It was mostly light outside the window when Antonius woke up. Grimacing, he rubbed at his eyes and sat up, tossing the blanket off himself. Now that it was summer, the cell was boiling-hot, and the humidity pressed down on him like a blanket as he walked to the door, bare feet sticking to the concrete.

"What time is it?" Antonius asked the guard in a whisper through the hole in the door.

The guard was a pale boy with epicanthic folds and straight red hair who smiled despite the early hour. Antonius did not recognize him. "Five-twenty-six," he said. He held up a paper packet. "Coffee?"

"Thank you," Antonius replied politely. "Nothing like a nice cup of coffee to wake one up in the morning." There was no point in being rude to the guards, not when they had the power to deprive him of sleep completely. It galled him to be polite to these slum children, but it was only temporary. They would find him not guilty and let him go soon enough.

The guard handed him the packet, as well as a thermos. Antonius retreated to the far corner of the cell so that the smell would not be so evident. He carefully bit the packet open and dumped half into the hot water. As the coffee dissolved, he hid the packet in the lining of the jacket that hung on a flimsy hook on a wall. Was it his imagination, or had it become hotter in the cell? He would need to tell the warden. This was completely unbearable.

"Do you have something specific?" Antonius asked the guard. Coffee was never free.

"Nah. Can you address it to my sister, though? She's an entrepreneur."

Antonius grabbed a piece of paper from his table. "What does she do?"

"Owns a barbershop. She's had it for ten years now. Started out cutting hair in our apartment, got her own place eventually."

That was an impressive achievement. Before, small business owners had often lost their businesses to one powerful competitor or another. If the guard's sister had managed to stand her ground for a decade against the owners of chains of salons, some of whom were from the Capitol, that meant she was a truly skilled businessperson. That was how it worked. Only the strongest survived.

Antonius picked up his pen, struggling as always to hold it. He would need to complain about that, too. "What's her name?"

"Solanine Erenford."

Solanine, I wish you all the best with your business. You are a tough and courageous individual. Always remember to weigh the risks against the rewards - though I am sure that you, of all people, could teach me a thing or two about that. -Antonius Chaterhan

Antonius signed, put down the pen, and handed the paper to the guard. He picked up the thermos from the floor and took a sip, the bitter liquid waking him up almost immediately.

The guard - Erenford - furrowed his eyebrows. "Thanks," he said. He looked like he wanted to say more but stayed silent. Antonius went about his morning routine, the boy clearly uncomfortable at having to watch him do so.

He hated waking up early, but there was something enjoyable in being awake when the others were not. Soon, Warden Vance would appear and shout at everyone to wake up. Dr. Shentop would appear with her box of morning medications, POW orderly half a step behind her, handing out glasses. It was always bright in the cell, which made reading and writing possible at any hour of the night, but Antonius needed glasses for serious reading.

Now dressed in a clean undershirt and the denim trousers he had been given upon arrest, Antonius sat down on his unmade bed, thermos in hand. As he drank the hot coffee, he wondered what the day had in store for him. For the past few days, the prosecution had subjected everyone to a history lesson about the start of the Hunger Games, reading document after document into evidence. Antonius had been surprised to discover that the Hunger Games had been illegal. He had assumed that the law had been changed, but it had simply been ignored. A good thing Grandma had not been involved in any of that.

Something flashed. In the hole in the door, two young faces were smiling. Next to Erenford, a girl was photographing him with a phone. The guards generally had a sense of shame and did not try to photograph them in their sleep or when they were undressed, but otherwise, all bets were off. Antonius had been photographed while reading or eating in his cell more times than he could count.

"Whatever the gossip rag demands, quadruple it," Antonius advised the photographer. "They will try their hardest to fleece you."

The girl solemnly nodded and went away. Antonius finished his coffee and handed the thermos back to Erenford. "What is your assignment?" he asked the boy.

"Dunno. They just dumped me onto Lieutenant Vance." He hid the thermos in his pocket. "Not like my family needs me or anything, so I'll probably stick around." That was unlikely. Warden Vance did not want them to befriend guards. "I've heard courtroom duty is boring," he said tentatively.

Antonius nodded. "It is bad enough for us, and we at least get to sit."

"I guess." Erenford leaned his elbows on the small shelf under the hole in the door. Antonius retreated to his cot and sat down, as chairs were only allowed during the day. Using a cardboard folder as a prop, he began to write a complaint about the temperature. The sun finished rising, which only made the situation worse. The window could only open ten centimetres.

Footsteps sounded in the distance. Erenford stopped slouching, as, undoubtedly, did the others. Antonius put aside his request and began to make his bed as Warden Vance shouted at everyone to wake up. Since he was already long-up, Antonius was able to use the time to clean up even more fully than usual. It was an exercise in futility, as they returned to their cells every evening to find them ransacked, but Warden Vance demanded discipline, and Antonius had to admit that he enjoyed the feeling of control that keeping his cell neat gave him. He controlled precious little these days.

Next were medications and glasses. They were not allowed glasses cases, so Antonius carefully set his on the table. His own reading glasses were long-stolen, but the IDC had issued him a new pair which fit him perfectly. It was odd that they would go all the way and provide them with good medical care but refuse to consider cooling the cells in May.

The chairs were returned to them and breakfast was handed out. Bean patties and rehydrated vegetables - a sensation. For the past four days, it had been oatmeal thickened with nutrient powder. The vegetables had clearly spent a very long while in a cupboard and were little more than tasteless mush. The bean patties had nothing in the way of spices. The tea was, as always, weak. Antonius ate and drank without much enthusiasm.

After breakfast was time to clean up. Antonius took the mop and bucket and washed the floor without complaint. Someone else, however, was not so willing to play along with their captors.

"Wash the floor yourself, if you want it to sparkle so much!" Dovek shouted.

Curious, Antonius leaned out the door as Oldsmith joined in. "Exactly! Who says we have to get on our knees and start scrubbing?"

"Oh, shut up, you two!" a guard said from down the corridor. "Can't you see you're making things harder for yourselves?"

The hapless guard standing opposite Dovek nodded. "Yeah. Just do it, alright?"

They went back and forth for a while. Antonius was irritated at his codefendant's inability to just be quiet and do what he was told. Or was that just the cowardly part of him speaking? He should have been impressed at Dovek's strength. They had ruined him, turned him into an automaton jumping around eager to please.

The guards suddenly fell silent. Antonius retreated deeper into his cell, scrubbing the sink with a washcloth. When Warden Vance got angry, which was extremely rare, Antonius felt like he was a little boy and one of his cousins was being switched for something, and it was not a feeling he wanted to be reminded of. Antonius rubbed the clean metal over and over, hoping this would not be the time the warden finally snapped and started shouting.

"I hear you are refusing to clean?" he asked in a quiet but firm tone. Antonius exhaled, relieved. "Please explain to me what purpose this insubordination has. Do you truly want to live in a dirty environment?"

Antonius mentally cheered Warden Vance on. That Dovek thought he was the leader, and they all had to play along. Since their united front could not be risked, this was Antonius' only chance at payback. The guard outside the door was practically standing at attention, but there was a small smile on his face.

Cell cleaned, Antonius mopped his section of the corridor. After that, another orderly came by to shave the men. They were not allowed to shave themselves, even though there was no conceivable way to kill oneself with the razors used.

"Thank you," Antonius told the orderly, who was washing off the razor in the sink. The orderly was the same one who subjected them all to buzz-cuts every two weeks. If there was one thing Antonius loathed, it was that. He had never worn long hair, but he had still had it properly cut and styled. With a buzz-cut, he looked like a hoodlum who had stolen a nice suit.

That suit hung on a hook on the wall. Once the orderly left, Antonius got dressed. The guard handed him his belt and tie, which Antonius quickly put on. More anti-suicide precautions from Warden Vance.

"Get up!"

Antonius grabbed his folder and put on his glasses. He stepped into the corridor and a guard cuffed his wrist to his own. It was strange, what one could get used to.

One by one, they were led out of the corridor. They followed a specific order that Warden Vance had come up with to make taking their seats less chaotic. Antonius was behind Blues and in front of Talvian. Blues made a good neighbour, but he could not stand sitting next to the former NCIA head. They walked down the corridors, up a short flight of stairs, and emerged into the dock.

By now, many of the journalists and correspondents had trickled away. Antonius waved to a small cluster sitting about a metre away from him. Before, there had not been any room in the press section, but now the four foreigners were surrounded by empty space. On the other side of the courtroom, the audience gallery was completely full for now. The VIPs were long gone, but the ordinary people from all over Panem had been lucky to get a ticket. Nearly all of them were from the Capitol.

"What does 'odium' mean?" Kirji asked quietly. She appeared to be looking through some papers, but doubtlessly there was a crossword hidden there.

"Hatred," Slice whispered to her.

The other side of the dock was busy discussing some kind of inter-District issues. Antonius wondered how the tribunal had not fallen apart at the seams yet. With how tense the situation in the country was, one could have thought that cooperation would be impossible, and yet he was in a dock. Antonius did not want it to collapse, though. Too high a risk of being put up against the wall. No matter how much he hated to admit it, the trial was the best chance he had.

"All rise!"

Antonius leapt to his feet, smoothing out his suit jacket. It was pleasantly cool in the courtroom, thanks to Warden Vance's bizarre insistence on proper air conditioning. The thirteen judges filed in, led by Judge Sanchez, who wore his uniform instead of the robes the others wore. Judge Meadowcreek stuck to him like a burr, looking like a star-struck intern.

They sat down, and Irons stepped up to the lectern to continue reading. Much to Antonius' relief, she was not casting aspersions on Grandma anymore. Instead, she was reading into evidence documents about a mass outbreak of dysentery in a city in Eight caused by the provider supplying a factory cafeteria with rotten food. Local activists tried to complain, and a local court even found the provider to be in the wrong, but Grass told the higher-instance court to deal with it, and the activists found themselves fined amounts they could not pay or behind bars.

"You put that into writing?" Coll whispered to Grass. "That's blatant conspiracy to impose unlawful punishments."

"Irons is taking things out of context!" Grass hissed back as Irons continued to describe how Grass and Pollman had conspired to imprison the activists and allow the provider to sell rotten food to factories all over Panem. Irons then segued into describing the criminal activity of the provider (Eugenie Goodman had killed herself in the last phase of the fighting) and their connections to various government institutions.

The documents were horrifically dull. Of course, Antonius himself was mentioned often enough, but it was absurd to think that he had been aware of the living conditions of his workers. It was the lower-level officials who were at fault for that, not him or Grandma. He settled back on the uncomfortable bench, keeping an ear out for his name. Irons was going on about the justice system, so he was safe for now. Next to Blues, a guard appeared to be sleeping standing up. An hour had passed.

Antonius looked at the clock and wished it would hurry up. The audience began to trickle away, dry documents not holding their attention for long. If only he could do the same.

The IDC was having problems, that much Mary knew without having to step foot into the dilapidated building. There were, however, some things that the newspapers didn't say. Like the fact that the organization was not on the brink of falling apart, not yet.

"How many trials do you want to hold?" Thirteen's representative asked, obviously unsure about it all.

That was a better question for Reed. "As many as we can," Mary said simply. "The Peacekeepers' case will be starting in two weeks. Cases against representatives from the legal system and the field of medicine have been mostly built, as is the case against the assistant Gamemakers." The trial of the Gamemakers had finally resumed, much to Mary's relief.

"Good," the representative said absently. "The industrialists?"

Some in Thirteen were all for trials of industrialists and thought that the nationalization of the utilities had been the best thing to ever happen. Others were vehemently opposed to the whole concept. Still others were pro-business and pro-punishing those who broke the law. "We are currently busy with Chaterhan, so there is plenty of material against the entire leadership of the Steelworks. If we have the resources, we will go after the Electrical Works, United Chemicals & Rubber, and the mineral and textile conglomerates, in that order."

The facial expression of the representative clearly showed what they thought about that plan. "Interesting," he said absently. "And how do you propose the country rebuild in such circumstances?"

Mary knew the representative from before. He had been quite junior, only rising to this position because his superiors had either quit or been fired after Coin's death. "We are rebuilding quite well without them," she reminded him. "Remember the program - Depuration, democratization, demonopolization. The cartels and conglomerates will be broken up so that they can compete with each other, resulting in higher-quality output for lower prices. We do not need those crooked oligarchs who only know how to steal."

"Then why did we nationalize the railroad?" the representative asked rhetorically.

"I believe Dr. Able explained it better than I can," Mary shot back. "I am not an economist. I am a lawyer. I have my political opinions, but my job is to prosecute cases."

"Fine," the representative said, backing down slightly. "How is the case going?"

Of course, he already knew everything from the news. He simply wanted to pump Mary for the exclusive information he thought she had. "Slow but steady." They had finally moved on from the Hunger Games to the justice system, demonstrating both criminal laws and conspiracy to break the law. The other Districts had complained that too much of their material was being used, so Mary had asked the teams from One, Two, Three, and Four to back off on the specifics and stick to the conspiracy.

"If I may ask - why the justice system?"

"Continuity," Mary explained. "Military orders can be explained away as long-forgotten, but we have proof that laws passed immediately after the First Rebellion were upheld the entire time. Thus, a long-lasting conspiracy to impose unlawful punishments on certain categories on people and to treat people differently depending on where they lived."

The representative nodded. "Why couldn't you just focus on the past few years? What of the statute of limitations?"

"There is no statute of limitations for crimes against humanity," Mary said simply. "Would you ignore an injustice someone had to live with their entire life just because it happened too long ago even though it is prosecutable?"

"I suppose not," he conceded. "Still, the pace is making me nervous."

"This is a conspiracy trial," Mary reminded him. "The wheels of justice grind slowly."

The representative nodded again, but Mary could tell he was unhappy with her answer.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Miroslav called out. The door opened, and a soldier walked in.

"Hello," the young man said. "I think you might be interested in this." He held up a letter.

The soldier was a censor, then. Miroslav took the letter and scanned it with his eyes. Chaterhan's wife had written that his grandmother had taken a turn for the worse. "When is the letter being delivered?" he asked, handing it back.

"Two days from now."

"Very well, then. You may go." The soldier nodded and left the office, shutting the door with a quiet click.

On the surface, this particular bit of news should not have been hard to deliver. But given that Chaterhan was not in the best mental state at the moment, he would have to tread carefully. "Nothing important for us," Miroslav said to Mallow, who had looked up from her computer to follow the conversation. "Chaterhan's grandmother is dying."

Mallow nodded. "Makes sense. Are you going to break the news?" She picked up a piece of paper and scrutinized it. Both of them were sitting at tables covered with papers.

"Who else?" Miroslav leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He looked at the clock. The session would be ending in half an hour. Usually, either he or Mallow were present in the courtroom, but this afternoon, Rolan was standing in for him. It was simply too hard. "Do you want to go grab dinner before our charges return?"

"It's already that late?" Mallow checked the time, eyes widening. "But I haven't gotten anything done this entire afternoon!"

"Me neither," Miroslav admitted. There wasn't anything they needed to do per se, but their notes and observations needed to be put in order.

Mallow sighed and stood up from her chair. "Let's get dinner, then."

In the cafeteria, they scanned their badges and received trays of food in exchange. Miroslav was acutely aware of the fact that he could always get more. But that was why he went for meals with Mallow. They sat down at an empty table and dug into their beans, rice, and canned vegetables.

"What's this bread made of?" Mallow asked, looking at the flat circle she had just taken a bite out of. "Tastes like they threw together all sorts of flours."

"Maybe they did." Feeling fancy, Miroslav took his bread and put beans and vegetables in it, making a sort of wrap. He took a bite and winced. There was something very off about the texture. "I hope they're not feeding the prisoners this. I pity whoever will have to deal with Holder." The former NCO and soon-to-be defendant was known for his extreme food aversion. "Though he'll probably just not eat it." Miroslav paused, wrap halfway to his mouth. Holder could eat neither beans nor canned vegetables. "That man's going to get nutrient deficiency one of these days."

Mallow shook her head, taking a sip of her water. "He's made it this far."

"Yes, by blatantly robbing shops." When Mallow had diagnosed the former Peacekeeper with ASD, Miroslav had been shocked. He had never thought that a neurodivergent person could do well in the military - indeed, in Thirteen, individuals with ASD had been allowed to opt out of combat training. But the twelve-year-old Holder had been instantly picked as a perfect candidate.

Miroslav shook his head and took a bite of his wrap. He had Chaterhan to worry about, no need to stress himself out further by contemplating the mystery that was Holder's mind.

"You want to go to the black market on Sunday?" Mallow asked. "I need to buy my husband a gift for his birthday."

"Sure." Miroslav ate the last bit of his wrap and wondered if he should get Rody something. Their anniversary was coming up soon - it wouldn't do to forget about that. Had they really already spent sixteen years together? It felt like yesterday that he had been relocated to the hospital where Rody had already been working. They had hit it off immediately. Rody wasn't particularly anything - if he was honest with himself, neither was Miroslav - but she had been so easy to talk to, such a delightful companion. After just a few days at the hospital, Miroslav's first reaction to hearing something interesting was to go tell Rody. She had asked him out after a week, and the rest was history.

"Miroslav?"

Miroslav nearly jumped into the air, startled out of his thoughts. "Yes?"

"They should be ending now." Mallow pointed to the clock on the wall and stood up.

Reluctantly, Miroslav stood up as well. They handed back their trays and went their separate ways - Mallow to the office, and Miroslav to the cell block. When he got there, the radio was loudly playing the news. Newfoundland was asking for the extradition of the Peacekeepers who had sunk their ships. "Would you please turn it down?" he asked.

"Sure thing, Doc."

The newscaster became slightly less obnoxiously loud as Miroslav walked over to Chaterhan's cell and waited for the guard to unlock it. Noticing him, Chaterhan leapt to his feet. "Good afternoon," he said, moving to his cot and leaving the chair free. "How may I help you today?"

Miroslav decided to start with the news. "I have bad news from your family," he said, taking out his notepad and pen.

"My grandmother?"

Miroslav nodded.

Chaterhan sighed and shrugged slightly. "I knew it was coming," he said, putting his hands on his knees. "When did she pass?"

"Not yet, but she is doing very poorly." Miroslav wrote down the conversation nearly verbatim using shorthand.

Chaterhan's jaw tensed. "Is there any way I could be allowed to go see her?" he asked in a much less confident voice than usual.

"I'm sorry, but no."

"I knew that." Chaterhan uncrossed and crossed his ankles, hands folded on his knees. The gesture looked odd when done by someone wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and denim trousers. "I assume it will be forbidden for me to attend the funeral as well?" Miroslav realized that Chaterhan had tears in his eyes.

"Yes."

"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "I know it is foolish of me to be so upset. She was over a hundred years old, and ill. Everyone knew she was dying. She told me herself she looked forward to it."

Miroslav noticed the past tense. "She is your grandmother," he said in a consoling voice, "and I know you two were very close. It is perfectly natural to be upset that she will soon no longer be with you, especially given your current situation."

"You are right." Chaterhan dropped his head into his hands. "And they are saying such terrible things about her in court! It makes me sick. She can't even defend herself."

Unfortunately for Chaterhan, these terrible things were the truth. "Do you think that they are saying incorrect things?"

Chaterhan sat back, leaning against the wall. "They are taking things out of context," he eventually said. "Times were different back then, with the Dark Days and all. I admit, it went on far too long, but I do not see how my grandmother is at fault for the Hunger Games."

That was a better discussion topic for Shaw. "'It' went on far too long?" Most of them did not show much support for the Hunger Games.

"I do not want to talk about it. She is dying! Can they leave her in peace for once?" Chaterhan dabbed at his eyes with the collar of his shirt. "They decided to indict me instead of her, so why keep on bringing her up?" Before Miroslav could open his mouth, he answered his own question. "Because of the conspiracy charge. I know. They talk as if she was a gangster grooming me to take over a gang! An outrage."

Chaterhan seemed to exist in a constant state of outrage. Miroslav finished writing and gathered his thoughts. The middle-aged man cut a pitiful figure. No longer the all-powerful industrialist, just a man heartbroken by the upcoming death of his beloved grandmother. Chaterhan may have been in his mid-forties, but his good fortune at still having his grandmother with him at such an age did not invalidate his grief. "What do you want to talk about?" Miroslav asked.

"Lieutenant?" Tiller asked, leaning into the office. "New complaint from Chaterhan."

One day, Chaterhan would stop complaining, and Stephen would die of shock. "What is it this time?" he asked, checking the time. He had to go on his rounds in the witness wing.

"Demands air conditioning and compassionate leave to go to his grandmother's deathbed."

His grandmother had picked an inconvenient time to die. Stephen got up from his table and headed for the door. "Come on. Let's discuss this on our round."

Tiller shook her head as she followed him. "She's over a hundred," she said wonderingly. "I'm just impressed she made it that far."

Stephen's grandparents hadn't made it quite that long, but they had all lived into their eighties at least. Tiller, though, was from Eleven, and rural Eleven at that. "Good genes, healthy lifestyle, didn't work in manual labour. Nothing strange about that." Chaterhan's first complaint could be dismissed out of hand - Stephen's own lodgings were equally stuffy and hot, and he wasn't complaining - but the second one was the first serious demand he had made. It was cruel to forbid a person from attending the funeral of a close family member.

On one hand, allowing it would set a bad precedent. All of the defendants had elderly family members who could die at any moment. On the other hand, Dr. Aurelius had told him how close Chaterhan had been with his grandmother. It was easy to dismiss the two as a bandit raising her grandson to take over the gang one day, but they were still living, breathing human beings who loved their family members.

"Have him visit her this Saturday afternoon, and then again for her funeral. I won't have him skipping court to go pay respects, though. The ceremony will have to be on a weekend." Hopefully she would make it that long. Stephen didn't want to be known as the one who had forbidden someone from visiting their dying grandmother.

Dora wondered when she had become accustomed to being unimportant. For decades, she had always been the most powerful person in the courtroom. She had decided fates and taken it for granted, and now she sat quietly and passed the occasional note to Raymond.

Perhaps it was the fact that she did not envy Raymond that did it. This trial had the highest stakes of any she had ever participated in. Every single decision was scrutinized, every word, every gesture.

For that reason, the transcript Dora was currently reviewing in her office in the billet was mostly a long drawn-out argument about the law. A challenge to the relevancy of a document morphed into a half-hour discussion about the validity of a certain precedent from the pre-Dark Days McCollum era. Small wonder Dora had no memory of this exchange - she must have blocked it out.

The next argument, however, she recalled very clearly. The prosecution had overstretched itself trying to link the legal terror of the early years to the more recent purges, and Raymond had decided to cut that chain of argument short. Dora knew that many people were criticizing the judges for being too strict on the prosecution, but the defense had a massive handicap - their clients were too hard to defend. Anything Raymond did was barely enough to give them breathing room.

None of the newspapers mentioned Dora, except the ones from Ten, but Raymond was roundly criticized for every decision he made. In Dora's opinion, he could have been a little bit tougher on the prosecution and defense alike and cut those interminable arguments short, but Raymond wanted to show that everyone could make themselves heard.

Dora read through several pages of the lawyers going in circles and wondered what the people back home were thinking. Opinion polls showed that people generally approved in the abstract, but nobody had the patience to actually watch the proceedings live. Even Jack stuck to the nightly recap. She didn't blame him. The long days were gruelling both mentally and physically. Once she was out of the courtroom, Dora went for an hour-long walk to clear her head before eating dinner with Juan and the assistants, meeting up with the rest of the judges to make any necessary decisions, and retreating to her office. The others worked in the living room, but Dora had always preferred to work in privacy.

Every single day, Dora had to go through the daily transcript and take notes, or she'd lose track of what was happening. The prosecution was doing its best to go topic by topic and stick to chronological order, but they would start calling witnesses soon, which would take them completely off the tentative roadmap Irons had outlined.

It was boiling hot in the office. The Rolands had managed to acquire several fans somewhere, and one was currently blowing air right at Dora. Since it couldn't cool the air it wasn't even close to being as helpful as the courtroom air conditioning, but it was still better than nothing. The Capitol's buildings had been supposed to be constructed with the summer heat in mind, but not only had those guidelines been as ignored as any other laws, Lodgepole was mostly piles of rubble that heated up during the day and turned the night into an oven.

Dora was better off than most. As she continued reading the transcript, she took sips of cold water, ice cubes clinking against the side of the cup. The momentary coolness was a relief. How were people coping in even hotter parts of the country? Dora tried to focus on the transcript and not think about unrelated things, but it was hard. She was so tired. How much longer would the trial continue for?

After checking in on the lesser criminals, Stephen had to play at tour-guide again. A lucky photographer and correspondent accompanied him as Stephen unlocked the door to one of the group cells in the witness wing. Inside, four women - researchers who had served as consultants for the Death Squad - looked up from their game of cards and hurried to pull on something over their undershirts.

"You may ask a few questions," Stephen told the correspondent.

The correspondent, a short man from Yellowknife, looked around the cell. In Stephen's estimations, it was quite large, but this was his first time working with cells that held more than one person. Two bunk beds were located against the walls, with room along the far wall for more - the cell had been used to hold ten to fifteen prisoners before, but according to the manuals there was only enough air in the cell for the optimal functioning of four, so four it was. If more had to be found a place, he'd have to put the youngest and healthiest in less than optimal conditions, or else try to make something useful of the torture cells in the basement.

Instead of another set of bunks, there was only a row of hooks and shelves along the far wall, containing the four women's things. There was a table and extra blankets to sit on. When Stephen had decided to use the cells, he had been confronted with a major issue - many of the prisoners were quite aged, they were not physically capable of using toilets that consisted of a hole in the ground. The four women sitting down on the table right now were in their thirties and forties, so they, at least, did not have that problem.

They smiled for the camera. The Death Squad operatives were all in single cells in the lesser criminals' wings - one of them had just horrified Stephen by doing a somersault from a handstand to a handstand in his cell - but these chemists and biologists, whose official title had been of 'consultant', were witnesses. Many of the white-collar murderers had been added to the list after an outcry motivated by the demographic statistics of who became an operative (through the military schools) and who - a consultant (through university), but this four had no evidence to say they had ever done anything beyond working at the research institute and occasionally sending their findings to the NCIA. Perhaps they'd be tried down the line, but nobody was chasing them down, indictment in hand. Was there a hint of triumph in their smiles at that or were they simply smiling politely for the camera? The latter, most likely.

"So, who are you?" the correspondent asked. Dressed in neatly pressed grey jumpsuits and with identical haircuts, the four could only be told apart by hair texture and skin colour, though one was wearing rubber slippers. Her worried parents had sent those in.

The radio - he let the guards in this wing play it - switched to a melancholy song that had become popular recently. Very political content was not welcome, as everyone wanted to move on, but this was less overtly political than most such songs. As an older woman began to sing, the four prisoners turned slightly sour. Clearly, they had heard that song many times before, and did not approve.

"Turn it down!" Stephen commanded. "We've got visitors."

"Yes, sir!"

The sudden silence was suffocating. One of the women introduced all of them after a too-long pause. Tajakin was the leader of their little group, a chemist and an (allegedly honorary, there was no proof either way) NCIA officer. Basilashvili was another chemist, and Setz and Parker were biologists.

"Chemists and biologists?" the journalist asked. "What do you specialize in?"

That much could be ascertained from looking at the shelf where they stored books. The four launched into explanations of their research - Setz was currently working on a paper about how some kind of toxin affected cells. All four were convinced that their arrest was a misunderstanding and they'd be back at the research institute soon enough.

"And how are you being treated?"

Tajakin shrugged. "Well enough. We can't complain."

Of course Snow's team of poisoners knew better than to complain. The journalist asked a few more basic questions before nodding to Stephen, who motioned the nearby guard to lock the door.

"You need to see this," the journalist said suddenly, shoving their expensive phone into Stephen's hands. Stephen looked at the screen and had to hold back a sigh. It was a photograph of Chaterhan and a prison inmate in what was most likely a factory. The prisoner wore a baggy grey jumpsuit and cloth cap, Chaterhan - a perfectly tailored understated dark suit and hat. The two seemed to both be confused by what they were seeing.

This photograph proved that Chaterhan had been lying this entire time about having never stepped foot in a prison. Not a great surprise, that. "Thank you," Stephen said politely.

"There's an article about how someone is using this as cover art for that album with that song about him and selling it to foreigners." The journalist was excited by that prospect.

Stephen was not surprised by that, either. Foreigners were willing to buy anything as a souvenir. "Interesting," he said. "Come on. I believe you wanted to see the yard?"

After the tour, Stephen went to check on the key criminals, only to discover that he had not dodged the bullet a second time - the radio was blasting Chaterhan and Chiu, much to the irritation of the former.

There was no point to the blanket when it was hot like in an oven in the cell. Antonius lay on his cot, blanket bunched up under his feet. A guard was watching him tiredly through the hole in the door. The lightbulb worked into the ceiling shone as brightly as ever even though it was dark outside the window.

From the corridor, mournful tunes poured in. Some jokester was singing a lullaby, which was still better than that horrible song that had played earlier that evening. It was hard to believe that someone had written an insulting song about Grandma - or had it been meant to refer to him? Either way, mortifying in a way he had never experienced before. Thinking about that song made his face burn.

Antonius turned over, letting his arm dangle off his bed. Even the sheets felt uncomfortably hot to the touch. On top of that, his coffee had been found and confiscated, and Warden Vance had yelled at him. Tomorrow, he would need to sign more autographs.

It was Friday tomorrow. One more day, and then the half-day, which meant the weekend. Best of all, he would get to see Grandma. He looked forward to and dreaded it in equal measure. At least Warden Vance had agreed to that much. He was a martinet, but he had a heart.

Antonius turned over again, arm over his eyes to shield them from the bright light. Soon, the prosecution would start reading documents about the mistreatment of workers, segueing into the heart of the case against him. Now that he thought about it, Antonius was unsure why workers had been treated in such a way, they were now queuing around the block to complain. He certainly had never asked for the workers to be mistreated, as that did not improve performance. Neither had Grandma, of that he was sure. Snow had always gone on and on about how the workers in the Capitol were all fully loyal, but he had lied there as always, and now Antonius was here.

Even at night, he could not stop thinking about the trial, but what else did he have to think about? When on trips to the Districts, he had lain in bed thinking about Octavia, but the guard at the door killed any desire to think such thoughts, and wondering what Achilleus was doing now was just painful. Antonius tossed and turned in the stuffy cell, wondering when the nightmare would end.

A/N: The bean patties Antonius eats are somewhat altered dosas. Still delicious, but probably far less spiced than how my friend makes them.