The gallery was rather crowded for the time of day, but that was to be expected for the first testimony of a Hunger Games survivor. Rye double-checked the list on her phone. Naquian Tyson of Five would be performing the direct examination of Johanna Mason, followed by the continuation of the presentation of documentary evidence against the department of Victors' Affairs by Rakesh and the individual cases against Toplak and Kirji. Mason was walking in now. Rye sat up slightly. She had seen her a few times on television, but never so up close.

When Mason was sworn in, she repeated the words in a firm voice. Tyson tapped his fingers against the lectern several times, waiting.

"Witness, state your name, age, and address."

"Johanna Mason, twenty-three, 90a Mashin Lane, Centre, District Seven." She appeared to be much older than her twenty-three years and spoke with the standard newscaster accent.

"Thank you, witness."

Tyson began the direct examination. "If you are twenty-three now, does that mean you were seventeen when you were Reaped?" he said in the heaviest accent the upper-class lawyer could muster. Some of the defendants were visibly irritated, Rye found it hard to understand him, and the poor stenographers had to be struggling. Several times, they had requested the prosecutor speak 'more coherently', only for the prosecutor to reply in a deadpan tone that they could not speak any other way. Of course, that statement was true for most people who went on trial, so the stenographers really ought to have been more comfortable with 'improper' accents.

"Yes."

"Where were you born?"

"Upper Barrow-23."

"What was your parents' occupation?"

"Officially registered as unskilled lumber-mill workers."

She was a taciturn one. This would be an easy examination. "Was the lumber mill the sole big employer of the town?"

"Only in the winter."

"And in the summer?"

"Every able-bodied person went to the logging camps."

"Were you one of them?"

"Yes."

"Were children customarily taken to the camps?"

Mason shook her head. "No. Only those whose parents had nobody to watch them, and those that also needed to work."

"Were you one of those children?"

"Yes."

"Since when have you been working?"

"I helped with little tasks for as long as I can remember, my parents didn't have anywhere else to put me, but I was first paid at the age of five."

"Did you go to school?"

"No."

"Are you literate?"

"Yes."

"When did you learn?"

"At the age of thirteen, at a logging camp. A middle-class youth who had needed the money came up when her school year ended and taught some of us when we had an hour free."

"What did you do in the winters?"

"Worked in the mill."

Tyson glanced down at his notes. "At the logging camp, what sort of tools did you use?"

"Hand saws and chainsaws for the most part."

"When you were seventeen, you were Reaped. How did you react?"

Mason flinched. "I had a breakdown," she said quietly. "I couldn't cope with it. I didn't want to die."

A hush fell over the courtroom. That was, of course, very different from the official propaganda line. Rye remembered that moment somewhat - an actual breakdown had been fairly rare, so the stunted pockmarked girl in ill-fitting shirt and trousers had stuck in her memory. Idly, Rye wondered if the smallpox scars had been removed somehow, or if Mason simply wore makeup.

"Please describe in your own words the following days and weeks."

At that loose suggestion, Mason clearly felt uncomfortable, but she began to speak, voice wavering slightly. "I do not remember well. I thought I was doomed. I cried constantly." Over at the next table, the defectors and native Thirteeners looked very uncomfortable. "My District partner tried to console me. He was eighteen, from Centre, a factory worker. He was called Wilhelm Kiziltepe. He died in the bloodbath."

"What is the 'bloodbath'?"

Mason stared at him wide-eyed, clearly not understanding. "Everyone knows what that is. It's-it was the first few minutes of a Hunger Games. When half the Tributes ran to the supplies, and got killed." Rye was also confused by the strange question before she looked to the side again, and it finally truly hit her that there was a whole wide world out there where nobody knew anything about the Hunger Games.

"Did you try to get supplies?" Tyson asked as Rye reeled from the revelation.

"Yes," she dimly heard Mason say. "During my individual evaluation, I threw some axes, my Mentor said something about axes, so there was a pair not too far from me. I had enough presence of mind to grab them before running away into the forest."

"How well did you throw these axes?"

"Not very. The ones we had back home were too heavy for me to throw back then, I was too small, and ones at the Training Centre were completely unfamiliar, the shape was different."

"What kind of forest was the Arena?"

Again that uncomprehending look. Mason did not quite understand that not everyone had watched the Games. "I don't know. It was warm enough to sleep without freezing, and I recognized a few edible plants and found a stream, but it wasn't exactly like the forest outside my home town."

"You lived off the land, then?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Three days."

"What was your plan during these days?"

Mason sighed. "I didn't have one. I just wanted to hide. I wanted to get away. I didn't think I could win. I was also really hungry. I was just really afraid of dying, but I knew I had days left if that, so I was just stumbling around in a daze."

"What happened on the fourth day?"

"I ran into another Tribute. I now know it was the boy from Eleven." Her voice hitched. "He was so small. He was my age, but he was so thin and stunted. I panicked." She paused, taking deep breaths. Rye felt a little bit ill. She had watched it unfold, of course, Mitch and Flo burrowed into her and Barrow's arms, but to hear one of the participants speak? "He raised his hands, shocked. I threw my axe at his chest - he was maybe a metre or so away from me, but I was lucky I didn't miss. He died in seconds."

"And then what?" Tyson asked gently. Rye wondered what he had thought. She herself had been shocked. Out of nowhere, the weepy youth had killed without blinking. No wonder she had bought the assertion that it had all been a pretense. It wouldn't do for the propaganda system to admit that its sadistic Games had driven a child into insanity or that the well-aimed throw had in reality been a desperate lob.

"Several minutes later, a parachute landed. With a granola bar inside. I realized that maybe I could win. Maybe I could go home and see my parents and siblings and everyone. I had no idea how many Tributes were still left, but then a feast was announced. I went there, but it was just a single loaf of bread. The others had forgotten me. There were six of them. I killed one when she was trying to get away - she was limping badly and unarmed. There was an alliance of four Tributes that I killed in their sleep - the guard had dozed last one was dying of dehydration in a ravine. It took me hours to find him."

Silence. Rye wasn't sure what to look at. She settled for observing Mason. She was staring at the hands she was holding clutched together in front of herself. Low stood up on her crutches, wincing from pain- she had gotten new legs but adjusting to them was taking a while - and politely pointed out that the recounting of Mason's Games was rather irrelevant, as everyone knew that it had been an atrocity, so the little details were unnecessary. Sanchez told her it was relevant but did ask Tyson to move on to matters that concerned the defendants directly.

"What happened once you were out of the Arena?"

"I spent a day having my injuries taken care of. After that, there was an interview. My Mentor, Paul Katz, warned me to go along with everything I was told."

"Was Katz known by a different name?"

"He was called Blight."

"Did you heed his instructions?"

Mason shrugged. "When I saw how they were making me into this bloodthirsty killer, I was horrified, but I thought that this is what he had been referring to, so I played along. Acted like I had been some sort of sadistic super-planner. Then, I was taken aside to see Snow. That is when I was told I was to be made into a prostitute. I was still completely unhinged, so I spat in his face." A nervous chuckle went up. Mason smiled wanly. "I wish I hadn't done it," she said, wiping at her eyes. "He told me I had until the Victory Tour to reconsider. Blight - he had never been able to cope with having been sold himself, so he didn't ask me about anything, and the other Victor, Martin Chen, thought Blight was handling it. During the Victory Tour, I told Snow 'no' again. When I went back, I was told that my family's house had burned down, with everyone inside." She fell silent.

"And then what?"

"Snow contacted me again. Went to see me in person. Read a list of everyone I as much as knew of - distant relatives, former classmates, coworkers, neighbours - and said that either I agreed, or I picked who would die by the next day. I knew now it was no idle threat, and agreed."

Rye struggled to wrap her mind around the fact that, had a different slip of paper been drawn, it could have been her or one of the kids in that position. A while back, she had tried to remember how many years Flo had before she was safe, before remembering that the Games didn't exist anymore.

"Did you discuss this with Katz and Chen?"

"At that point, yes."

"Did they discuss their own experiences with you?"

"Yes."

"Martin Chen is sixty-seven years old?"

"Er, yes."

"And he was continually trafficked since the implementation of the system in 41 by the old style?"

"Yes."

The poor man.

Once the direct examination ended, it was time for cross. "Does the defense wish to ask questions?" Sanchez said.

"We do," Baer said, screwing shut her thermos. The defense drooped in their seats more than the prosecution, who could at least rotate. Precious few of the defense lawyers could afford a break, and Baer was not one of them. Behind the long tables sat a group of drab middle-aged and older people only kept awake with endless litres of coffee. The only person who stood out was Wreath, whose white uniform (and dashing good looks) drew many an eye, as did his military bearing, so unlike his half-asleep assistant, Teck.

Rye rubbed her eyes, trying to chase away the tiredness that dragged her down like a heavy blanket. Baer's cross-examination was meticulously correct as she asked about Snow's attempt to force Mason into prostitution. Mason confirmed that she had only seen Kirji a few times and did not actually know if she had been involved with that. This boded ill for Seemu. Over at the Peacekeepers' trial, the most common refrain was 'but are you sure this is who raped you?' and it would be even harder to prove that Kirji had been a pimp of sorts.

Stephen looked at himself in the mirror critically. He adjusted his cap and turned this way and that, trying to see himself from every angle.

"Who's the lucky man?" Tiller asked, looking up from a pile of reports.

"Nobody," Stephen said, trying not to show his anxiety. "I'm just going out for a little while."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, I cannot imagine you hooking up in a club."

She could not because it was impossible. "That is not what I am implying," Stephen said. The off-duty clothes sat strangely on him. "I am certainly not going to do that." The very thought felt odd to him. The guards under his command couldn't tear themselves away from their squeeze of the day, but Stephen had long grown out of that.

"A date, then? How romantic."

The word made him think of being fourteen years old and shyly asking boys if they were also interested in boys, just asking of course, I don't mean anything by it, of course not, it's for a friend. "I don't have a date yet."

Tiller smiled. "Good luck finding one, then."

He'd need a lot of it. "Thank you, Second Lieutenant." He moved his tie a few millimetres to the left. He had heard the usual stories about how no Capitolite could resist a person in uniform, but Stephen suspected the sinister reasons for that outweighed his appearance. "I'll be going now."

"Have fun!"

Stephen hadn't been able to just go out and have fun before, but the job had been wearing on him of late. The nasty cross-examinations at the main trial were demoralizing, and it was hard to remain professional when confronted with the defendants' happiness at watching the prosecution flounder. He made his way outside, feeling strange in his off-duty uniform. The evening was hot and stuffy. In their cells, a new batch of prisoners were settling in right now. He would need to check up on them tomorrow.

Now, where to go? Everyone acted like they stepped outside and hook-ups fell onto their laps. But Stephen didn't know where to go. He certainly didn't need the sort of bar where he could collide with his subordinates. Wandering around aimlessly, Stephen wondered if maybe he should just ask a random person.

"Good evening, officer," a bouncy young woman said, materializing by his side. "You seem lonely this evening."

Stephen shook his head. "Sorry, not interested." He paused. Maybe this was a chance. "Do you by any chance know of any discreet places where I can meet a man?"

The woman looked disappointed. "A men's club, then?"

Of course there were bars here specifically for men looking for men - and they were certain to be far wilder places than the gatherings in Thirteen 'for men who love men'. "Yes, please," he said politely. "And discreet. Very discreet."

Her eyes went to his shoulder - it was admittedly odd to be asking for discretion while openly wearing his badges of rank. "Of course, Lieutenant." She gave him some brief instructions.

"Thank you."

Half an hour on the tram and ten minutes of walking later, he was walking inside a bar. Stephen immediately regretted his decision as all eyes turned to him before going back to what they were doing. The music was obnoxiously loud and made him think of the guards in the cell blocks. They were probably blasting music at full volume now that he wasn't there.

Stephen walked to the counter. His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when he saw the bottles on display. This was a black-market establishment! "That's illegal," Stephen warned the bartender, who had walked up to him.

The man laughed. "Are you going to raid us, lieutenant?"

Stephen wanted to, but he was here as a client. To bring attention to the matter would discredit him as well. Biting back his indignation - this place enabled all manners of vice - Stephen studied the menu card. "That one," he said, pointing to a random non-alcoholic cocktail because the colours were nice. The juice used in it really ought to have gone to the children. Knowing that these sorts of things happened was one thing, but enabling them was an entirely different matter.

"Thirteen, right?" Stephen nodded, still feeling upset. "Most of the world is very different from what you're used to," he said in a sympathetic tone. "You want a bite to eat with that?"

"No." Stephen took out some cash and paid for the drink. He went over to a dark corner and sat down on a stool, observing. There was a dance floor, with a small group of mostly naked performers singing some sort of cheery song. All around him were men kissing. Some people were dressed very oddly, like the old Capitol styles, while others wore normal civilian clothing. Nobody wore a uniform here. That sex worker had taken his request for discretion seriously.

A few men approached him, but the conversations didn't work out. Either they lost interest after finding out who he was, or he lost interest after finding out who they were, or it just didn't go. Stephen stirred his drink, looking around and wondering whom he should try approaching next.

"Hello," someone said, sitting down next to him. "We don't see many of your kind here." He sounded curious. "It's a rather expensive establishment, as I'm sure you've noticed." The speaker was a man his age, with light-brown skin, wavy black hair in a single long braid, and slightly narrow eyes. His once-fine clothes showed signs of careful mending. "And the clientele is quite limited."

In hindsight, none of the guards would have been willing to shell out so much money for a drink. And how many officers were there who would be interested in going to a place that catered exclusively to men who were looking for men? "That's why I'm here."

"Let's introduce ourselves," the man shouted to be heard over the music. "I'm Angelo. I used to be an office worker. Now I clean rubble." He sighed. "I still go here even though I can't afford to buy anything except water."

"But water's free."

Angelo smiled. "Exactly."

Stephen laughed belatedly, only then getting the joke. "Are you trying to pick me up?"

"Only if you want to be picked up."

"I don't."

Angelo shrugged. "Alright. Now, what's your name?"

"Stephen." He almost answered with his rank, but he doubted that the average bar-goer was interested in that - unless he was in it for the money? "You want a drink?" This was already going better than the previous five attempts.

Angelo looked awkward. "It's alright."

"No, really." He had heard that you were supposed to insist once. Or was it twice?

"I'll have what you're having, then."

"You want a non-alcoholic drink?"

That got his attention. "You don't drink?"

If he spent any amount of time out at night, that was a reasonable thing to be confused about. "I'm from Thirteen," he said by way of explanation, "and I'm not one of those kids who just want to have fun."

"What's it like in Thirteen?" Angelo asked. He seemed to be really interested, never showing signs of boredom as Stephen explained his childhood and youth in the besieged city-state. Remembering Tiller's descriptions of her first date with her TA, Stephen bragged a bit about how he had become the city-state's most effective interrogator and tried to make being saddled with the job of Lodgepole warden sound like a coveted promotion. The drink arrived, and Stephen handed it to Angelo.

"You sure?" Angelo twirled the end of his braid around his fingers in a vaguely flirtatious way, tapping the glass with the fingers of his other hand.

"Yes." Angelo set down the glass. The drink was bright-blue and almost glowed under the lights. "Now, what is it like here?"

Angelo hadn't run away after finding out that he was the Lodgepole warden, which meant that he was at the very least one of those people who blamed the government for everything and never their own complacency. He hadn't voluntarily attended a patriotic gathering in his life, but neither had he ever voiced a word of disapproval. He had just…existed.

"I mean, I'm following all of the trials," Angelo said shyly, as if reading his mind. "I know I didn't do much in the grand scheme of things. When you people turned up, I sat in the air-raid shelters like a rat looking for a hole to hide in. When my conscription ticket turned up, off I went. Goddamn miracle I didn't shoot my face off by mistake, I'm a bureaucrat, not a soldier."

"I'm glad you were unharmed." Sitting here with Angelo, he couldn't help but understand the motivations of people like him. People in dictatorships weren't under some sort of inherent obligation to fight back, just as Stephen, back in Thirteen, had not been obligated to participate in civic life. It felt unfair to expect things of him he had never expected of himself - and the only thing he had ever expected of himself or anyone around him was to do their jobs competently. It was just his luck that his idea of being a competent interrogator had clashed with established methods. As an office worker, Angelo had needed to simply do his job well - and once that was done, what was so morally wrong about living quietly with his family? If anything, blaming people in democracies for their governments' actions made more logical sense than blaming Angelo, who had never been consulted about anything, for the Games.

Angelo snorted. "You wouldn't have been back then, when you were shooting at me."

"I never actually fought."

"So, how's your family doing?" Angelo asked, changing the topic.

By the time Stephen finished complaining about every problem his family members were facing, their glasses were empty. Stephen got them another round of juice, sweet and red this time, but just as likely to rot his teeth. "And how is your family doing?" Stephen asked. Angelo was a great listener, patient and nodding at all of the right moments. He didn't want him to feel like he was talking over him. "Do you have a place to stay? Are you still living with your parents?"

Angelo winced. "Building's mostly fine, but I'm not looking forward to winter. No idea when they'll fix the heating." He sipped his drink, lips changing from purple to a dark-red. "We earn enough to pay the rent, but only thanks to cramming the entire family in there."

Stephen tried to think of a witty line and succeeded. "So are you looking for somewhere else to sleep?" he asked playfully, belatedly adding a wink. It worked - Angelo roared with laughter.

"I certainly wouldn't say no!" he exclaimed, slapping his knees.

Stephen wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he was liking Angelo's company more and more every minute. Wasn't that supposed to be enough?

"Well, I don't think I want that so fast," he said, "but I would like to kiss you." He leaned forward, and Angelo met him halfway. The kiss was brief and tasted like the juice they had been drinking.

Several hours later, Stephen washed his face to get rid of the juice stains and went back to the jail, paper with an address in his pocket. He smiled to himself at Angelo's joke about how unhappy his parents would be to see him walking out with an officer before schooling his expression. He was at work. Anything else had to be put aside for now.

The worst thing about the presentation on the construction on the Hunger Games Arenas was that Antonius could do nothing but sit in the dock and take it. He passed notes to Shaw, but there was precious little she could do, other than start yet another hairsplitting debate about something.

The Victors' testimony was the worst. Antonius had seen many of them in person and more - on television. It was extremely strange to have them be testifying at not just a criminal trial, but his trial. Perhaps he had never given a second thought to the Games, but it was still strange to have them be considered a crime. At least after Mason, the prosecution asked questions solely about what happened after the Games themselves, so there was no more rehashing every little detail of what the entire nation had watched on television in any case.

He carefully adjusted his papers and flipped through the newspaper he was hiding. It had been easy for him to figure out how to hide a newspaper in his folder. Some of the others had more difficulty, and had no reading material already before lunch. Kirji, as always, did crosswords, and Lee had moved on to doing portraits. A few days ago, a newspaper had published a caricature of Lee as a raccoon, and Antonius now could not shake that mental image. The minister's small hands did look rather like a raccoon's paws as he sketched the judge from Eleven. He had shown them all the work in progress before the session began.

The judges appeared to be as bored as Antonius felt. Unlike the journalists or the prosecution, he did not have the luxury of skipping a day if he felt like it. The heavily accented prosecutor was droning on about how the Steelworks had built the Arenas. She was not saying anything new. Of course, he had built the Arenas. Nobody was denying that.

According to the newspaper, vaccination rates in the country were higher than ever before. Antonius was glad about that - less childhood mortality meant more healthy workers. If this pathetic parody of a government could conduct a campaign of mass vaccination, what had stopped Lee and his predecessors?

What he would give to say that much to the man sitting diagonally to the right behind him, but their united front was already fractured enough. The twenty-four of them were starting to split up, much to Dovek's irritation. Their self-proclaimed leader was worried only about posterity, unlike the rest of them, who simply wanted to get out of here alive. Sanchez upheld defense objections and Shaw said that she was provided with everything she asked for, which gave Antonius hope. He did not understand what the judges were playing at, but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Mercifully, the completely extraneous presentation ended quickly, and a witness was brought in. The final Victor to testify, Enobaria Seemu, a young woman whom Antonius had seen a time or two. Then, her teeth had been sawed down to points in a way that had doubtlessly caused pain, and she had worn extremely provocative clothing. Antonius understood now why that had been the case. He had heard rumours, of course, but he had chosen to think that it was all consensual.

Now, Seemu wore a simple suit and tie, and her teeth appeared to be normal. She was sworn in, the usual questions were asked, and then the direct examination proper began.

"At what age did you begin to train for the Hunger Games?" Rye asked, feeling an odd surge of confidence at the attention she was getting. Not only the courtroom but the entire country, and maybe even the world, was watching. In a direct examination, the witness was the star of the show, and Rye was basking in the reflected rays.

"Twelve." During the deposition, Seemu had proven to be quite chatty, so Rye let her elaborate. "That was the usual age. In Two, everyone tried out officially, but the majority put in no serious effort, it was like a sports festival for them." The Career programs had first been started by local authorities desperate to make sure that their children weren't sent to the slaughter, but it was Toplak and her ilk who had truly run them for the last couple of decades. The documentary evidence for that would be read later that day.

"Later, you were involved with the process of selection?" Rye was speaking with the heaviest accent she could pull off. Going off Dovek's facial expression, it was working.

"Yes."

"How did it work?"

Seemu took a sip of water. "Teachers and instructors sent in tapes of promising hopefuls sparring. Instructors at the Games Academy evaluated them and selected a hundred boys and girls each. Children who were neither were shoehorned into one or the other for the record, like with sports."

"In 2336, you were one of those selected, correct?" Seemu looked confused so Rye elaborated. "56 by the Panem style."

"Yes. I was sent to the Games academy and stayed there for the next six years."

"What did the training look like?" An open-ended question for a talkative witness. Rye had a few questions noted down on the margins in case Seemu strayed too far from what Rye wanted her to say.

"At the beginning, it was very focused on survival, but then the defection happened when I was in my second year. Half of the eighteen-year-old prospects including the boy designated volunteer up and left." They had all given multiple interviews in the press by now. "After that, they cut everything that had to do with survival. The administration was barely able to continue teaching basic first aid."

"How do you know that?"

"I was told of it by the director of the time when beginning work as an instructor - he died several years back."

"What were you taught, then?"

Seemu glanced at a camera that was pointed at her. "For the first few years, there was basic schooling. I came to the Academy illiterate and was taught reading, writing, and the like. We learned various forms of fighting. There was also psychological preparation for dying. We were knocked unconscious with various sedatives. Also, in our last year, we had to execute criminals so that we were able to kill without hesitation."

"Were you taught to view the other Tributes as criminals?"

"Not at all. It was just that criminals were the only people the Academy could get for the kill tests. We were taught to believe that the Games were noble combat and that death in them was dying for the District's honour." That last part, at least, was hardly a revelation, Rye had been told the same thing in school and university.

Rye glanced over at the dock. Slice had a hand over her eyes, the rest seemed unconcerned. If only she could do something to wake them up! But witnesses had lost their power by now to the erosion of boredom, and the only trump card remaining would have to wait for Count Three. Video evidence here would be counterproductive, as everyone had watched at least bits of the Hunger Games. During Count One, they had had someone testify about footage being edited to make it less gruesome, but Irons had deemed it senseless to show the unedited bits in court.

"How were the candidates treated?"

Seemu's jaw twitched. "In hindsight, awful. The directors were trying to produce Tributes who would go meekly to their deaths, no more. The best thing I can say is that those who did not fit the mold were very quickly cut from the program. Those who conformed were pushed very hard both physically and mentally and tossed aside as soon as it became clear that they would not become Tribute."

"Were you mistreated?"

"Yes. Instructors perpetrated all sorts of abuse, but unlike military school, bullying or harassment by a trainee was grounds for immediate dismissal, as the directors wanted to keep sadists out of the Games at all costs."

"Were you personally mistreated as a trainee?"

"I was immediately pegged as a potential Tribute and treated accordingly. I was told at every slip-up that I was a disgrace to the nation and combat instructors beat me harshly when they thought I was not performing to their satisfaction. In my last year, after the kill tests were done and only six remained in the year - Chihun and I and the two boys and girls apiece who were our backups just in case - we were all repeatedly raped by one of the instructors who told us the only way to be free of him would be to die. I went to the Games hoping to die so that he could not hurt me anymore."

"Was it the same in One and Four?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Other Victors told me."

"What happened to those cut?"

"In One and Four, they were given train tickets to the town or village they had come from and a small sum of money to buy food along the way. In Two, they were automatically transferred to military school unless they requested to be sent home."

"Were you aware that most of the Districts did not produce volunteers?"

"Officially, it was ignored. I myself did not even think about it until I was fourteen or so and someone wondered out loud why they allowed twelve-year-olds to mount that stage. There was no answer." From Nine, there had been a volunteer every so often, either someone delusional enough to want glory even at the price of death or someone suicidal who wanted to go out in a suitably dramatic and respect-inspiring way. During the Seventy-Third, there had been one of the latter. "I simply did not think about it. I'm sure you know what that is like."

Rye knew very well, unfortunately, but this was a court of law. "For the record, please elaborate."

Seemu paused to glare at the dock. "It did not enter my mind that this was something you could think about. It would've been like wondering why the sun exists. When someone asked a question, I felt uncomfortable. On some level, I didn't want to think."

The audience, the stenographers, the lawyers, the defendants, and even the judge from Twelve nodded along.

"Thank you, witness. Now, could you please explain the later fates of those candidates who washed out in Two?"

"Most went to a Peacekeeper Academy as I said before, but they made for bad soldiers, especially the ones who washed out late. They were too indoctrinated into seeking death. Some early washouts chose to go back to normal life, others had no life to go to or were too ashamed to face their families."

Rye nodded, as if to herself, and checked her notes. So far, so good. The defense had cut down on their complaints by now - the joke was that they didn't know how to react to having their objections sustained. A newspaper cartoon had depicted Low addressing the judges in a supplicating way as she leaned on her two crutches, the caption below reading 'Don't shoot the defense lawyers, they're lying the best they can!' in an obvious parody of the saying about the pianist. "But you were selected. Why?"

"In the final kill test of a twelve-year-old, a girl who had tortured her baby sibling to death in my case, I showed the least reaction."

There was some muttering in the audience. Rye didn't blame them. "Do you know if the girl was actually guilty?" As if it mattered if she was - a child like that needed psychiatric help, because there clearly was something seriously wrong with them. But in the traditions of Snow's Panem, problems were brushed under the rug by having them shot.

Seemu shrugged. "I don't know for sure," she said belatedly. "In hindsight, the ones handed over as dangerous terrorists had probably just kept the wrong books in their apartments, but the actual criminals might have been guilty. We certainly thought they were."

One of the defense lawyers complained about irrelevant speculation. They had a point there, and the question was struck from the record.

"You volunteered, fought in the Hunger Games, and survived. What happened next?"

Seemu took a deep, shuddering breath. Rye waited for a few seconds, hands on the warm wood of the lectern. She could feel the texture of the wood with her fingertips, the knot in the fibres running parallel to each other. "My mentors explained what would happen next," Seemu said quietly. "I would pretend to have enjoyed the Games and would subject to anything they did to me. If I disobeyed, someone I cared about would suffer. I'm an orphan and the environment of the Academy didn't allow for friends, so I think he would have gone after the instructors I was closest to." She fell silent and took a small sip of water.

"You obeyed, then," Rye prompted.

"I did. My teeth were filed down - I have PTSD from that fight, the taste of blood gives me flashbacks, and my mouth was constantly bloody after that. I had to wear a mouthguard practically all the time, it was impossible to eat properly."

"What else were you forced to do?" The audience was leaning forward in their seats, hanging on to every word.

"Sleep with various individuals."

The crowd released a sort of sigh at the confirmation, as it had done every time. "Who first said this to you?"

"Snow."

In the dock, Kirji nodded along. If only Rye could wipe that self-satisfied smirk from her face! They had been able to find quite a few Victors' Affairs employees willing to testify, so that would have to wait. "Snow threatened you personally?"

"Yes, a few days after the Games ended."

"What sort of people bought your company?"

Seemu glanced at the dock. "Politicians, business tycoons, people like that. They knew they were hiring a prostitute. Some treated me like a one-night stand, others were cruel."

"Can you name any names?"

Ledge and Talvian nodded along as they listened to the short list of names, none of which belonged to people who currently sat in the dock. Ledge was whispering something to Bright, who appeared to be confused. Talvian was writing hurriedly - why, Rye had no idea. All of the civilians had calculating gleams in their eyes, especially Blues, whose predecessor was named by Seemu. Krechet looked downcast and sick.

"For how long did this continue?"

"Up until the end. The older I got, the less people wanted me, but there was always someone." That was an odd statement coming from a thirty-two-year-old statuesque beauty, but Rye hadn't slept with anyone other than Barrow for more than twenty years, so she was hardly an expert.

"Once you were involved in the running of the academy, did you attempt to change the culture there?"

"I brought up the possibility to the director, but she told me it was all decided at the highest level and that I either fall into line or get out. I got out."

Rye glanced down at her notes. Now was the time to steer the conversation back to how Seemu had been convinced to sign up in the first place. She didn't want to steal the thunder from the prosecutors working on the presentation on child soldiers, but Irons considered it important to show how the two had emerged from the same root.

A/N: The saying about the piano player is 'don't shoot the pianist, they're playing the best they can'. While I have a low tolerance for defense lawyers launching into propagandistic speeches (dammit, Milan Vujin), I generally cut them some slack when they have to defend an obviously odious client who's refusing to take a plea deal.