It was five in the morning. Thumeka and a few of her colleagues had decided to arrive early, and as she made her way to the front of the crowd, she was mentally patting herself on the back for being so smart. There had to be at least thirty people already there.

"Trial staff only," an MP said, tossing a new piece of gum into her mouth.

"This is bullshit," the person replied and marched back to their spot.

Thumeka stepped into the brightly-lit area where several MPs were sitting at a table by a turnstile. All around were towers of sandbags and other small fortifications manned by soldiers. There were machine guns on the roof and pointing out of windows, and even several tanks, though the tankers appeared to be more interested in chatting up locals.

So far, there had been no attacks by loyalists. The average person went along with what they were told, and even those whose views were on the extreme end of the political spectrum made their opinions known democratically, via writing to newspapers and complaining on the Web. Still, caution would never hurt.

Before Thumeka could say anything, a paunchy middle-aged woman in a Peacekeeper uniform walked out of the small crowd and was waved through with no issue. Dr. Teck, one of Best's lawyers.

"Who the fuck is that?" someone asked.

"Defense lawyer, didn't you hear?" someone else replied.

"Why the fuck is one of those a defense lawyer?"

"Defendants have the right to be represented by counsel of their choice, and she was investigated."

"Fucking stupid rule," the person grumbled, but they said nothing.

Thumeka stood in front of the MP, who was more interested in blowing bubbles. "I am a journalist," she said.

The MP sighed. "Pass?"

Thumeka handed her the badge. The cardboard rectangle had her photograph, full name, and 'PRESS' written in large letters, as well as a barcode that the MP now scanned. A little green light lit up.

"Go ahead, but the courtroom's locked."

Even out here, the sound of hammering and sawing could be heard. No wonder it was locked!

Someone walked towards the table. "Do you sell coffee?"

At that, the MP who had been sleeping on the table woke up. "Do we look like a fucking coffee shop to you?" he asked incredulously. He checked his expensive (stolen?) watch, sighed, and put his helmet on. The white paint looked like a beacon in the weak light.

"No, I mean the courthouse."

"Trial staff only."

"Greedy fucking bastards." The person walked back into the small crowd.

"Who are you calling greedy?" the MP called out. "I haven't had any in days!"

Thumeka walked inside the courthouse, hoping she wouldn't fall asleep before the morning session was over.

"It is six o'clock in the Capitol," the radio declared, "and we are here with the morning news!"

Just as Antonius began to wonder why Warden Vance was not there on the first day of the trial, the radio was shut off. There was an ominous silence for a while, in which Antonius climbed out of bed and went to get cleaned up, a pair of eyes watching him half-heartedly. He hated being awoken by the radio, and the fact that the trial would be beginning today did not improve his mood.

Antonius made his bed, wondering whether to put on his suit now or to wait until after breakfast. As he smoothed out the blankets, he decided to wait, as he did not want to get food on his fine suit. It hung on the hook, looking completely out of place next to the jail-issued underwear and flannel shirt.

The morning routine was the same as always. Glasses, medications, chair handed over, shave, breakfast - oatmeal today. Antonius cleaned his cell, glad he had not tried to put on his suit just yet. Once that was done, he went through his things. Today would be the reading of the indictment, with which he was already familiar, but it would not hurt to have a pencil and paper on him, just in case. He placed two pencils and some paper inside a folder and set them aside. He also took a copy of the indictment, even though he knew that he would not be able to follow along for the length of the entire document.

That done, Antonius got dressed. It felt good to finally be properly dressed after so long, even if he had no mirror and the suit was noticeably loose on him. A guard handed him his tie and belt, and it took him a while to remember how to tie a tie. When he did up his belt, he noticed that his waist had shrunk by two belt loops. That, at least, was not entirely unwelcome.

Antonius buttoned up his jacket and looked down at himself. Acceptable. The clothes fit him poorly, but there was nothing he could do about that. If Warden Vance refused to get air conditioning, he would refuse something as 'petty', as he would doubtless consider it, as that. Antonius folded up a piece of paper and placed it inside his suit jacket pocket. He may have been in jail, but that was no reason to act like it. Now that he was properly dressed for the first time in months, Antonius could feel some of his old confidence coming back.

"Get up!"

Before he knew what he was doing, Antonius was standing before the door, folder in hand.

"Open the door!"

The door opened, and he came face-to-face with a young guard.

"Cuffs!"

Antonius held out his hand, and it was cuffed to the guard's. He looked around at his co-defendants. All of them looked much better now that they were properly dressed, but some were in off-the-rack suits that made their wearers look like workers attending their child's highschool graduation. The haircuts and cuffs, however, made their situation quite clear. They set off down the corridor, Antonius wondering yet again what he was doing there.

Thumeka yawned and shuffled inside the unlocked courtroom, taking in the sight. The large room smelled of wood and fresh paint. It must have been enlarged - Courtroom 19 had been used for major show trials before, but she doubted two tiers of seating had been needed. That was across from her. Thumeka was standing amidst the seats for the press. She made her way to the corner, which was barely half a metre from the dock. In front of the dock were two long tables for defense counsel, who were separated from the four shorter tables arranged perpendicularly to them by two metres of carpet. The prosecution's seat. After the prosecution would sit the stenographers and the like, and after that was the judges' bench.

"It's hard to believe we're here, isn't it?" she asked her neighbour in English as they took their seats - he in the very corner, she just next to him. She knew of him as one of the ones who didn't like to go out, and they had spoken a few times, but she didn't know his name.

The other correspondent, a pale man with wavy light-brown hair and brown eyes, nodded. "I've been in Trois-Rivieres for years," he said with a light Eastern European accent. "Never thought I'd make it across the border."

"Very true." Thumeka offered him her hand. "I'm Thumeka Makwetu. I'm from Zimbabwe. You must be from Eastern Europe. Poland? Belarus?"

"Belarus," he replied, shaking her hand. "My name is Mikola Krasiuk."

"Very nice to meet you." Thumeka looked at the two cards lying in her lap. One showed the diagram of the courtroom, indicating who would be sitting where. Thumeka's gaze drifted to the left, where flanked by MP's and so close she would be able to see everyone's facial expressions, was the dock.

The second card showed twenty-four mugshots with a list of what charges had been brought against whom. All of them looked horribly ordinary. Thumeka remembered the guided tour of the jail she had gotten and wondered if they'd look so shabby.

"Interesting bunch, isn't it?" she asked Krasiuk, tapping the card with the mugshots with a finger.

The man nodded. "I thought they'd be different somehow. But I guess that without their body modifications, they're bound to look the same as anyone else."

That was a very interesting element of Panem's culture - body modifications as a marker of status, from conventional earrings, tattoos, and dyeing grey hair to extremely elaborate procedures more befitting an artist who used their body as a canvas, not a government minister.

Another correspondent, a woman with dark-tan skin and narrow eyes, leaned over Krasiuk. Xia Jiao. "I got them to sign one of those cards," she said to Krasiuk without even the trace of an accent. "Cost me a pretty penny, but it's worth it. I'm Xia Jiao, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"One of the judges is named Xia," Krasiuk pointed out.

"Maybe we're related," Xia replied with a shrug. "Though I doubt it."

"How did you get the signatures?" Thumeka asked. She suspected that the warden would have imploded had she requested that during her tour. He was in the courtroom now, looking around suspiciously. As Thumeka watched, he left through a door not too far from the dock.

To the side of Xia, a pale man with no hair but nearly yellow eyebrows awoke from a daze and checked his watch. He was sitting right behind Thumeka.

"Asked one of the guards," Xia explained. "You give the card to one of them, they go and give the criminals a piece of chocolate or a cup of coffee in exchange for their signatures, and then you buy it from the guard."

Krasiuk smiled lopsidedly. "Bet they never thought they'd be exchanging autographs for coffee."

The conversation died there. Thumeka checked her phone. Nothing. She observed the audience settling into their seats. Most of them looked to be ordinary people, but she saw more than a few expensive suits and uniforms. They were excited and worried in equal measure, and who could blame them? In just over a year, a dictatorship that had endured for decades had completely crumbled. After that, anything was possible.

The MPs already looked bored. They stood at ease around the courtroom, armed with white clubs Thumeka had heard were in reality painted lengths of mop handles and random dowels. They looked to be adults - Thumeka suspected that even the youngest-looking ones were babyfaced nineteen-year-olds. That removed some of the air of the 'backwards country that just had a civil war' that clung to Panem.

The door to the dock opened and Thumeka felt rather than saw the anticipation of the crowd as a white-helmeted soldier walked in, and behind them...a slight older man. Was that the onetime Minister of Internal Affairs? Thumeka looked back at her card. Had he lost weight since the photo was taken? Dovek showed no signs of ill-treatment, but his face was definitely a little bit leaner. In that cheap suit, he looked like an affable bureaucrat who'd walk you through filling in a form.

"And that was the right hand of the world's most brutal dictator?" the blonde-browed man behind her whispered in a heavy accent. "He looks so ordinary."

All of the cameras were focused on the former minister as he sat down, papers in his hands. He had brown skin and white hair that probably would have been curlier had it not been buzz-cut. Before he sat down, the next person was brought in, a taller, younger, and paler man with receding black hair. Oldsmith, Snow's onetime advisor, secretary and alleged right hand. He looked like, well, a secretary. Thumeka could imagine him sitting in an office somewhere, typing away.

As the two men shook hands and took their seats, talking quietly, another person appeared. A woman this time, not too unlike Thumeka but a good deal shorter - Bright was from a working-class background, which here meant extreme poverty. She wore a uniform with badges of rank removed and nearly marched into the dock. Thumeka strained to hear what the three were saying to each other.

"She does look like a soldier," the man continued to whisper. "By the way, what are your names?" The three quickly introduced themselves. "Nice to meet you. I'm John Moore."

The dock filled up slowly. After the first six came in and took their seats, the next person was the one sitting in the corner closest to Thumeka. Blues, former Head Engineer of the Hunger Games, sat down so close to her, Thumeka could hear her sigh quietly to herself.

"Go in," Warden Vance said gently.

Antonius shook out his hands, which had just been freed from the cuffs, and nodded. He was led through a door, up a small staircase, and to another door. The guard pushed it open, and Antonius was in the courtroom.

The first thing he noticed was how bright it was. Next, he saw just how many people there were. The visitors' gallery was crowded, and so was the section from the press - he assumed that was the press, he could not think of any other contingent that was so international, going by their clothes. Closer to him, Shaw caught his eye and inclined her head slightly. Antonius returned the gesture and looked for his seat.

As Warden Vance had promised, they would be sitting in order of indictment. Antonius shook hands with the front corner bench and sat down next to Blues. The bench was far from comfortable, as it was plain wood, but the back was possible to lean against without experiencing even more discomfort.

"Good day," he said, offering his hand to shake. "How are you?"

Blues' grip was firm, but she looked lost. "Er," she said, and fell silent.

Talvian came out next. Antonius was not enthused about sitting next to the former NCIA head, but that was no cause to be impolite. When she offered her hand, he took it. Her palm was too small to grip his properly. This puppet-like woman, however, had always been the puppetmaster, and Antonius found himself unwilling to open his mouth.

"How are you doing?" he asked nevertheless as Krechet sat down next to her. Good thing he was not sitting next to him!

"Not too bad. Breakfast was good."

Antonius nodded. "I heard you are the smartest one of us," he said. A little flattery never heard.

Talvian chuckled. "I don't think my husband would agree, not after that one time I burned water trying to make tea."

If she wanted to be friendly for whatever reason, Antonius would reciprocate. She was a shoo-in for the noose, after all. "Oh, I understand that," he said.

Next to Krechet was Best, who demonstratively turned away from the former Death Squad operative. Antonius winced inwardly when he saw and made a show of shaking Krechet's hand. Whatever his personal feelings, the united front needed to be held up.

"Funny, don't you think?" the big man asked in a repulsive accent. "The highest and lowest IQ scores sitting next to each other. Smart and stupid. The master and the dog."

By saying that, he proved he was not as stupid as he claimed. Talvian tensed up almost imperceptibly at his words.

"I suppose," Antonius said neutrally.

Verdant limped out into the dock, heavily leaning on a cane. He was holding with him a blanket, which he used to cushion his seat.

"That is genius," Dovek whispered at a volume that just barely carried to Antonius. "I'm going to do the same tomorrow."

Antonius did not want to be back here tomorrow. He did not want to be here today. But there was nothing he could do except play along and wait for them to realize he was innocent, so he leaned towards Shaw to ask her a few questions. Better his lawyer than Talvian.

A stocky bald man, Lark, was next. Five more followed before a slender younger woman with beige skin and coily black hair sat down behind Blues. Slice, the trial's greatest enigma.

"I saw a few of her programs," Moore said. "Was she really a deputy minister or something? Seems to me that she was just a talk-show host."

Xia nodded. "Lark was also a talk-show host. They're the biggest living symbols of the propaganda system."

The key word there was 'living'. Thumeka jotted down a few notes on her phone as her colleagues started arguing about whether Slice was really guilty or not.

Up close, the key criminals are an even more pathetic sight than their mugshots. A group of middle-aged and elderly people that wouldn't look out of place on a streetcar in any cosmopolitan city, they take their seats, whispering to each other about IQ test results, cell temperature, and whether they enjoyed breakfast. Some of them wear suits of cheap fabric, others are dressed in fine clothes that go poorly with their short-cropped hair.

"I read an article about the defendants yesterday," Moore was saying. "It made predictions."

"And?" Thumeka asked, curious. She wasn't sure if the trial would be a fair one. It seemed to her that if Paylor and Bensoussan had wanted injustice, all twenty-four of the defendants would have been shot upon capture, but show trials were an integral part of propaganda the world over. If behind the scenes, all was already decided, Zimbabwe would want to know.

Moore made a vague gesture with his hands. "They think Slice has a chance at being allowed to live."

Slice was still staring into space with blank eyes. She showed no sign of having overheard that.

"We can only wish," Krasiuk said with genuine emotion in his voice. "The proceedings have been immaculate so far, but-"

But. Thumeka knew full well that transitional justice was seldom just. She had covered the aftermaths of conflicts, and knew how fragile peace could be. Panem was already highly aberrant. It had collapsed not because of political instability or economic crisis, but because an externally based resistance had been able to exploit the regime's increasing inability to do anything. Would they be able to beat the odds again?

The situation in the periphery was certainly above average. Lynchings had only occured for a few hours amidst the chaos, the new government quickly restoring order. The flying court martials worked unreasonably quickly, to be sure, but they did not rubber-stamp death sentences, or even guilty verdicts. That gave Thumeka hope.

"All rise!"

There was something magical about those words. Thumeka watched the judges file in, trying to figure out how to express the feeling in words. As soon as they were able to sit, she was typing away on her phone.

Watching the proceedings, one would not be able to tell that the trial of the century is about to begin. The thirteen judges sitting in place of a jury show no signs of having been the victims of the people currently sitting in the dock. The lawyers are all sitting at their screens, whispering to each other. Only perhaps the size of the audience gives away that this is no common organized-crime trial or antitrust case.

As soon as Raymond Sanchez, the presiding judge, began to speak, Thumeka felt a little bit better. The unattractive man was a great speaker, and Thumeka felt as if he was personally assuaging her fears.

"...We are far from the first country where an overthrown regime goes on trial," he said, "but this Tribunal has been assembled to do justice, not carry out the new government's political whims…"

She carefully studied the faces of the defendants as he finished speaking and a prosecutor stepped up to the lectern. They looked like students on the first day of a particularly difficult course, listening to the course director explain the term schedule before the professor began the lecture.

The lecture began. One of the prosecutors stepped up to the lectern and began reading the indictment, and before long, Thumeka was reminded of that one philosophy course she still had nightmares about. It had been extremely difficult, but the professor's deadly dullness had killed any desire to take notes or attend lectures. The correspondents started out jotting down reactions, but one by one, they fell away, staring into space or browsing the Web on their phones or simply leaving. Not wanting to look weak in front of her new colleagues, Thumeka reluctantly kept going. She had already picked out the juiciest lines from the indictment, so she didn't even have that to look forward to.

"Was this really necessary?" Moore whispered. "How long is this indictment?"

Krasiuk looked confused. "In a trial of this size? It's bound to be massive. All the documentary evidence alone - how are they going to read it?"

"They aren't including documentary evidence," Thumeka reminded him. "They don't do that in North America - and here too, I guess."

"At least there's that," Moore grumbled. He looked at them before writing something down in a notebook.

The defendants appeared to be completely out of it. A few were jotting down notes, others stared into space. Several of the defense counsel appeared to be playing on their phones. Thumeka knew that it was childish, but she pursued in taking notes, not wanting to be the first one to drop out.

At exactly ten, a recess was announced. Thumeka sagged in her chair, wishing she could leave. She woke up when she heard the defendants speak.

"Yet another reason why holding a group trial is a terrible idea," Dovek joked. "How is everyone's morning so far?" Thumeka realized that few would be able to hear this. She typed as fast as she could, nearly bouncing with anticipation.

"This is an outrage," Oldsmith said. "I was Snow's right-hand person, but I'm only fifth in the rankings!" Thumeka realized they had been keeping track of who had been mentioned how often. It confused her for a few seconds until she remembered that they had all read and re-read the indictment many times.

"See?" Dovek asked, smiling. "Even the judges accept it. Be grateful, it might yet save you from the noose."

"In my dreams," Oldsmith spat. "Can't you hear? They want our blood!"

Dovek laughed. "What blood? Clearly, they're trying to bore us to death." The other defendants joined in the laughter as Thumeka typed away.

Thumeka saw one of the defense lawyers holding a cardboard box of… donut holes, and walking towards the dock.

"What?" she asked, pointing at the lawyer who was now passing the box around the dock. The defendants were grinning like small children as they took the small spheres and ate them.

"That looks good," Krasiuk said. "I'll have to hit up that kiosk." He stood up, stretched, and left.

People were rushing out the doors now, and most of the defendants had also left. They had fifteen minutes left now until two and a half more hours of this deadly boredom. Thumeka wondered idly whether to go to the bathroom before ultimately deciding not to. Since nothing but more reading of the indictment would happen, any excuse to grab a break would be welcome. She checked her phone battery. Thirty percent. There was a socket not too far from her, so she plugged it in to charge.

Thumeka studied the mostly empty dock carefully, trying to see if she could think of something pithy to say. It was perfectly conventional - four benches, each of them sitting six. She had heard rumours that the benches would be backless, but they clearly hadn't gone ahead with that. Next to the dock, a woman sat in a chair - the psychiatrist. She had been taking notes from time to time.

Moore was playing a game on his phone, creating words out of a small amount of letters. To her surprise, she recognized the words. Either he was practicing his English, or he was from an English-speaking country.

"Where are you from?" Thumeka asked.

"England. You?"

"Zimbabwe."

Moore nodded appreciatively. "So English is your, what, third language?"

"Third or fourth, depending on how you count," Thumeka said, shaking her head. "My native language is Xhosa, and I also speak Shona, Ndebele - and Swahili, of course." The latter was the lingua franca of the region.

"I've been to Zimbabwe a few times," Moore said, looking up from his screen. "The food is great."

"Glad you liked it. I've been to England, myself. Lovely country, but cold."

Moore winced. "During the civil war?"

Thumeka nodded. "I covered the war."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad you don't think as little of me as you must of my more extreme-minded compatriots."

"People are people everywhere." Thumeka shrugged. "Zimbabwe wasn't always rich and peaceful. It'd be odd to judge an entire country for being wartorn."

"Still." Clearly lost for words, he looked down at his screen and formed a word. "Oh, that's Krasiuk!" he said, pointing.

Krasiuk was indeed back - and with a box of donut holes in one hand and a large thermos in his hand. "I didn't know they sold thermoses!" he said happily. "Drinks are cheaper if you bring your own container, so I bought one. With how long this trial will take, it'll be worth it." He sat down, donut holes in his lap. "How much time is there left?"

"Three minutes," Thumeka said, looking at her watch. "I don't want to think about the bathroom queue."

"Actually, it's not too bad. They knew they were going to have a massive audience."

Moore nodded appreciatively. "Always nice when the organizers are competent. May I?" He gestured at the box.

"Of course," Krasiuk said, opening it. "There's five for each of us." He took out several napkins and handed one to Thumeka and Moore. "Let's wait for Xia to get back, though." He looked at the dock, where all of the defendants were back by now. "I wonder what they're thinking."

As Thumeka looked at them, one - Grass - caught her eye. The older woman smiled sardonically before looking down at some papers, tapping a pencil against her cheek.

Xia soon returned. "Am I late?" she asked anxiously.

"No," Thumeka said. "One minute left." She wondered how punctual this trial would be. She had grown up thinking that arriving late was normal, and while she could arrive promptly if the situation called for it, she was still uneasy at the thought of ten-fifteen sharp meaning ten-fifteen sharp.

"Donut holes?" Krasiuk asked.

"Of course."

There were six types of donut holes sold at the kiosk. Formerly, the kiosk had been just one of many coffee shops all over the Capitol, but now that rationing held the country in a tight grip, only trial staff, black-market customers, and children could eat the sweets. The varieties were plain, honey-glazed, chocolate, jam-filled, lemon, and sour cream-glazed. As the box was passed around and other correspondents watched in envy, Thumeka took one of each except the sour cream-glazed, as it wasn't sweet at all and left an almost rancid aftertaste.

At exactly ten-fifteen, everyone was called to order and the deadly dull recitation of crimes began anew. Thumeka wondered how atrocities so horrific could be made so boring.

As Rye listened to the mind-numbing recitation, she wondered why she had been so nervous earlier in the morning. All she had to do was sit here and hopefully not get caught on camera doing something stupid. She was sitting close to the far end of her table, very close to the defense counsel.

Trevor Hall, who had recovered somewhat, stood up and took over from Yekutiel Aharoni from Two. They had just begun to explain the entire history of the Hunger Games. Rye's mind couldn't focus on that. Instead, she observed the defense counsel. She had seen some of them around, but not so many at once. Unlike their clients, they maintained their respectability with neat haircuts and suits that were just a little bit too big.

The defendants looked better than the average person who had been prosecuted by Rye. Their hair was neatly buzzed instead of hacked at with blunt razors and the men were all clean-shaven. The suits, too, were a cut above what the average defendant could produce. Rye vaguely recalled seeing Dovek on television before - it was like night and day. He actually looked normal now.

Nobody even twitched as Hall talked. The defendants had all read the indictment forwards and backwards and the crowd was too sleepy from boredom. The courtroom was completely packed, making Rye feel crowded in. She had already stopped caring about the television cameras. The only people who hadn't changed the channel by now were probably housespouses doing chores to the background drone and parents trying to lull their babies to sleep.

"I've been invited to a party this Saturday," Rakesh whispered to Rye. "And Anna Goldfield has something again - I think she just hates parties."

Anna Goldfield raised her eyebrows.

"Just sneak your husband in," Rye offered. Saturday would be a half-day at most so that anything started on Friday could be finished without a break.

Rakesh chuckled silently. He had massive bags around his eyes. "The ones up there will not approve."

"Can't you take Carver?"

"I don't think the house is accessible."

Carver looked up from her phone. "Once the host sees me being carried up the stairs, it'll rapidly become accessible. And won't it just be in the yard in any case?"

"I suppose," Rakesh said with a nod. "You're good for Saturday?"

"I am."

Rye glanced over at the press. They looked just as bored as everyone else.

"The court will now adjourn for forty-five minutes," Sanchez said. Antonius breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the uncomfortable bench.

"How nice," Dovek said sarcastically. "Makes me feel like I'm back at elementary school."

Antonius was confused for a few seconds before remembering that at elementary school, lunch was forty-five minutes. He chuckled appreciatively as guards made them stand up and led them out. His back and legs were sore from the lengthy sitting, but one glance at the much older Grass made him keep his mouth shut.

They were taken to a room with three tables and large windows. A few of the others crowded around, trying to get a glimpse of the city.

"Sit down!" said Warden Vance, who had materialized out of nowhere. Antonius sat down at one of the tables, with Blues sitting down next to him. He wondered what to say to the taciturn engineer. She had not said anything that entire morning, aside from whispering thanks to Slice for the donut holes.

A tray being placed in front of him startled Antonius out of his thoughts. He picked up the spoon and began to eat the bean stew.

"Good food," Brack said appreciatively.

"You think they'll feed you even better the day they hang you?" a young guard asked with a sardonic smile.

Unexpectedly, it was Slice who fired back. "And who authorized you to talk to us?" she snapped in an imperious tone.

"Nice," Cotillion whispered.

Two guards started to whisper to each other as Dovek and Oldsmith tried to rally everyone's spirits. "Our only crime was losing!" he declared. "If we are guilty of anything, then so is the victorious side. They bombed our children!"

"Exactly!" Oldsmith said, waving his spoon in the air. "Coin wanted to hold a Hunger Games with our children. Does Thirteen really have the right to judge us?"

"Yes." That was Coll. Shocked, Antonius wondered why he would say such a thing. "Look what they did to Coin. Look what they did to their own war criminals. We're lucky by comparison." He shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth and stared at his tray.

The guard behind the far table chuckled. "And here I was thinking that this would be literally Tokyo."

Antonius was not sure what Tokyo had to do with anything. Was it not the capital of Japan, one of the Great Powers? He had done a bit of familiarizing himself with a pre-Cataclysm trial called the 'Tokyo trial', but as far as he could tell, it had had nothing in common with this madhouse except perhaps the element of victors' justice.

"Good day," he said to Blues. Maybe she would be more talkative now.

"Good day." The former engineer was shoveling bean stew into her mouth.

"It appears we will have to spend quite a bit of time next to each other," Antonius said. "And you are much better company than my other neighbour." The last part was said in a low voice.

"I suppose so." Blues ate a piece of bread.

Antonius tried to remember when the two of them had been first introduced to each other. "We haven't worked together before," he said. "Though I do recall being present at meetings together."

Blues nodded. "I remember how we were introduced to each other. It was a Victory Ball, though I don't remember the year." Her eyes took on a distant look as she stared at her stew. "You said it was your first time at one."

That must have been the Sixty-Ninth Games. "I remember that," he said, recalling a younger Blues staring at everything wide-eyed. "It was the Victory Tour of the Sixty-Ninth. My grandmother had had a minor health scare, so she had decided to introduce her heir properly." Antonius remembered that day well. He had worn a blue suit custom-made for the occasion. Following Grandma's advice, he had been careful to eat only little things that could not potentially stain his clothing. The food had been top-notch - a far cry from this bean stew. Antonius ate another spoonful, wondering how things could have changed so fast. "Was that the year you were promoted?"

"It was just weeks after the promotion." She drank some water. "I remember the conversation I had with you. You asked if I was enjoying the cake I was eating."

Antonius stared at his meal. "The food was certainly better back then," he said, eating some bread. It tasted like cardboard. "How things change."

"It's a change, isn't it? I remember I filled my purse with chocolate."

Blues had always been out of place at high-society functions. No matter how high her position, nothing could disguise the fact that her origins were painfully middle-class. Her manners of dress and speech had only made it worse. "I remember that, too."

"You asked me what I thought of it all. I was amazed to be mixing with high society. My father-" she sighed, poking despondently at her stew. "He was a mute objector. But he was happy enough to come with me to functions, when I could bring them."

"What is he doing now?" Typical mute objector, getting the best of both worlds.

Blues sighed again. "He's sick. Heart trouble. I should be with him."

"My grandmother is ill," Antonius said. According to the last letter, she would not last for more than a few months. Poor Grandma, she was probably asking for him, unaware that her favourite grandson was in jail.

"I'm sorry."

"She is very old," Antonius said, gritting his teeth to stop himself from crying. "Everyone knew she did not have much time left."

"Still terrible." Blues ate some stew.

For some reason, Antonius felt a wave of pity for the engineer. How would she do during a cross-examination? She could barely string together a coherent sentence as is. Antonius scraped at his tray and ate the rapidly cooling stew, wondering what had gotten into him. Perhaps listening to that indictment had unhinged him. He'd need to ask the psychologist.

Thumeka wondered how correspondents had managed to work before the Web. She put an end to that thought before she horrified herself completely, sending off her write-up with a tap of the finger and stretching in her seat.

"Do you want to grab some dinner together?" Xia offered.

"Sure," Krasiuk said. "Where to?"

"Why not that restaurant the prosecution has commandeered?" Thumeka offered. "It's bound to be fully-stocked, and we're allowed in. We might even catch something interesting."

The other three agreed. They joined the line of bored and tired correspondents and journalists heading out of Courtroom 19. It was 16:15 - the session had finished early once the indictment had been read. If this would go on for any longer, nobody would show up of their own volition. At least tomorrow would be the opening statement, which was bound to be more interesting than the dry, legalistic recital of crimes.

They stepped out into the stifling evening air and walked towards the restaurant. Who knew when would be the next time they'd have an afternoon off.

Stephen walked into the cell block and was immediately confronted with twenty-six guards pretending to have always been this attentive. The two at the gate were standing at attention and saluting; the radio was nowhere in sight. The others were intently focused on their charges.

"At ease," he told the sergeant, who had just swallowed the gum she had been chewing. "Any complaints?"

"Nothing new."

"Good."

He had spent some time in the courtroom today, and was satisfied with the proceedings. No unnecessary drama had occurred, the schedule had been followed perfectly, and none of the defendants had caused a scene. Stephen had been relieved to not need the defenses he had installed in the Justice Building, but that left the question of whether there had been no attacks because nobody wanted to attack or if there had been no attacks because they had been scared off - or if they were planning to strike later.

Stephen walked down the line, checking up on the defendants. None of them were sleeping yet. Some were writing, others - reading. Their cells were all in order, or as in order as it got with some of them. Satisfied, he left the cell block, nearly colliding with Dr. Aurelius. As he headed for his office, he heard the jaunty strains of Don't Lock Me Away float in from the corridor.

One day was over, with who knew how many to go. Stephen wondered if he'd get to grab any rest tonight. Journalists were sure to mob him as soon as they spotted him.

"What nonsense," Lee said angrily. "I can't believe that this is what the entire world thinks of me now."

Unfortunately for him, he was right. Raymond Sanchez's opening remarks had been aired all over the world, inviting comments such as 'why does Panem have better judges than us?' and 'if Panem can become a democracy, we have no excuse'. "It's all nonsense?" Miroslav prompted.

"Of course not," Lee snapped. He sat back against the wall and crossed his arms. "Crimes were committed. I had nothing to do with them. It's not my fault if some pharmaceutical company sold insulin vials for a week's pay each!"

Miroslav had read or heard somewhere that the inventors of artificial insulin had sold the patent for a dollar, so that nobody would die of type 1 diabetes ever again. "Don't you think it's reasonable to accuse the minister of health when life-saving medications have to be bought out of pocket?"

"I guess it's reasonable," Lee conceded, "but it's wrong. Why don't you ask Chaterhan which one of his friends made birth control inaccessible in the outer Districts?" The inequitable access to things like that had been listed in the indictment. Under Lee and his predecessors, what kind of healthcare you got depended on where you lived and how much you earned - Drexel Kitteridge, the judge from Eleven, had had a higher life expectancy than a Capitol worker by thirty years, but he would not have been able to access extremely complicated procedures that only one surgeon in the country could do, unlike that proverbial Capitol worker, who might have had a chance if they gave a few appropriate bribes and managed to wait out the queue.

"I noticed that they included policies started by your predecessors," Miroslav said.

Lee shrugged. "That's one of the less insane things they did. I can see why they blame me for policies that continued under me - I suppose they think I should have stopped them."

"Do you think you should have?"

"If I knew they'd stick me in here, yes." Lee chuckled. "Did you notice that the section of the indictment about healthcare was some kind of tract in favour of universal healthcare? And they say it's not political."

If the listing of various ways in which the Districts had been artificially disadvantaged was political, the term was so broad as to be useless. "The Capitol always had it," Miroslav reminded him.

"Which was enough of a strain on finances."

As if workers dying in childbirth and smallpox/cholera/typhoid/polio/whatever other disease had long since been eradicated in Thirteen epidemics were good for the economy! Miroslav was no expert in this, though, so he changed the topic. "Interesting," he said. "Now, would be perhaps be willing to talk about your codefendants?"

"Very much so," Lee said. "It was good to finally be able to talk to them properly. I'm glad I sit where I sit. Kirji's actually not too bad, for someone who was so involved with the Hunger Games. And Coll's also alright. I think he's taking it all very close to heart."

Lee had no idea how much. Coll had quite openly told Miroslav that he wanted to take responsibility. Miroslav still had no idea what he had meant by that, as the younger man was very evasive and impossible to pin down. "What do you think about that?"

"I think it's not very smart," Lee said with a shrug. "Though he was made minister at age twenty-nine, so it's no wonder he doesn't understand anything. I heard he got promoted through the sauna."

There was something almost adolescent in how eager they were to badmouth each other to Miroslav. "And what about your neighbour to the front?"

"Krechet?" Lee snorted. "That big lug just blocks my view. They should have put him in the back row. Or not put him in the dock with us at all. He makes us look bad. Just look at him - he even looks like a killer!"

Miroslav never understood it when people said that. "How can you look like a killer?" he asked.

"Just look at how he studies everything he sees. As if he's looking for his next target. It's creepy. At least Talvian hides her true nature." He paused. "Did you notice that she could barely see over the barrier?"

Miroslav wouldn't have gone that far, but he had noticed that she couldn't lean against the barrier without slipping off the bench, because it was too far away. "At least the dock is roomy for her," he said in a joking tone. "I noticed you didn't look too comfortable."

"Oh, yes!" Lee put his legs on his cot and stretched them out. "It was so hot in there, and I was squeezed between two people. And the bench is so uncomfortable, my rear end is still sore." He sighed. "I don't want to go back tomorrow."

Neither did Miroslav. Air conditioning was currently being installed and would be operational tomorrow, which would make his life easier - he and Mallow were going to alternate days in the courtroom - but even he knew that trials were horribly boring affairs. "I noticed Verdant had a blanket with him."

"Smart of him." Lee glanced at the window. "I guess I'll ask the warden if that's allowed. Verdant's got his leg, after all." He sighed. "At least it's still light outside. Though I do wish I could go outside."

Miroslav had asked Vance to allow the key criminals outside, but had been shot down. "I'll keep working on the warden," he said.

"Thank you, Doctor." Lee smiled sincerely.

Even with all the windows open, it was still boiling hot outside. Dora lay on top of her covers, feeling like her thin pyjamas were stifling her, and waited for Jack's face to appear on her laptop screen.

"Hey," Jack said. He had just gotten a smartphone, so she could now see as well as hear him. "I saw you on television!"

Dora smiled. "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, but you were there!" The quality of the audio wasn't very good. "All the kids were watching. Grandkids, too." He sighed, turning serious. "I know you told me all about it, but what they said in the indictment - some of it shocked me."

"Everyone found something to be shocked about." When Dora had read it for the first time, she had mostly been horrified by the descriptions of prisons, both normal and secret. She had read the odd newspaper story, of course, and had always heard various rumours, but this showed that the horrors had been routine. And this was what she had sent criminals to? Even a short term of years had been practically a death sentence in some parts of the country.

"That's certainly true." Jack leaned closer to the camera. "That Sanchez - I see why you like him." Raymond was insisting that he hadn't done anything yet, but Dora could tell that he was much calmer now that he had been in the courtroom. "I liked those remarks of his."

"I did, too." Concise yet weighty, he had done a great deal to convince doubters of the validity of the trial.

"Glad to be back in the courtroom?"

Dora laughed. "The Web is already full of funny pictures of counsel sleeping. Good thing there's air conditioning!" She had been very close to falling asleep nevertheless.

"Well, I don't know," Jack said half-seriously. "If you fall asleep, you'll wake the other sleepers with your snoring."

Dora rolled her eyes.

"You know, I actually miss your snoring. It's too quiet in the bedroom now."

Dora rolled her eyes again. "How are the kids?"

"Did you know that a way to transmit taste remotely has been invented?"

"What about Bull, Keisha, and Wesley?"

"Also doing well." He shrugged. "It's going, bit by bit. Downtown still looks like a pile of rubble. I'm a farmer now - governor said so."

Jack, a farmer? "You?" People were being urged to take on extra jobs in agriculture and reconstruction, but her husband was sixty-three and had high blood pressure and arthritis.

"I'll have you know I'm very fit," Jack said with mock-offense and flexed his bicep. "Or, at least, fit enough to do this or that. Planting went fine, thanks to the seed grain humanitarian aid. Will you be back in time for the harvest?"

If they were planning on having sixty-three-year-old judges collect the harvest, the situation was much worse than what the newspapers printed, and the newspapers had no reservations about inciting panic and printing outrageous rumours. "No," Dora said. "Raymond hopes it'll be six months, I think it might take even longer. No gang has ever had seventy-five years of history that needed to be dealt with." She paused, remembering something. "What do the neighbours think?"

"Ah, yes, that great authority on everything," Jack said with unexpected sourness. "One of them got depurated, now they're complaining about the vengeful lower classes."

That was, unfortunately, not a surprise. Plenty of her colleagues had liked the system just fine, as long as it wasn't anyone they knew dying in the Hunger Games - and in the multi-million Ten, that never happened. "How's my vengeful proletarian taking it?"

"I swear one of them trained their dog to bark at me, but the little bugger still demands scratches behind the ear whenever her owner isn't around." Jack fanned himself with a folded piece of paper and drank some water. Their conditioner was broken, with no way to get a replacement, and they were too far north to qualify for emergency cooling. "Some complain when I'm just barely in earshot."

Dora sighed. "They'd never dare complain if I was there. I suppose we should be glad they're not saying it to your face." The laptop was unpleasantly hot against her stomach. She sat up against the tall headboard and put it in front of herself.

"I suppose. Is it hot where you are?"

"Boiling. Even if you were here, I'd opt for imaginary cuddles."

Jack smiled. "I send you virtual hugs," he said, and blew her a kiss. Dora reciprocated. "Is anyone opting for actual cuddles?"

Dora prepared to list off the juiciest gossip of the week.

Back in the billet, Thumeka bade farewell to the others and went to her room. She had to step over charging electronic devices as she made her way to their bunks. Three others were already there - one was sleeping, one was typing on her laptop, and a third was showering.

"That was a nice meal," Thumeka said.

"You went somewhere?" the journalist on her laptop asked. Thumeka vaguely knew that she was from Nigeria.

"We went to the hotel."

"And?"

Thumeka smiled. "Nothing gossip-worthy."

The journalist smiled wider. "Pity. You're back early, though."

"Tomorrow will be a long day," Thumeka said, changing into her sleeping clothes - a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She found her slippers and stepped into them. "I look forward to the opening statement."

On the other side of the room, another journalist was combing her hair with a thin comb that would have undoubtedly broken had Thumeka tried to use it on her own coils. "I dread it. It'll have to be amazing. Really amazing."

Thumeka headed off for the shower, now worried about the prosecution's opening statement. It was a little bit strange for a correspondent to be so worried, she mused as she put on her shower cap and turned on the water. There were three showerheads, separated by some sort of waterproof canvas. After all, what happened on the other side of the world in a completely backwards country did not affect her. She took the bar of soap, which threatened to disintegrate in her hands, and lathered herself up.

This wasn't the first trial she was covering, but something about the situation made her care. Perhaps it was the way that Panem was stubbornly trying to fix itself. Already, they had overthrown a dictator and instilled a democracy, and Thumeka doubted it would last. She knew better than most people from her part of the world just how fragile new democracies were.

A timer went off. Thumeka finished rinsing off just in time before the water shut off. She pushed aside the curtain and stepped out, wrapping herself in her towel. After getting dressed, she went back to her bunk. Thumeka set her phone alarm for six, only now feeling the exhaustion from having been up since two-thirty in the morning. She climbed up to her bunk and put on her mask, shutting off the bright light. It was too hot inside the blanket, so Thumeka stuck out her feet and hands. She drifted off, worrying about tomorrow.

A/N: Antonius is wrong about the Tokyo trial being unlike his in terms of absurdity - the IDMT has nothing on Okawa Shumei slapping Tojo Hideki while in the courtroom. It was caught on camera and can be seen on Youtube. Another thing the two trials have in common is the presence of the victims of the defendants on the judges' bench - Daniel Chatterjee here and Delfin Jaranilla, the Filipino judge and survivor of the Bataan Death March, in Tokyo.