar. "I thought it was fitting. 'Cause we met because of jam and all."

Tav smiled widely and leaned down to kiss her. "I love you," he said.

Wait, what? Wasn't it way too early for that? Frantically, Janie tried to remember what the others had said, but couldn't recall anything. "I love you, too," she said, face feeling like it was going to burn off. Tav was bright-red. "Er, I also got a shirt for you."

Tav decided to try on the shirt immediately, which let Janie get an eyeful of his chiseled abdomen. When did he have the time to work out? Janie's legs were strong from all the standing around, but her arms were becoming weaker and weaker now that she wasn't using them.

He saw her looking. "Come on, you see me all the time," he said playfully.

"Exactly," Janie said, enjoying the view. Tav did up the buttons and struck a dramatic pose. "Wow." So she hadn't made a mistake with the measurements. The shirt sat perfectly, not tight but highly flattering. It made him look professional - if not for the short-cropped hair, that is. Absurdly, Janie wondered if the defendants would also look a bit strange in suits and ties with their buzzcuts, but she hurriedly threw that thought out of her head. Why was she thinking of the defendants now? Ugh. "Great," she said hurriedly. "You're stunning. I want to tear that shirt off you."

Tav laughed, undoing the buttons. "It's too expensive to ruin like that. You going to take me strolling to the barracks now that I'm all suited up?"

"You kidding me? Everyone would try to steal you. I'd be fighting off the others at every turn."

"My gallant protector," he said with a chuckle as he pulled on his T-shirt and sweater. His hair now managing to stick out in all directions despite being very short, he went to hang up his shirt. "So, what d'you think of the song?"

It took Janie a few beats for her brain to switch tracks. "Maybe we should play it in the key criminals wing," she mused. "You know, this song's about us."

"Really?" He sat down next to Janie, who slung her legs over his.

"Yeah. You're the Chiu from the Capitol and I'm from Six and we're all just workers in the end." No matter how much the propaganda had nattered on about the Hunger Games, Janie had had a higher chance of having quadruplets than dying in the Games, and she had never heard of anyone with quadruplets. And aside from that, what differences were there? Sure, Tav had gone to school for six years and his mother had given birth in a hospital for free, but Janie had lived so much better than a field hand, it seemed almost inappropriate to complain.

Tav nodded appreciatively. He put his head on her shoulder. "Lucinda Adams, the songwriter, is from the Capitol. Parents were a secretary and a dishwasher. She was arrested for writing 'Down with the Games' on a fence and tossed into a secret prison. Ended up in One, where she had the realization that the real difference isn't Capitol and District, but capitalist and worker. The inequality, the Games - that was all to keep us from rising up, so we'd have something to lose besides our chains."

Her boyfriend had been getting more political lately. Janie liked that. It meant he felt comfortable with her. Some of the others' partners were too scared to open their mouths to speak. "Are you going to the rally on the first?" That was in a couple of days.

"Course I am. You?"

"I'll be guarding it." Turned out that people were allowed to gather whenever they wanted, as long as they didn't have weapons. There had been a call for volunteers from the MPs to keep an eye on things, so that people could see that the law enforcement was with the people, or something like that.

Tav smiled. "Now I can march confidently, knowing you aren't going to let any crazies attack me."

Janie rolled her eyes and took his hand in hers. He had calluses in the same place as she. "I wonder what Chaterhan will think of the parade." Given that Tav had once seen someone be publicly executed over a red flag, she doubted he'd be too happy.

"When he finds out, tell me how he reacted."

Stephen lay in bed and contemplated Dr. Shentop's recent report - out of the key criminals, all were losing a little (or a lot) of weight, but not Talvian. He had made several checks, but it didn't appear as if someone was sneaking her extra food. And why in the world would Talvian of all people be snuck extra food? He tossed and turned, glaring at the clock. According to the glowing dial, he still had two hours left.

Maybe Talvian's metabolism had slowed? But so had everyone else's. There had to be something else going on there.

Tiller thought there was foul play behind this. But that made no sense - why only Talvian? Still, though, was someone managing to get around him? Had they changed the caloric requirements in Talvian's file? Stephen had no time to run investigations. He had a jail to keep an eye on. Little Quint needed to be somehow cajoled into attending school. One of the incarcerated witnesses would be giving birth soon - they'd have to start thinking about what hospital to send her to, Dr. Shentop was no obstetrician and her orderlies weren't midwives.

For some reason, Stephen wondered if male midwives were still called midwives. Was that the only job with such a gendered name? But the closest Stephen had ever been to childbirth was when his friends had had kids, so he wasn't an expert.

Stephen wished he had kids. Tiller came back from her dates with her TA looking so happy, and he wanted to feel that, too. Stephen turned over to his other side and resolved to go look for someone the next time he had an evening off. With that decision, he fell asleep.

When he woke up again, he dimly recalled what he had been thinking about. Finding a partner? Seriously? He had the prisoners on one hand and the guards on the other, he didn't have time for distractions. Stephen got dressed. It was early in the morning - he had gotten to sleep through the night for once. Tiller still had half an hour of her shift remaining.

Stephen did a quick walk-around of the prison. Quint was already gone. The witnesses and lesser criminals were going to breakfast, the key criminals were still focused on cleaning their cells. The others didn't have to clean as often because there weren't enough cleaning supplies for that, and in any case, they could be busied with interrogations and time outside. The key criminals only had conversations with their lawyers to look forward to.

Overpopulation was becoming a serious issue. Kezen from the Witness House was complaining that she was running out of room, and so was Stephen. Soon, he'd have to use the larger cells to hold multiple incarcerated witnesses together. They could talk freely in the yard, so they were already ruining each other's testimony that way.

Back in his office, Dr. Rolan, the psychologist in charge of the lesser criminals, was there with her report. "Varadi is not in good shape."

Varadi - one of the most recent arrivals, a former official in the Justice Ministry. "Do I have the power to change the situation?"

"No."

Stephen nodded. "Anything else?"

"Holder is doing even worse. He is coming around to understanding he could have chosen differently, and the guilt is eating at him. He told me that when he was first arrested in Eleven, some of the guards tried to amuse themselves by making him do various humiliating things, but they rapidly lost interest when he did it all without complaint."

"So he is self-aware, then. Good." Stephen's opinion of Holder had recently transformed from sympathy to disdain. Despite being unable to grasp that other people could tell untruths, the middle-aged former NCO was a chronic and unabashed liar, constantly embellishing little things to make himself look better. And it was impossible to catch him in a lie without having proof to the contrary, because embellishing or even making up things out of nothing was second nature to him. He was certainly not unique there, but the fact that he also believed that everything the interrogator said was one hundred percent true made for some odd conversations.

Dr. Rolan looked oddly at him. "On a more amusing note, he has read the poem 'The Charge of the Light Brigade' and declared it the most relatable thing he had ever read." That was not surprising. Holder would have charged an entire company by himself if so ordered. "Have you read it?"

"I have, in school."

Dr. Rolan seemed taken aback for a second. "In any case, all of the Peacekeepers are still in a depressed mood, though I do not think Hope is a suicide risk anymore." Hope was one of those infamous individuals with little evidence of actual crimes committed. If she was convicted, it would be on the strength of the witness testimony against her.

"Good." That was one problem solved, at least.

Dear Achilleus, Antonius wrote before pausing again, trying to think of what to write to his son. I am glad that you are doing well in school.This pen was impossible! Antonius tried to re-grip it. The only way to hold on to it was to keep his fingers at the very bottom, which meant that his hand became covered with smeared ink almost immediately. He suspected that even the right-handed among his co-defendants were struggling.

To add insult to further insult, the pen barely wrote. Antonius had to go over what he had already written before forcing out another sentence. I am especially glad that you are doing well in Math. From Octavia's letters, it was clear that the educational system was lying in ruins. Not to mention that crazy plan of the government to keep everyone in school until they were twelve - were they unaware that the reason that had not been attempted before was that of sheer practicality? And I am also very glad that the other children are not giving you any trouble.

Now that people were moving around, there were District children in Achilleus' class. It was not that Antonius had anything against District people, but there was something off-putting about the thought of their children sitting in the same classroom as his son. Fortunately, the children seemed to be well-behaved. A much bigger problem were the children of local field hands and the like. Place of origin paled in importance when compared to proper upbringing.

I appreciated the analysis of the economic situation. The analysis had been quite terrible, but Antonius was glad that Achilleus was already interested in these sorts of things. Now that our country is opening itself to foreign influences, you will need to be aware of what is going on in the world. And I am doubly appreciative that you are so eager to visit Great-Grandma. Tell her I say 'hi'.

Now what? Antonius had always been very close to his son, but something had shattered in the past few months. Before, they had understood each other so well. Achilleus had always gone to him when something was wrong. And now? He could not even write a simple paragraph without sounding like they had been apart for years.

With a sigh, Antonius dropped his pen and buried his head in his hands. Why was this so hard? This was his own son, his little Achilleus, who liked to play with his dolls and pretend to be running a corporation as Antonius nodded along and asked him what sort of policy the teddy bear was implementing in Three. Antonius smiled at the thought of his son applying the concepts he taught him about. He was such a creative boy. When he grew up, he'd do a great job of running the company, of that Antonius was sure.

Just as Antonius was savouring that mental image, he remembered that nearly all of the assets were frozen, it was still a real possibility that the company would be torn to pieces, and the entire administration was under arrest. Poor Grandma, that she had to endure such times coming to pass. What sort of future would Achilleus grow up in? Would Antonius even be around then? He could not think that way. They had to let him go. They had to. The new Panem needed steel as much as the old one, they could not afford to throw him away.

A pain in his hand alerted him to the fact that he was clutching the pen in his fist. Antonius relaxed his hand and dropped the pen on the table. He thought for a few seconds before picking the pen back up and writing a few final sentences. Do try to make some friends, though, alright? You need to cultivate connections with all sorts. -Your loving Dad.

Next, he had to write to Octavia. Dear Octavia, a day does not pass that I do not think of you. Every time something happens, I turn to tell you about it, and then I realize you are not there. I wish this letter was long enough to share everything with you. I know you would laugh with me about the daily nonsense I have to put up with and I would suddenly feel so much better about it. I am glad to hear that your parents are doing well. It gives me hope to know I am not being deserted.

Dr. Shaw is particularly glad for Uncle Augustus' help. I am sure you have heard it from her already, but I will reassure you that she was being fully sincere there. I, too, am very grateful to Uncle - please pass that on to him. And on that note, how is Uncle Albinus' Depuration hearing going? I do hope they do not try to take away his pension. The entire process is an outrage. The usual society rats get depurated and go on doing what they have always done, leaving those of us who actually contribute to society to suffer.

I was very saddened to hear that the Big House was taken away. Do you know what it will be used for further on down the line? I cannot imagine the place where I grew up forever remaining a homeless shelter, but I suppose that is perfectly in line with the new government's policies.

"You've got a meeting with your lawyer," the guard said through the hole.

Hurriedly, Antonius scribbled down the last few lines. I have to go now. I send my love to Achilleus and you. -Your Ant 3 3 3

Antonius put down his pen and approached the door. He turned to face the wall, linked his hands behind his back, and bent down until his shoulders protested at the strain. Sometimes the guards opened the door to cuff him, but other times, they forced him to raise his wrists to the hole in the door through which they looked. The familiar sensation of cold metal made him wince. As soon as the cuffs locked with a quiet click, he straightened out and picked up his folder from the table. The guard unlocked the door. Antonius stepped into the corridor, was grabbed by the guard by the upper arm, and led to the counsel room.

What sort of documents would Shaw have today? More proof of the misdeeds of some overzealous middle manager? Try as he did, Antonius had no idea why everything that had ever gone on in the Steelworks was being blamed on him. If only the Districts could finally fall out!

Miroslav fell into his chair and hurriedly pressed the 'accept' button on his computer. Phew. He had made it just in time. He re-did his ponytail as his own face appeared in the corner of the window. He did look much better with his hair tied back.

"Miroslav!" Rody said, her voice slightly crackly from the bad connection. "You changed your hair!"

"I did." It had finally gotten long enough to tie back.

"It suits you."

"Yeah," Biljana said. She was sitting between Rody's parents, Nettle and Robert, in the middle section of the screen. On their other side were Mom and Dad. "It suits you."

"You look so tired," Dad fretted. "Have you been getting enough fresh air?"

"Honey, you need to sleep more," Rody said. "You look terrible."

"How are you sleeping?" Mom asked worriedly. "I know you have a crazy schedule."

"Why is everyone ganging up on me?" Miroslav whined. "Rody, stop listening to my parents." He stretched out his legs and sank deeper into the chair. He had just come in from talking from Dr. Teck the defense lawyer, which had been preceded with a few of the key criminals, and he had started out the day in the juvenile centre. His head was still buzzing from the weight of everyone's problems.

"Because you don't take care of yourself," Rody chided him.

Miroslav dug out his purple marker and crossed out '13:00: Talk to family' on his arm. "I take care of myself," Miroslav insisted. "I've got a therapy session today afternoon. Why are we talking about me in any case? Biljana, how's school?"

His daughter made a face, looking eerily like her mother. "I did alright on that math test. And, um, we got to climb trees in the forest yesterday."

Climbing trees in the forest. Miroslav had never understood his daughter's fascination with athletic pursuits. Unlike him, she had gone gladly to basic training, though she knew enough to have been happy when she never left Thirteen for the entire Rebellion.

"What did you get on that test?" Rody asked, curious.

"Ninety-two."

"That's great!" six voices said in unison.

Biljana shrugged. "The test was easy."

"Only because you studied so hard," Nettle said.

Biljana shrugged again. "That's because the teacher's nice," she said. "If I get Mr. Rook again next year, I'll fail again."

In Miroslav's opinion, Rook should not have been allowed to teach anything below the graduate level. He did know his material, and he knew it very well, but his teaching style was atrocious and he alienated everyone who wasn't sincerely interested in math for its own sake. Biljana had gotten a good mark last year, but she claimed she had failed all of her tests and her assignments had been completed by Mom, a statistician with the District government.

"Or maybe you'll get Mr. Ian Woon again," Rody offered consolingly. "You never know."

Dad shook his head. "He's going on sabbatical to Suriname next year with his husband." Woon may have taught highschool, but he also did research and had contacts around the globe.

Biljana groaned. "So Mr. Demar Woon is also leaving? That sucks."

"That's your Chemistry teacher, right?" Miroslav asked.

"Yeah. He's really good. You know that test I had last week?"

"What test?" Rody asked, confused. Miroslav was glad he wasn't the only one unaware of that development.

Biljana brushed that aside. "I got perfect on it." A smile flickered over her face before she assumed a calm expression again.

"Wow!" Miroslav said. "That's amazing! That's-" He couldn't think of any other words. Biljana was a really smart kid, even if she underestimated herself so much. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Thanks," Biljana said, tolerating a hug from Nettle and Robert. She put on an even face, but after having to deal with the key criminals for so long, Miroslav couldn't be tricked by that. He could tell that his daughter was very happy at the praise. Whether she was happy about the test was doubtful. She had probably moved on to stressing about the next one already.

"Rody, how are things?" Robert asked.

Rody shrugged, looking just like Biljana had. And she had the gall to claim their daughter got her bad habits from him! "Alright."

"Have the details been declassified yet?" Nettle asked. As always when Rody's parents said that, Miroslav stifled a giggle.

"Everything is normal. Miroslav, what are you up to?"

"Not sleeping enough," Dad muttered darkly.

"I sleep enough," Miroslav said defensively. "They took me off the administrative role, so I can focus on my patients, and this is my last week at the eating-disorders clinic. And they finally fired me from being Everdeen's psychologist, so that's one less thing to worry about." Everdeen herself was improving quite well. Hopefully, a local therapist would be of more use to her than the overworked Miroslav.

Mom nodded. "Anything interesting?" she asked eagerly. Biljana, too, leaned in closer, eager for gossip.

"The deputy warden is studying for her elementary-school diploma," Miroslav said the first thing that came to mind.

"Where's she from?" Biljana asked.

Hadn't he told them that already? "She's from a plantation in Eleven. Led a group of irregulars, ended up with a field promotion or whatever the proper name of it is. She's dating a TA, so I suppose he's gotten her into the academic side of things."

"Miroslav, did you hear that song about Chaterhan?" Robert asked. "My neighbours keep on playing it."

"I did." Fortunately, the guards so far had not thought to play it in the key criminals wing. "Not my kind of song," Miroslav said diplomatically, "but I'm glad that these songs can be played now."

"Are you working on anything interesting?" Rody asked eagerly. "It's all same old same old on my end."

Miroslav shook his head. "Just work. Same as you, but with more infamous people. You reading anything interesting?"

"I am." Rody ran a hand over her hair. She, too, was trying to grow out her hair, but since hers was so curly, it ended up forming a small puff instead of lying limp like Miroslav's. "Newspaper article about a worrying demographic trend. Many Capitol professionals are moving to the Districts, resulting in a lack of cadres-"

"I know that," Miroslav cut in, making a face. "Remember how I had to lead my own group therapy?"

"That's not it," Rody said. "You know these suburbs, full of standalone houses? Their inhabitants are moving to the Districts because the pay's better for highly skilled professionals. District workers are flocking to the Capitol because the pay's better for unskilled workers. The housing shortage means that people are squeezing themselves into those now-rented by the room houses and accepting the long commute - house-based suburbs are built with the assumption that a house owner can afford a car, public transit is a nightmare there. Once rebuilding's over, they'll be at the highest risk of constantly being late and thus being fired, and there aren't any jobs in that area. And nobody's going to be building factories here until they're sure we're not yet another chronic warzone, so who knows what kind of unemployment problems we'll be facing once reconstruction is over."

"Interesting," Mom said. There was a pause. "Our new neighbour is from the Capitol. She's an architect."

"Not surprising," Miroslav replied. Thirteen was one giant construction site. "How are the raccoons?"

Nettle huffed. She and Robert had recently moved into a first-floor apartment. "They're crawling all over the garbage bins!"

"I told you, we need a padlock against these buggers," Dad said. "Yesterday, I was standing on your balcony and eating an apple. I put the apple down for two seconds and looked down just in time to see two little paws grab it."

Miroslav laughed out loud. Living close to nature wasn't all Thirteeners had expected. All of a sudden, the heating was malfunctioning or the window was drafty - or raccoons were eating your garbage. "They're growing more arrogant by the day!"

"There's a journalist from Thunder Bay living close to us," Robert said. "He feeds raccoons every week. They gather on his balcony. It's slightly terrifying."

"I can't wait to go home," Rody said longingly. "Even if it means being mobbed by trash bears."

"Then come home!" Nettle exclaimed.

"I can't, we're already short-staffed."

"I'm too scared of the wildlife," Miroslav joked.

Biljana looked terminally bored.

Janie wasn't sure what she had expected from a First of May parade. She had always been vaguely aware that there was something special to the date. There had always been more crackdowns around this time of year. And no wonder.

Janie was standing at ease on a street corner as the procession moved past her. There was a little red flag pinned to her uniform. She had already had to deal with a bunch of hecklers - mostly passerby trying to rant about the evils of socialism, but some people just didn't like anyone in uniform. That made sense. Someone else had complained that small-time black-marketers were arrested while MPs got rich. They were right, but what was Janie supposed to do about it? She had a family to support, too.

Apparently, this was a big deal around the world. International Workers' Day - if it was international, that meant it was really, really important. Countries usually couldn't agree on anything. Or maybe that was the point? What governments cared about and what the people cared about were two different things.

Her job was to make sure nobody attacked the demonstrators and to step in if a fight started or something. Janie shifted from foot to foot, watching a river of people pass by, holding banners and shouting slogans. She'd have to tell her family about this.

Someone approached her. A young woman with medium-length hair holding a box of pamphlets. Janie couldn't read their titles upside-down. "Do you know how to read?" she asked. She was very attractive, with dark skin that seemed to almost glow and slightly tilted eyes.

"Course I do." Janie gestured to her armband and tried to stand taller. "They make us learn."

The woman nodded. "Do you know why you weren't taught before?"

Janie shrugged. "Snow wasn't gonna waste money on teaching workers to read and write when we could be on the factory floor instead."

"That, too," the woman said, "but the real reason is that they don't want to give us that power. Once you teach someone to read, they can read anything." She shoved a fistful of pamphlets into her hand. "Congress is debating mandatory primary education right now. We need to press them further." She paused. "You're from Six, right?"

"Yeah. Small town you've never heard of. Steel mill."

The woman nodded contemplatively. "My parents worked in a factory that made surgical equipment. They took out crippling loans to educate me." That explained why she was speaking like a rich person. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah."

The woman left, and Janie was left alone with pamphlets about why 'Highschool Is A Right, Not A Privilege'. Bit ironic, that the people who would be most interested in this couldn't read even something as short as this. She shoved the papers into a pocket and continued to stand around and watch, wondering what her family would think of this all.

Leon finished reading the article and tried to toss the paper aside in disgust, but failed, because the tram was extremely crowded. "This is nonsense," he hissed to Marcellus.

"I know."

Angrily, Leon folded up the paper and put it under his seat. These papers drove him round the bend. This time, they had surpassed themselves, claiming that the IGR's human experimentation had advanced science. When the researchers themselves admitted that they had falsified data to get more grants and used results from small sample sizes to make sweeping judgements!

Leon had photocopied some IGR documents. A routine list of employees in some subsection, data he could not interpret, and a summary of a bizarre experiment - twenty pregnant Avoxes had been exposed to chemicals that caused the babies to be born without limbs. Most of these babies had been used for further research and were dead by now, but a penciled-in remark at the end noted that five of them were now ten years old. Hopefully they were living their limbless lives to the fullest.

Marcellus was still bitter about everything, but he was an elementary school teacher, so reading about children being tortured made him implode. He was muttering something now, tapping his fingers against his backpack. They were going to Grandpa One and Grandpa Two's apartment. Since Grandpa Two was disabled, they had been at the front of the line for new housing.

Next to Marcellus, Mom and Dad were staring off into space. It was hot and stuffy on the tram. Hopefully, the salad in Marcellus' backpack wouldn't go bad so quickly. That wouldn't make a very good birthday gift for Grandpa Two. Mom and Dad had exchanged some of Marcellus' bribe to buy the fresh ingredients. Since the dollar was stable now, the rest had simply been sold for money. The four of them now had a nice chunk of savings. They'd finally be getting a computer of their own soon, so Mom wouldn't have to borrow hers.

Leon realized he was daydreaming about computers and shook his head. He took out his phone and replied to a few texts his friends had sent. It was strange, how time flew. It jerked forward, propelling him closer and closer to the start date of the trial, or rather, trials. There would be multiple.

Their stop was announced by the conductor. Leon slung his empty backpack over his shoulder and pushed his way through the crowd. It was warm outside - he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Marcellus and Dad were in long sleeves, and Mom was in a T-shirt, but then again she worked from home.

This neighbourhood had been mostly untouched, which was why it was being used for emergency housing. They made their way to the correct building and section and dialed the entrance code on the keypad. With a click, the door opened. Inside was a pretty decent lobby. Rows of mailboxes, some with newspapers sticking out, and a notice board.

The elevator was working here as well. The untouched parts of the Capitol now mostly had water and electricity, but Lodgepole still looked as if a nuclear bomb had fallen on it, and it wasn't the only municipality to be so damaged.

On the eighth-floor landing, Grandpa One was already standing and waving. "There you are!" he exclaimed. He had used to dye the little hair he had left, but now it was too expensive.

"Hi, Dad One!" Mom said, going over to hug him. "Where's Dad Two?"

"Living room."

The apartment was, well, what you'd expect two pensioners to be living in. Carpeted walls, small, homey. Only the cupboards full of porcelain nobody ever used were missing.

In the living room, Grandpa Two was putting out the dishes. He could get around the apartment fine, but even a little bit of uneven ground was too much for him. "I can't believe you're the first," he said with a chuckle.

"Thank you," Dad said primly with a mock-glare at Mom, who had never been on time to anything in her life. "Now, Father, this is for you." He took some clothing from his own backpack. Marcellus had gone to the kitchen to hand over the salad.

"Oh, Salman, you shouldn't have!"

Leon already felt bored.

Fortunately, the other guests didn't take too long to arrive. Dad's parents, various aunts and uncles and cousins, Grandpa Two's siblings and their spouses. Leon's family wasn't that big, but the small apartment seemed ready to burst at the seams.

They sat around the living room table, television off. Several aunts and uncles helped bring in the food - most of it had been brought in by the relatives themselves, Grandpa One and Grandpa Two were only contributing the main dish, on which they had spent a great deal of money. A giant platter was brought in and set on the table. Hadn't they said they had managed to find a turkey somewhere? Grandpa One lifted the lid, and Leon's mouth fell open.

There were no words to describe what he saw. The turkey had been stuffed with...octopus? It had crab legs and circles of white meat with olives on top had been attached to serve as eyes. Leon couldn't tear his eyes away from the monstrosity. What the hell was this?

"When you said you bought an octopus, I didn't expect this," one of Leon's older cousins said faintly.

Another cousin had taken out her camera and was taking pictures.

"This must have been a pain to prepare," Uncle Ibrahim pointed out. "The cooking times are so different."

"So," Grandpa One said, clapping his hands together, "who likes octopus?"

At least he'd have something to tell his coworkers tomorrow. Work was only getting more and more intense as the trials drew near, they needed something to laugh about. "I do," Leon said, reaching for a tentacle.

A/N: Charles Wennerstrum, George Burke, and Edward Carter were the judges at the Nuremberg 'Hostages Case', the trial of twelve German generals accused of committing atrocities in the Balkans. Some of the judges' opinions on things like hostage-taking and what can be done with captured guerrillas have been much criticised since.

'Peat Bog Soldiers' is a real song. 'Chaterhan and Chiu' is out-of-universe a sloppy translation/adaptation of a West German pro-DDR song, 'Krupp und Krause' (I am in no way pro-DDR, I just have a very low opinion of Krupp and was very amused by the fact that there's an entire song dedicated to insulting him; in fact, I find the song quite problematic in several respects), but in-universe, Adams made up the lyrics herself, I think they're different enough for that to be plausible.

Any similarities between Antonius and Alfried Krupp are very deliberate. The political opinions of the characters do not necessarily correspond with those of the author, except in the fact that Antonius is currently exactly where he deserves to be.

If you participate in Nanowrimo, you may have noticed the presence of Mr. Ian Woon.

The Cthulhu turkey (Cthurkey?) is based on the following (I apologize for FFN eating links): https COLON SLASH SLASH i DOT redd DOT it SLASH a2djibfbu0uz DOT jpg