Miroslav still felt slightly unwell as he sat down in his customary seat, from where all of the defendants could be easily seen, and prepared to take notes. He acted as relaxed as possible. Rumours were floating that the prosecution wanted to start Count Three with a bang, but anyone could have guessed that.

Last night, he had watched the movie. The prosecution had shown it to him so he wouldn't be caught off-guard. Some of the scenes had been enough to make him want to throw up. Even just remembering a few of them was enough to ruin the few scraps of good mood he had this morning. And this wouldn't even be the worst of it! This movie would be Count Three - war crimes. Killings of prisoners of war, taking hostages, wanton destruction of civilian property, the use of child soldiers, rape, and so on. Some of those overlapped with crimes against humanity, but the defendants would have to wait for Count Four to be presented with the evidence of their massacres, kidnappings, unethical human experimentation, genocide, enslavement, political persecution, and many other crimes Miroslav had not realized existed.

The press section was full, and so was the audience section. And this was being broadcast live.

The door in the back opened and the defendants trooped out. A hush fell over the audience - this was their first time seeing them. The journalists barely glanced up to notice. Miroslav jotted down some observations about how the defendants were looking today. None of them seemed to be aware of what exactly the morning had in store for them.

After the usual morning routine, one of the prosecutors stepped up to the lectern. "If the Tribunal please, the Prosecution now offers in evidence Exhibit 03-01, a movie collated from original footage shot during the Rebellion. It is entitled 'War Crimes During the Panem Civil War'."

Understanding the importance of the movie, someone who knew how to use computers was on hand to start it up. Miroslav saw that the stenographer was sitting calmly, hands lying relaxed on his typewriter. He knew that the record would simply say 'the movie was shown'. But how much those four words contained! He focused on the defendants, positioned so as to be able to see out of the corner of his eye what part of the movie they were on.

The lights dimmed, except for a few pointed at the dock. There was some uneasy shuffling around at suddenly being in the limelight. Miroslav jotted down who had reacted how. He was a dab hand at shorthand by now, even if nobody but him could decipher it.

The first thing that appeared was the title card, which faded away to be replaced with the very first scene, which had been shot with a quality handheld camera. Before anyone could orient themselves, the order was given to fire. A hail of gunshots, followed by the person with the camera jogging up to the bodies. Some of them were just children. Off-screen, several people complained about how the more hostages they shot, the angrier the locals became.

It escalated from there into a kaleidoscope of brutality and murder. People were shot, beaten, and stabbed with bayonets, their houses set on fire. The defendants, most of whom had never seen the consequences of their actions before, were astonished. Lux had a pronounced twitch in his jaw as he watched his own soldiers massacre with impunity. Dovek looked vaguely irritated. He whispered to Oldsmith a few times before leaning against the side wall, resigned. The prosecution would hope this had taken the wind out of his sails.

Grass appeared to be watching the movie, but her eyes were looking just below the screen. Next to her, Slice had her face buried in her hands. Coll, who was being charged on Count Three, was wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve. Lark looked furious, though at what was impossible to tell. Bright jerked visibly when she appeared on screen, as did Thread. Had they been on trial as ordinary murderers, this would have been enough to get the noose for both of them.

Ledge glared at Thread, glanced back at the movie, and went back to glaring at his neighbour. Bright's composure cracked for the first time, and she dropped her head in her hands, forehead on the railing. A quick glance to the side told Miroslav that almost nobody was watching the movie. All eyes were on the defendants

Dijksterhuis was biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, staring at the screen as if her eyes had become paralyzed. Cotillion looked perplexed. Krechet was crying openly, Talvian was struggling to continue to pretend to be relaxed.

On the screen, a soldier picked up a baby and dashed it against a wall.

Antonius could not stop himself from jerking backwards when the Peacekeeper picked up that baby and smashed its head against the wall. Belatedly, he closed his eyes, but the image still danced on his eyelids and the sound haunted his ears. A little baby, killed like that. Antonius thought of his own son. He had also been a little baby like that one not too long ago.

Realizing that he was sitting slumped over with his face in his hands, Antonius tried to straighten up. This movie was not proving his guilt - it was not proving anyone's guilt, aside from Bright and Thread. Antonius told himself that, but it was impossible to remain cynical about evidence manufactured from random clips when he was seeing such horrors. That person being abused by a group of drunk Peacekeepers - nobody deserved to be treated like that. If he was a criminal, he should have been punished, but this was not punishment. This was torture.

Another mass shooting. Antonius felt a sudden fury at whoever had filmed this. What had possessed these Peacekeepers into recording their crimes with high-quality cameras? The images of death were crisp and clear, with colours rendered accurately and every scream captured.

On the screen, someone begged for mercy. "No! Not the children! Please don't take my children!" a man sobbed, lying in a heap in front of a gun-wielding Peacekeeper. As if swatting a fly, the Peacekeeper shot him.

"There. Now you don't care," she said. Several others laughed off-screen. The callousness made Antonius rage with an inept fury. It was thanks to people like this that he was in the dock, and now he was being forced to watch the evidence of someone else's crimes.

Thumeka, being no stranger to civil wars, was not particularly bothered by the footage, even if seeing it in a court of law was unfamiliar. She jotted down observations of the defendants like on any other day. Mikola, however, looked to be catatonic, and Jiao was ready to explode.

"They should just string them up now," she hissed to Thumeka.

Thumeka wanted to reply with a reasoned explanation of why that was not what the prosecution was aiming to achieve before remembering that Jiao hadn't been at that exhumation of a mass grave, where tens of thousands of bodies had been piled on each other. She said nothing, noting instead to herself that the formerly tough military people now had little if any composure remaining. Best and Verdant were angry, but it seemed to Thumeka that they were rattled. Was it something about their posture? The set of their jaws? Thumeka was just glad she could recognize things like that.

"I can't believe this is a thing that happens," Mikola whispered sadly.

It was happening right now in several different places. Would the unique setting of this particular screening give anyone pause? Thumeka amused herself with the mental image of a West European warlord watching the news and reconsidering the massacre they had planned for tomorrow. The world over, there was too much sympathy for the military people. Maybe this would stop it in its tracks. This was what armies did during wars - massacre, rape, steal, and burn. It was high time the world stopped excusing that away.

On the screen, several soldiers baited a small child, poking them with a stick until they began to cry. The soldiers laughed. Jiao's jaw was so tightly clenched, Thumeka was worried for her teeth.

A quick tally showed that most of the defendants were either in tears or experiencing some other strong emotion. Some slumped in resignation, aware that there was no way out after this. Thumeka couldn't feel sorry for them. This movie was just the tip of the iceberg. It was the documents that had been presented so far that would hang them all.

The world was exploding, but Congress had different priorities. After spending two hours placating senators and Congresspeople and forcing them to watch the film, they had agreed to not defund the IDC. Mary had saved the trials, yet again.

During the lunch break, Mary slipped inside the courtroom and took her seat, sighing at the pleasant coolness of the room. The prosecutors were showing signs of strain, but not as much as the judges, who hadn't seen the movie before. Good thing Mary had organized that viewing the other day.

"How did that go?" Xander Mendel asked her.

"They won't ask for defunding."

Xander nodded. "Good. How are you so good with politicians?"

"There's a certain technique to knowing when to let them rant themselves into exhaustion and when to cut objections short. It's similar to dealing with pushy students grubbing for grades."

"Makes sense." Xander ran his hands through his hair. "Press had a field day today."

"I can imagine." Village newspapers in rural New Zealand were probably writing about the trial, thanks to the impact of the film. "Jing Yi Lyme's making a speech this evening." Mary could guess what the contents of that would be - decrying collaborators and praising those who were not willing to put up with such things.

Lunch break ended. The defendants trooped in, still looking very diminished. Isabella had already begun her presentation on Dovek before lunch, and now she continued, trying to get the former minister to crack completely. She was regarded as a celebrity of sorts in her sports leagues. Apparently, some of them found it difficult to reconcile Isabella the star prosecutor and Isabella the soccer player who told referees that even she could see that it was not offside. She had also once cussed out a baseball umpire for making the wrong call - Mary hadn't suspected her colleague's hearing was good enough to tell how many centimetres away from her the beeping ball had been for a fraction of a second.

There was nothing of the overcompetitive athlete in Isabella's bearing now. Her uniform gave her a dignified appearance, and the translucent glass prosthetics keeping her eye sockets from collapsing made it difficult to look her in the eye - if that was even the appropriate term. Dovek shifted around in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, as Isabella recited decree after decree he had put his signature on. Lee sketched listlessly in his back seat, and his neighbours were more interested in watching him draw than watching Dovek get skewered with his own words. Low was also not in a combative mood this afternoon. She sat, cheek on fist, and stared at some papers lying in front of her.

Miroslav was ready. He took a deep breath, thought about how important this would be to researchers from many varied disciplines, and nodded at the guard standing next to Coll's cell.

Coll was pacing, or as close as he could get to pacing with his long legs in this small space. As soon as Miroslav stepped into the cell, he crumpled onto his cot and gathered his knees to his chest. "It's all pointless now," he said in a small voice. "All I can do is say everything I think about it all and let them hang me."

"Pointless?"

"Of course," Coll snapped. "Didn't you see the clip of the Peacekeeper murdering the baby?"

"Which one?"

Coll threw his hands in the air. "Exactly! Why are there multiple clips of Peacekeepers murdering babies? And it's all on me, in a way!" He leaned forward slightly, feet touching the floor. "I was in a government that approved of this. Who, if not me, has to answer?"

There was something pathetic about how Coll had only grown a spine too late. "You consider yourself responsible?"

"Yes," Coll said weakly. "I bear a measure of responsibility for everything the government did while I was minister."

Miroslav nodded. "That you can admit this - it's a sign of strength."

Coll shook his head. "If I had been strong, I'd have quit the civil service as soon as I found out what was happening. Or at least turned down that promotion."

"It's good that you can admit this," Miroslav insisted gently. He wasn't sure what he thought of the former minister. It would depend on what he said on the witness stand. He wasn't the only one admitting to wrongdoing, but the only one planning to say so in court.

"What's the point? It's too late." He wiped away tears. "My littlest ones are just one year old. They'll grow up without a father."

Miroslav suspected he was being sincere there. "If you say everything, they might not."

"You really think they're going to offer a plea deal?" Coll snapped. "'Alright, plead guilty to deportation and enslavement, and we'll drop the conspiracy to commit genocide.' It's absurd."

"What I'm thinking," Miroslav said, "is that you go up one of the last. If the judges have to sit through twenty-one denials, think of how much easier it will be to endure honesty. Judges are also people. If they like you, they'll be less harsh in their sentencing."

Coll reached for his folded piece of paper and fanned himself. "I don't see Sanchez being swayed by cheap remorse. He's very correct, but that's all he is, not sympathetic."

"Sanchez is only one judge."

Coll laughed bitterly. "And the others suffered because of me."

And yet, he still believed his own stereotypes sometimes. The well-bred judges had never had to know or care about quotas and were thus unlikely to be prejudiced against Coll specifically. Even Meadowcreek from Twelve had been a shopkeeper's child, which was what had passed for the elite in that small town.

"Your actions hurt a lot of people, but judges were not among them."

"So what? They're still from the Districts."

This was not going in the direction Miroslav wanted it to go. He wasn't here to explain to the defendants why the judges were biased and how they could be played on. "Do you really think that Districts are monoliths?"

"No," Coll admitted, abashed.

"So why, then, do you think that a judge knew or cared about the sufferings of farmers?" To the Thirteen-raised Miroslav, this level of class stratification was absurd, but that was how it was.

Coll shrugged. "I thought the judges are following the line sent down by the government. But I don't think that anymore. The press constantly lambasts Sanchez for being too gentle with the defense, and the press is the government's voice. The judges are definitely acting contrary to instructions. Grass explained this all to me yesterday at lunch."

Today at lunch, they had had different things to worry about. Miroslav had been there. There was no more united front, not after Brack had angrily asked Lux why he had allowed atrocities and he had blamed subordinates, infuriating the other Peacekeepers.

"Interesting," Miroslav said, "but if I wanted to know what Grass thought, I'd have asked her. What do you think?"

"I agree with Grass."

This would take some more prodding. Miroslav worked on Coll for a little while longer, giving him some questions to think about, before moving on to Bright. She sat on her cot, staring off into space.

"Would you like to talk today?"

"Is there any way I can be shot?" Bright asked in a hoarse voice. "Doctor, I don't understand how I got involved with things like that. I was a soldier."

"Do you remember these incidents?"

"Of course," Bright said. "There's nothing wrong with my memory."

"Then why didn't you tell me about them?"

Bright raised her hands and paused, as if forgetting why she had done so. She looked at her palms for a few seconds and dropped them back to her sides. "I didn't want to think about it."

"You didn't want to think about it."

Bright nodded mutely.

"If I may be harsh for a second - your reluctance to think about anything is exactly why you are here."

Bright burst into tears. Miroslav tried to resume the conversation, but she did not respond. He had pushed too hard. When their session was over, he got Mallow to take over for him. Better to take no risks.

At the intersection, Angelo was already waiting for him. The sight made Stephen feel relaxed for the first time in days. Sex workers stepped back, disappointed, when the two men kissed.

"I heard you had a stressful day," Angelo said sympathetically. "I was following it on the radio."

His boyfriend's clothes were still dusty from the rubble he hauled, and so were his hands. Stephen liked the feeling of Angelo's dusty hand in his. "Not stressful for me," he said. "I was at the assistant Gamemakers' trial all morning, and then patrolling the jail." It was dark outside. Stephen didn't like being out strolling in the light of day, and tomorrow, his shift started mid-morning, at six.

"Still, I know you watched that movie."

"I've seen worse." Angelo's hand squeezed his lightly, and Stephen squeezed back. "I debriefed defectors back home, this isn't new to me. But to film it, as if it's something to be proud of? I don't understand how a human being can do that." Sometimes, it seemed they could not be human beings at all, but then where did the deserters and defectors come from? Perhaps the method the military schools and boot-camps had used to remove people's humanity had had a high error rate. "I don't want to talk about it with you. This is the one thing I have that isn't death and suffering."

"Aside from talking to your family?" Angelo asked playfully.

Stephen winced. "Let's not talk about them now, either." They were still constantly asking him if he had found a proper man yet, and he wasn't quite ready yet to explain that he was walking out with a rubble-man, albeit one who had worked in an office before.

"Not very talkative today, huh?" Angelo leaned over and kissed him. The kiss was amazing, but Stephen belatedly realized they were standing in the middle of the street.

"Maybe not here," he said, breaking away regretfully.

Angelo laughed. "Someone could see us fucking in a dark alley, and they'd just assume you've seduced a witness into cooperating."

Stephen did use emotional manipulation from time to time, but something like that caused more problems than it solved. He still laughed, trying not to show that a part of him did want Angelo to steal him away to the nearest dark alley and press him against the wall.

"You know," Angelo mused, "I've been thinking about what it must be like to be you. You're responsible for so much, and the stakes are so high."

His boyfriend was so transparent, it was a delight. "If you're wondering if this means I want to unwind by letting you tie me up and have your way with me, the answer is yes."

Angelo's surprise was so obvious, Stephen laughed and patted him on the cheek. He was so refreshingly direct.

"So," Angelo whispered in a low voice that Stephen could feel in his bones, "I know you're not ready to go all the way. But I know that, deep down, all you want is to get on your knees in front of me in some alley and do every filthy thing I ask of you."

For some reason, that was the hottest thing Stephen had heard in his life, and the risk of getting caught just made it even more thrilling. "Lead the way," he replied in what he hoped was a sexy voice.

Something was different about Warden Vance this morning, but Antonius could not figure out what exactly. He still ransacked his cell with the same cold irritation, still asked Ledge why he couldn't be tidy like Bright. Antonius was still forced to do things he could only describe as nude calisthenics, which had recently been brought back after someone in a different wing had managed to sneak in a phone. The guards still quaked from the dressing-down one of them got for chewing gum on duty. But there was just something different about the warden today.

The warden left once they were cleaning their cells, which gave him the chance to ask if anyone else had noticed.

"Warden's different today," Ledge remarked to Lark before Antonius could say anything.

"Seems more relaxed," Lark agreed. So it was not just him, even if Lark was not the authority Antonius wanted. "I thought maybe he got good news from home. Does he have siblings?"

"No," Talvian said, having somehow overheard.

"Maybe it is a friend who returned, then." Antonius thought of Cousin Aimee, still stuck in Eight.

Talvian shook her head, stepping closer to them. "I think he hooked up with someone last night. I know he's been leaving the jail in off-duty uniform lately."

Antonius tried and failed to imagine anyone voluntarily sleeping with the warden, and the thought of him hiring a sex worker was even more nonsensical. The one good thing about Warden Vance was that he was not a hypocrite - he held himself to the same impossible standards as everyone else.

"No way," one of the guards said. "I think he just goes for walks to get out of here - and thank God for that, Tiller's so much saner."

The conversation shifted to jokes about how the jail was so bad, even Warden Vance needed to get out from time to time. Antonius mopped his floor and wiped down all surfaces with a damp rag. Since it was so impossibly hot, any dust would have made it impossible to breathe.

The morning would be taken up with the continuation of the presentation of the case against Dovek, so Antonius was not too worried about that. He had been near collapse yesterday, but he was feeling better now. Yes, these images had been horrific, and the people shown in them deserved to be punished. Antonius, however, had had nothing to do with any of that. The judges would understand.

"What a lovely morning," Dovek said, leaning against the doorpost.

"Why are you standing around?" the guard next to him demanded. "Clean your cell!"

"Already done."

The guard peeked inside. "Warden Vance won't think so."

"Well, he isn't here, is he?" The two shared a laugh. Antonius envied Dovek that ability. None of the guards would have ever laughed with him.

After handing back the cleaning supplies, it was time for the men to be shaved, followed by breakfast - oatmeal thickened with nutrient powder, an insultingly small piece of canned apple, and icy-cold water that made his teeth hurt. As he stirred the oatmeal, Antonius remembered one of the most horrific images of the movie. A mass grave had been hastily covered up with a thin layer of soil, but the decay of the bodies had made it move visibly, rivers of blood and rot flowing out of the low parts. And the Peacekeepers filming it had just laughed at how bad it smelled.

Antonius stubbornly ate the oatmeal, even if he wanted to throw up. He washed his bowl and spoon and got dressed, ruefully remarking to himself that he needed to tighten his belt another notch. Some of the others were not changing that much, such as Lee and Blues, but others, like himself and Coll, were melting away. Antonius had not been so skinny in decades.

Warden Vance materialized out of nowhere to lead their march to the courtroom. A journalist had somehow gotten in and was filming them, but he kicked them out. The courtroom was quite bereft of the press today. Good.

"How was everyone's evening?" Antonius asked his end of the dock when they were all settling in for yet another long day. He had spent the other evening talking to Shaw.

"Alright," Slice said with a shrug. "My periods are back."

"I didn't realize they're feeding you enough for that," Grass remarked.

Antonius noticed that Slice was indeed looking better than before. Now that he thought about it, she did not look sickly anymore. At her forty-four years, Slice now simply looked youthful. Antonius knew that he looked older than his real age, and next to him, Krechet was rather diminished - little wonder that, with how many calories it must have taken for him to maintain his bulk - but he still looked fairly good.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Coll asked, leaning over Grass.

"Good, of course," Blues said. "If your hormonal cycle is thrown out of balance, that's very bad. Amenorrhea can cause things like osteoporosis."

Slice was not annoyed at being talked over, nodding instead. "Now I understand what you meant before. This is the last place I'd want to have it leak."

"You are wearing dark clothes," Antonius tried to reassure her.

Slice was clearly not interested in reassurances from someone who did not have a vagina. She looked at Blues, who just shrugged. "I worry about that, too."

"Can we please stop talking about personal hygiene?" Lee demanded in a whisper. "I heard they're going to rake Dovek over the coals over that."

"I thought the price of pads was your jurisdiction," Grass shot back.

Lee's face twisted and he glanced around. They were whispering low enough for only the guards directly behind them to be able to hear. Even Dr. Mallow was too distracted by Lark and Thread to notice. "He's the one who told me that District people are pigs wallowing in mud."

The vulgarity of that took Antonius' breath away.

"Why say this?" Grass asked, glancing over at the corner of the press section, where the same three correspondents sat day after day. Antonius was not sure how they had not become bored with the entire proceedings yet.

"Because it's in my affidavit and they're going to read it." Lee looked at Dovek, took a deep breath, and leaned back against the bench, as if resigned to death at the hands of the former minister.

Now this would be good. Antonius looked forward to seeing him taken down a peg, even if it further damaged the united front. How could there be any unity when he was sharing the dock with murderers? Antonius was coming around to understanding that staying together would simply drag them all down. It was every person for themselves here, and he needed to untangle himself from the likes of Dovek and Bright as soon as possible.

"That's not true," Krechet said to Talvian. Antonius tuned into their conversation, glad for the distraction.

"Oh, so it isn't?"

"No!" Krechet whined. "My Rachel is very smart! She's getting a degree in biology and wants to apply to medical school!" They all bragged about their children, but Krechet was one of the most insistent, perhaps because of his own deficiencies. The other week, Antonius had been shocked to discover that he had actually seen Krechet's oldest son before - the boy danced in the youth ballet theatre.

"And if she doesn't get in?" Oldsmith needled him.

"She'll go to grad school to study biology."

"And if she doesn't get into that, either?"

"She'll go work in a lab."

"Smart daughter you have," Dovek butted in, having, of course, overheard.

"She is," Krechet said proudly. "She's always been good at school, and she plays piano professionally. And she's a star rugby player, too. Brains, brawn, and beauty - my Rachel has it all." Antonius wondered what she thought of her father having sold his soul to pay for these opportunities.

"Oh, really?" Dovek asked. "She can play piano?"

"Why are you surprised?"

Talvian chuckled mirthlessly. "Because her father is a dumb thug of the sort that normally breeds only more dumb thugs."

Normally chalky-white, Krechet turned bright-red and said nothing. Antonius felt angered by the bullying but he was not sure why - perhaps because of the bitter irony in Talvian calling her own subordinate, whom she had chosen to be deputy commander of an elite squad, an incompetent? There was something deeply wrong with how Krechet did not seem to realize that he could argue back. "Did you seriously just say that?" Antonius demanded, acutely aware that not too long ago, he would have never demanded anything of Talvian.

"Why do you care?"

Fortunately, Best broke in at that point. "Come on, everyone. Is this really the place to argue?"

That was a better argument than misplaced pity for Krechet, and nobody said anything after that. The proceedings began with a witness who testified about working to draw up higher quotas on the orders of Dovek and Coll. Coll glared at the witness, but could do nothing else. She also mentioned Antonius a few times, but she did not say anything new - of course he had implemented the quotas, it would have been on his head otherwise.

The prosecution's strategy was clear to Dora - crack down on the defendant number one to make him break. She wasn't convinced it was working. After the impact of the movie, which had given several of the judges flashbacks, dry statistics on how many villages had been destroyed in District Four didn't make anyone as much as twitch.

That was a problem Dora was noticing among her fellow judges. They tended to not understand just what it meant to have your only pair of boots stolen. It was only thanks to Jack that Dora understood what it meant to be so vulnerable to the smallest crisis. She couldn't imagine having to, as Jack had done, grind grain by hand in a mortar, but from talking to him, she understood how difficult and time-consuming it was. Perhaps the others would also understand, once witnesses began to testify under Count Four.

The direct examination ended. Levy, Coll's lawyer, tried to wring something less damaging from the witness. It would have been better if she hadn't bothered trying, but Coll seemed to approve of the cross-examination. As it was, Dora felt there was now sufficient proof for Coll's personal involvement in the setting of that year's quotas.

Dovek himself was still acting unconcerned. He was making himself out to be a martyr - for a cause nobody supported. Dora could see the cracks in the dock ever widening. When push came to shove, they'd focus only on getting themselves out of the dock alive. So far, Dora would have been willing to vote for a lesser sentence only for Slice.

The prosecution resumed its explanation of everything Dovek had been involved with. Its claim of his personal influence on the trafficking of the Victors was rather weak after the botched testimonies, it was based off the affidavits of subordinates. The prosecution was on firmer ground when it came to most everything else, from the unleashing of the Death Squad on someone who fell badly out of favour (Krechet winced) to the setting of the quotas the witness had just testified about.

Drexel passed her a note. I wonder what's for lunch.

Dora crumpled up the note and let it lie on the table, not looking in her neighbour's direction. She, too, was bored. So was everyone else. This was a trial, it wasn't entertainment. Sanchez was struggling to stay focused and make calls, and he wasn't complaining in the courtroom.

The audience was trickling away, and it hadn't even been the short break yet. Everyone hoped the session they had tickets to would be exciting, but few were lucky enough for that.

Thumeka got an unpleasant surprise when the screen showed not just Yemurai, but also her sister. "Oh no," she said before she could stop herself.

Zandile laughed. "You had something planned?"

The answer to that was a resounding 'yes'. "Not what you're thinking," she said, moving her phone to show that she was on her bunk in the press camp, with people all around. "You never know when someone secretly speaks your language."

"Your sister dropped by to give me bread and stayed behind," Yemurai explained. Zandile was an excellent cook - she and her husband both worked in a bakery. Their children (and neighbours) were very lucky.

"Oh no," Thumeka said again. "Er, how are you doing?"

"Miss you!" Yemurai said, blowing her a kiss.

Zandile rolled her eyes. "I should have realized you'd get cutesy."

"Then get out! Shoo!" Thumeka flapped her hand in front of her screen. "Let me talk with my wife in something resembling privacy!"

Yemurai smirked. "You're in headphones, so I can say whatever I want and you'll have to keep your face smooth."

"No," Thumeka said. "Not after that last time." Good thing that colleague of hers had been reassigned to District Eight shortly after she had hovered behind Thumeka and lip-read everything Yemurai said. "How's work?"

"Same old, same old. I heard they're moving you back here soon?"

"Not at all." Her boss had actually floated the option, citing how boring the trial was, but Thumeka had refused to leave just as things, in her opinion, were heating up. The boss had not insisted, and so she had stayed in a much more spacious press camp. She even went to the basement to play pool now that being down there didn't send her into overload. "I'm staying right here."

"That might cause problems," Zandile said, trying to fit into the frame.

"If Mom and Dad didn't have that heart attack when I was in England, they won't have one when I'm in the world's most peaceful post-civil war country."

Zandile nodded. Thumeka was still unsure if her sister envied her or not. Zandile liked it when things were calm and orderly, but she hung onto every word of Thumeka's stories. "I guess I'll placate them."

"Sometimes," Thumeka said, "I like being an ocean away from it all."

"An ocean away from my buns? And her buns?"

"Please do not say that in the same sentence ever again," Thumeka pleaded.

Yemurai gave her her winning smile, the one that never failed to cheer Thumeka up. "So, how's it going in the frozen North?" her wife asked.

Thumeka thought about what to start with. "It's summer here! And it's hotter than it ever is during the summer back home." Back home, the average was around thirty in January-February, but here, it was over forty in June-July.

"That's because they're too close to the poles and have too many seasons," Yemurai joked.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not particularly upset by the lack of a rainy season."

"But how do they know their roads are paved properly?"

"The mud time," Thumeka answered seriously. "Spring and fall, unpaved roads turn to mud in the more northern parts of the country."

There was silence for a few seconds. "I watched that film they showed at the trial," Zandile said. "All of us did. All the channels showed it."

"Horrible, isn't it?" Thumeka said insincerely - she certainly hadn't been shocked.

"I can't believe such things still happen."

That was what happened if you lived in a country where such things hadn't happened for a hundred and fifty years. "I saw the same things back in England."

"Yeah, but nobody went on trial there," Yemurai said. "It's horrible, but it's war. The entire point of war is that it's outside the law."

Said the person who had never left Harare in her life. "I don't know about you, but I'm starting to think that having this trial was the best decision the government made."

Yemurai shrugged. "And now what? Will warlords put each other on trial?"

"Let's change the topic, this is too depressing," Zandile said. "You discover any recipes for Panem baked goods yet?"

"Panem's a massive and diverse country, it doesn't have just one cooking style." Not to mention its history as a country where the immigrants and their descendants outnumbered the natives massively. Thumeka had actually seen food not too dissimilar to what she had grown up eating.

"Just pick something exotic. Like when you were in France." Thumeka's offer of English recipes had been vetoed, as that would have made the nationalists explode.

"Does stew from everything thickened with nutrient powder count? I think that's Panem's national dish by now."

Zandile shuddered. "No."

"Well, that's all I can think of."

Yemurai smiled again.

Eight hours.

Eight hours, and Leon was going home. He understood now why the eight-hour workday was such a common demand. He could actually have a life now. Even his commute left him with not just some time in the evening, but also time in the morning to actually eat breakfast, instead of munching on something on the bus.

Leon's shift was now the classic office nine-to-five, lunch break taken out of his wage by the minute. At least bathroom breaks weren't penalized, like before. He had to get up around six-forty-five and was back at seven. Seven. It felt as if the chains had fallen from his shoulders. He hadn't realized how miserable he had been until he was working the schedule he had never understood why anyone wanted.

It was still boiling-hot outside when Leon stepped out of the building with the unpleasant feeling of having done nothing of worth all day. Copying, copying, copying. Most of the documents he couldn't imagine ever being used in a court of law.

One thing he was still hoping for was Saturday off, but he wasn't holding his breath. And with so much free time suddenly open, he didn't need his weekend to recover. It was just time off.

Back in his neighbourhood, Leon saw his brother coming out of the grocery store that hadn't sold anything in months. "Hey," he said. "Need help with the bags?"

"No, it's alright." Marcellus wore a backpack and was carrying a large paper bag in his hands. "There were razors today."

"Finally!" The ones they were using were quite dull by now.

"Yeah. Did they shorten your shift again?"

Leon nodded. "I work nine-to-five now." Like a real white-collar worker, though salaried jobs were now eight to five, with half an hour for lunch and two smaller breaks (as opposed to before, when they had been from whenever your boss said to whenever your boss said and you had to eat at your desk). For the millionth time, Leon was very grateful to his past self for having spent so much time at the library, which he would now be able to finally go back to, with all this free time. Hopefully he hadn't lost his to-read list over the past months.

"Long overdue."

Not only was he working decent hours now, but he'd be able to shave properly. This was shaping up to be a good day. "Did anything interesting happen during the trials?"

"Nah." He readjusted his grip on the bag. "I hope they don't come up with another movie again. I swear I'm still having nightmares."

Blood and rot gushing out of the ground was definitely enough to give anyone nightmares. Leon hoped the defendants weren't getting any sleep in their cells. They were the reason why everyone had to queue for food with ration cards in hand.

At home, Mom was writing code to the sound of a soccer match. "We're back!" Marcellus said.

"Hey," she said, getting up from her chair. "How's the haul today?"

"There were razor blades," Marcellus said, holding up the small paper packet.

"Dad will be happy," she said, nodding to herself. "The food?"

"I managed to get a can of fish."

As they talked, Leon turned on the television. A panel of experts was discussing some sort of trade issue between Districts. It seemed like everywhere he turned, the country was falling out with itself, except for the trials, which were going steady.

Leon didn't understand it. Everyone argued, but they did so peacefully, and Depuration was still chugging along, no matter how much everyone complained about it and how overworked the few judges not fired were. Balcony gardens and improvised farms were producing food - Leon's family had cucumbers growing merrily on their balcony. He wasn't sure how to interpret it. Was this kind of arguing just how democracies worked? Or was the country on the brink of falling apart? Or something else entirely? He had no idea.

Leon changed into his house clothes and sat down to watch television. Five seconds after he sat down, Marcellus called him to help with dinner.

"I spent all day at work!" Leon complained.

"You think I didn't?"

Reluctantly, Leon went to help his brother inspect the baby potatoes that must have been just harvested. Marcellus was sensitive to accusations that he spent the summer lying around doing nothing, even though he had to worry about preparing lesson plans and the like.

Mom was back at the computer. Leon was planning to upgrade his phone to a smartphone, so he could actually use the Web. As it was, she kept a crazy schedule, so when he was home and awake, she was working.

The potatoes were small enough to toss into the pot whole. In the fridge was a half-empty can of beans.

"So, how's work?" Marcellus asked.

"Alright," Leon said, leaning against the wall. "Nothing interesting today. On my end, that is."

"How are the other trials going?"

"Alright, I guess. I don't know."

Marcellus nodded. "Still chugging along. I thought having more trials would make it fall apart, but they're still going strong." He tossed a potato from hand to hand. "You know, I think the trials unite us. They give us people we can all agree are bad."

That was unexpectedly insightful, coming from Marcellus. "I think so, too."